HOME OR AWAY

“It’s so nice to be home.” I hear so many people say it. It feels like I’m supposed to say it, too. But my mind is muddled.

 

Even under normal circumstances, I’m not sure I can make the expected statement. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve discovered how much I love to travel. My partner, Evan, calls me Gulliver. Most often, it feels I’d rather be away than at home—even with the glitches that come and only feel worse when in unfamiliar places. On this most recent stint away from home, Evan and I dealt with three days of flight cancellations in New York City and I had car issues on remote areas of highways far from any significantly populated locale. (When I finally took my car to a dealer in Denver, they quoted me $6,000 in repairs. The book value of my aging Mini Cooper isn’t even that much!) 

 

I returned to Vancouver three days ago after two months and three days away. Admittedly, I felt relief when I crossed the border, reentering Canada after so much time in the U.S. It wasn’t the politics that I was glad to be away from; rather, it was the steep exchange rate that made me squirm every time I bought a coffee—or anything—on American soil. My bank account has taken a huge beating…even without shelling out money for all the “needed” car repairs. 

 

I both smiled and groaned as the stations on my car radio suddenly played an inordinate number of Canadian songs. Canada has laws requiring that 35% of music played is Canadian. Not only does that mean continuing airplay for classics by Alanis Morissette and Corey Hart, but there are also mediocre ditties by acts that are entirely unknown in any other country. 

 

I felt shame, sadness and anger as I neared my condo in what is known as Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside where unhoused people camp out on sidewalks and people with serious drug addictions openly use lighters and glass bubble pipes to get their next high. Trash is strewn all over. Even passing through Portland and Seattle on the way back—cities reputed to have similar problems—the scope of this crisis appears so much greater in Vancouver, a place that regularly ranks high on lists of Most Livable Cities.

 

Bryce Canyon National Park

As I unloaded the car and unlocked my door, there was no smile. Not once since I’ve been back have I thought, “I’m so glad to be home.” At first, I thought it was just because I was exhausted from five days of driving back from Colorado, a journey that still managed to include exploring three national parks and a significant detour to do a jog on a favourite beach on the Oregon Coast. 

 

Pure joy comes from jogging
Nye Beach on the Oregon Coast.

Except for that darned exchange rate and the fact that living out of a suitcase grew tiresome (socks and underwear seemed to get sucked into the deepest, darkest depths of my Samsonite), I’d rather be in Colorado still. 

 

Biking back in Vancouver

It’s not because I think Colorado is better than British Columbia. I have a clear preference for being in Canada where everything feels more understated and where my introverted nature doesn’t seem to stand out as a “problem.” I have established routines here that I discovered help me be more productive as a writer. Yesterday morning, I arose at sunrise (5:15 a.m.) and hopped on my bike to cycle around the city’s crown jewel, Stanley Park, as three cruise ships entered the harbour. I only had to share the seawall with the occasional jogger and oblivious Canada geese. I extended my ride through False Creek, past Granville Island and into the more pristine neighbourhood of Kitsilano, stopping a few times to snap pics of flowers in bloom that I hadn’t seen while I was away. Yes, I enjoyed the excursion and appreciated the city. That had been the point. I needed to create my own Welcome Back boost. 

 

Meeting a couple of Evan's
new neighbours

But still, my head and heart continue to think of Colorado. Of course, it’s because that is where Evan lives. During my two months in the state, he transitioned to a new job which required a stressful housing search and a move from Denver to the Roaring Fork Valley, an area best known for the resort town of Aspen. I knew this move was a possibility in the fall and, at that time, I came across a CNN article which stated that Aspen was the most expensive place to live in the U.S. Evan lives twenty-five minutes away in another charming small town, but the move resulted in a raise in his rent and a significant downsizing with sixty percent of his belongings going into storage after giving away so many other possessions. 

 

Fitting in a hike after 
Evan's workday

This is the second time I’ve helped Evan move from one place to another in Colorado. This latest move felt so much bigger. The move a year and a half ago had only been several hundred feet, from a shaded apartment to one with more sunlight and a balcony. Being there for most of the process this time made it seem like our move. It’s his place, to be sure. While I had a shelf in the bedroom closet and another in the kitchen at his Denver apartment, I only left four shirts on hangers in his new studio. There simply isn’t room for me to leave more. 

