Millstones and Milestones
Alarmingly, I’ve just moved from Late Middle Age to Late Adulthood. Ugh!
I bypassed most of my adulthood due to a belligerent rejection of life’s accepted protocols.
For 65 years I remained a child and managed to ignore adulthood, until now.....
It seems a blink of the eye since I was skipping through the Infant and Toddlerhood stage. Worse, let me tell you, is that Late Adulthood is considered the last official lifespan stage! I investigate and wish I hadn’t, because I read with resigned foreboding; ‘there is no distinct developmental stage that comes after late adulthood; the only thing that follows is death and the process of dying’. Who the hell writes something like that? Tactful Thomas the tell-tale-tutor of termination? It’s like saying, ‘yes, go on, cross the road, that bus will probably swerve round you.’ That death statement is one that can only have been written by some youthful git, with many years left to live – unless I get hold of the bugger first.
It’s hard to take in, but I am now looking back on late middle age. I’ve just been bundled into a box called Late Adulthood. One of my chief misgivings here is the word ‘late’. The problem is, I can’t help but see my future in another box, one within the hushed splendour of a large black motor car being trailed on my final, dismal journey, by a few relatives in a suitably short cortege.
I liken my progress through life to a huge Saturn V rocket, the first of which first blasted into space just seven years after my birth. The two booster stages that powered my youth, were discarded and have long since tumbled back to earth, fuel spent. That left me, the pointy bit on top, hurtling through space, towards the darkness, in silence. That sounds a bit gloomy, but don't worry, it’ll all be alright…. I just need to get my head round things.
To begin with, I decide I hate categories, particularly when they are generic and chillingly stark. I soften the blow when I realize that the credibility of a category must depend on who determines it in the first place. For example, a monstrous porker with angina would define a category differently to, say, Dick van Dyke, who is still grooving at 98. I’ve seen eighty-year-old cyclists who are lean and leathery, zooming round the country followed by that reassuring whiff of liniment; alternatively, fourteen-year-old children full of Pepsi and imitation food, so huge they can barely walk. They would each view Late Adulthood as a very different proposition. In fact, only one would likely get there.
I propose that, rather than categories, we should have varying measures of physical or emotional state. That way we have some rationale over our rate of decay; commensurate for example, with how well, or not, we’ve looked after ourselves. We should ask a few basic questions, such as; how do I feel? Am I doing enough to look after myself? Can I bend over to tie my shoelaces without an expulsion of wind (or worse)? Do I drink too much? (mind your own business). Do I overeat and exercise too little? Does my brain get a work-out with crosswords and puzzles or is it gradually decomposing in front of the TV, like a decaying lump of radioactive rock?
Subconsciously, I must have known that a moment of personal crisis was imminent because I’ve just completed two books that are senior-themed. Each, in its own way, pays homage to ‘maturity’. One is fiction, which is slightly easier to write because I can skate over the darker aspects of my character’s age-related indiscretions. No need to mention unseemly dribbles or mountains of medication. I can turn an old codger into a dashing white sergeant and no-one’s the wiser. Ah, the joys of literary license. Pity I can’t write my own profile.
In the non-fiction one, where I’m stuck with telling the truth, it’s far more constraining. I am forced to be honest and, if we’re not careful, that’s liable to unearth all sorts of alarming goings-on.
Notwithstanding the creaks and groans, age is a state of mind. The trick is to make it less a millstone than a milestone. As I look back, I feel things are a bit skewed. For example, the marriage anniversary milestones are back to front. Year one should be Diamond, because that’s the time when everything, with a bit of luck, is fine and dandy. We should be at our peak individually and dually. Those first 365 idyllic days are a time when marital irritations are still securely confined within delicate underwear. Yes, unless we’ve chosen a really duff partner, year one should undoubtedly be Diamond. Actually, in the accepted order of things Diamond (60 years) is not top of the tree because it’s followed by Platinum (70), then Oak, (80), Wine - yes indeed (85) and then Granite (90) - no, I didn’t know either! My wife and I can safely ignore those latter rewards because we’ve just struggled past 30, which is pearl. Now I’ve plunged into the dreaded cavern of ‘late adulthood’, well, let’s just say we can forget about granite. Ironically, granite is the only marital reward locally abundant. I can walk on the moors and simply grab a lump to give to my beloved – everything else I’ll have to pay for. Except oak perhaps, that should be free unless I get caught sawing a branch off. We adventured in our (relative) youth, so had some golden years at a time when we could most appreciate them. And have chance of remembering them.
So the books? Which incidentally are numbers 13 and 14 in my stable, getting up towards a million words I would think. They contain a jumble of vaguely connected phrases that will remain in perpetuity for people to ignore after my Late Adulthood phase has ground to a halt. Ground! Huh.
Operation Boomer is fiction and celebrates both age and the sporting ideal. It champions the older person’s desire to keep active and compete. The stage on which they perform I’ve called The Renaissance Games. A rebirth of ambition and purpose in latter years. The event is the brainchild of our band of doddery narrowboaters who live on a swamp in Shropshire – the same group who battled so purposefully during Operation Vegetable. People said nice things about our boaters first time round, so they’re back for another adventure. They’ve concocted a series of events designed for those of the ‘Boomer’ generation – aged 60 and above. No marathon or pole-vault, they would be too much for seniors, but among other things, are cycling, archery and bowls. And for the children, a Duckathlon where plastic ducks are chucked in a river to race downstream!
The Wider Rider at Large contains more daft adventures of a chap who, at the time, was ‘Late Middle-Aged’. It’s book number six in the At Large Series - yes, we’ve done enough mucking about to fill six volumes. We’ve progressed, with varying degrees of success and dignity, from narrowboats to a barge to bicycles and a campervan. This time, in Southern England we hunt fossils and adopt a donkey and a chimp! Up in Scotland we don’t adopt anything but experience giant horses in the shape of the astonishing Kelpies. Then there’s the dreamland magic of Loch Katrine in The Trossachs National Park, a place of such stunning beauty that it took me an hour to cover the first mile on my bike. Next, a spiritual centre in the middle of Edinburgh before a Buddhist retreat in the middle of nowhere. Scotland is wonderful. In fact, our whole island is fantastic – let’s hope we don’t bugger it up.
Throughout the book, the van, the bike and my wife all behaved admirably; me, less so.