I went to the NPR yesterday and hung on for dear life.
All the people drilling, grilling, and killing were twenty years younger, at least.
All the old farts who used to line it out at the front were cowering, grabbing wheels, wondering when the root canal was going to end.
A whole second NPR has formed now, the Old Fux NPR, consisting of Great-grandfather Time Timmy G., Jim H., and a whole bunch of superannuated bristlecone pines who plod around the course with various hangers-out and hangers-on.
I’ll be joining them before long, it seems.
I can see how some people get depressed at the harsh reality of their doddering weakness and infirmity, and deal with it by riding somewhere else, or creating a secret OF Ride, buying a cruiser bike, or finally, finally, getting serious about golf.
For me, it’s a breath of fresh blast-furnace air to get pummeled by crazy strong riders in their 20’s and 30’s, because that is how it is supposed to be. It is nice to be reminded of the true order of things, which is this:
You get old, you get weak, and you die, if you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky, you just die.
Major Bob and I were laughing about it on the parade pedal back to the coffee shop. “I don’t even know who these young guys are,” he said.
“And I’m pretty sure they don’t know who we are, either.”
“Or who we were.”
“Yeah. It’s just, ‘Get out of the way, old fuck. Your senior citizen seat is at the back of the bus.'”
“That’s the way we were, too.”