 

Biking the local canyon

Still, that little studio, so beautifully adorned with a more curated collection of All Things Evan, feels more like home than my loft space in Vancouver. I was settled there for only nine or ten days before the long road trip back, but Evan and I tried out a Thai restaurant on Main Street (four blocks from his home), ate twice at a Middle Eastern place and stocked up on plants from the local nursery. I checked out several coffee shops as possible writing spots, I worked out with the locals at the rec centre and I biked up and down the valley, getting to take in the area in more intimate ways than one can ever do in a car. With one main roadway running through the valley, I already feel more grounded there than I ever did in Denver. I like it better, too…for the more scenic bike paths, for scenery in general and for the fact that I have a clear picture of Evan’s life there until I get to return in October.

 

Yes, three days back and I’m already looking ahead. As small as it is, that charming studio apartment feels like where I belong.   

DON'T RUSH ME

I love a good bargain. But I’m not sure how I feel about saving three bucks yesterday. 

 

As it turns out, some of my father rubbed off on me. He probably wouldn’t believe it. As a kid, I hated how thrifty he was. He worked his whole life as a doctor and, from a very young age, I knew we were privileged. We had a pool in the back yard, a ski boat at our cottage and we travelled from Ontario to Florida for two weeks every March. Still, my father would go out of his way to find restaurants where kids ate for free. We’d eat at Howard Johnson’s on Wednesday nights because they had all-you-can-eat clams. (Nothing made Dad prouder than when we’d ask for more.) He insisted on being in charge of grocery shopping and, on his rare days off, he’d spend half the day driving around town, hitting five grocery stores, stocking up on what was for sale at each place. 

 

During my teens, my mother would take my siblings and me clothes shopping and the sale racks were always the first stop. To my parents’ frustration, I’d turn my nose up at anything marked down. I figured if the price had to be slashed in order to get the item out of the store, there had to be something wrong with it. Why would I try on things that people didn’t want? To this day, I can’t stomach going to factory outlet malls. I still contend things marked down in a Tommy Hilfiger outlet store were never ever on a rack in a regular store and were never ever offered for the “original” sticker price. I’ve had friends and exes, however, who’ve gone bug-eyed shopping in outlets, holding up a hideous sweatshirt in clashing colours, exclaiming, “Look! It’s 70% off!” 

 

Suckers, I say.

 

Still, I can be stingy with my money. I walk extra blocks to avoid meter parking. I know where to find the cheapest gas in town. Much of what winds up in my grocery basket is on sale and, yes, I stock up when that is the case. I know the prices of most things I regularly buy and I often do without particular food purchases until the items are on sale. Except when it comes to clothes, saving money brings satisfaction. 

 

So when I showed up to do a gym workout at the recreation centre in Evan’s new town, I expected to pay ten dollars. As a compulsive gym goer even when I travel, I know ten bucks is a decent price in terms of drop-in fees. (I’ve paid as much as thirty for a day pass in places like New York City and Toronto. Fifteen to twenty seems to be the going rate.) When I stepped up to the counter at the entrance, the young person I presumed to be a high school student working a summer job told me the fee was seven dollars. 

 

Huh. I was pretty sure I’d seen the rate posted as ten dollars when I went to the website. Maybe it was her first day and she was confused. Maybe I was the one mistaken, confusing the pool drop-in fee for the gym fee. Whatever the case, I tapped my card, smiled and proceeded to the gym floor. I was happy but still cognizant of the fact that, before Evan’s move from Denver last week, I went to the gym for free since his old apartment building had a spacious, well-equipped facility. Was I saving three bucks or was I seven out of pocket?  

 

Working out at any gym for the first time goes slower than normal. I have to navigate the space. What leg machines to they have? Where are the dumbbells? Are weights stated in pounds or kilograms? Why don’t they have a fly machine? I’m also not used to the people presently working out. I watch them more, picking up on the gym etiquette, trying to stay out of the way of the regulars who no doubt don’t want their routines interrupted as I search in vain for the second fifty-pound dumbbell. 

 

All this meant my mind was plenty distracted while I worked out until I was finished with the weights and sitting on an exercise bike. As I pedalled, I thought more about my seven-dollar entry fee. I felt sure I hadn’t been mistaken about seeing the rate as ten dollars online. Did they run a special on Mondays? Did the young worker just feel like making her own rules? After all, my greeting had been friendlier than usual. Perhaps I’d been rewarded for my kindness. 

 

And then an awful thought hit me. Maybe I had been given a special rate, but not on account of it being Monday. What if they had a discount rate for seniors and she’d taken one look at me and decided I was an oldster? No ID check, no questions asked at all. What if she’d concluded I was obviously over sixty-five?!

 

Half an hour before going to the gym, I’d gotten a long overdue haircut. Later in the day when Evan came home, he immediately said, “The cut takes ten years off you.” So basically, even after a possibly younger looking haircut, I still looked 65+. 

 

Yes, I will admit that I have serious issues about growing older. I won’t be one of those people resorting to Botox and plastic surgery simply because I’m squeamish about anything medical. I have a history of fainting. I avoid knives and needles at all costs. So basically I have to rely on a very unscientific finger crossing and hope I will look young for my age.

 

I recognize that, to a seventeen-year-old summer employee, everyone over forty looks old. And, as someone who is sixty-one, I must look really old. Quite possibly, ahem, sixty-five. 

 

Still, I drove into town first thing this morning and bought blond mustache and beard dye to mask my white facial hair for the next five days or so. I am vain enough to be okay with dyes…no knife nor needle involved.

 

Even better, the dye was on sale. My father wouldn’t understand the whole hair colouring business—a totally unnecessary expense—but I’d like to think he’d be proud I didn’t get duped into paying full price. Let there be some value in that.

 

Before lunch, I opened the dye kit and generously brushed the goop into my beard, mustache and sideburns. I showered to rinse it out while washing my hair with Go Blonder conditioner. After a light lunch—low-fat yogurt and granola—I headed to the gym. Behind the counter sat a guy in his early twenties. When I told him I wanted to pay for a gym drop-in, he said, “Ten dollars” and pressed a few buttons so I could make payment with my credit card. Three extra dollars today, a forty-three percent increase. I smiled broadly after tapping the machine. Sometimes a bargain is just not worth it.

 

 

 

  

"AM I PORTLY?"

It’s been going on for a couple of weeks now. At least once a day, I enter the living room and Evan asks, “Do you think I’m portly?”

 

Good god, where’s the escape hatch?

 

As I’ve told Evan multiple times, the answer is no. Still, the question must be asked. Over and over.

 

So what brought this on? Has Evan stopped going to his cardo-yoga classes? No. Is he suffering from a medical condition that causes regular bloating? No. Has he started eating desserts? No. (Blueberries regularly sit in the refrigerator and go bad because I believe someone once told Evan there are natural sugars in fruit and he grew up in a certain gay era where all sugars were considered bad. I’ve seen him eat a single blueberry and then stop.) This is not an issue related to exercise or eating. The problem is Evan is moving.

 

I realize that, for most people, getting ready for a big move does not cause them to go through a crisis regarding body dysmorphia. Moves bring on stress. They stir a sense of melancholy over leaving an established life behind. They induce anxiety over what the future holds and how settling into a new home in an unknown town may come with struggles. But I’ve never known anyone to fret over body weight because of a move.

 

Then again, I’ve never known anyone like Evan.

 

The problem in the biggest sense is that Evan owns a lot of stuff. Furniture. Tchotchkes. Clothes. It’s that last category that triggers, “Am I portly?”

 

Evan spent some of his formative gay years in New York City and Miami. Whereas I embraced the baggy decade of the ’80s, Evan ascribed to a more common gay mindset: the tighter, the better. If you had even a trace of a muscle, the clothing was supposed to smother that bulge like a cast so pecs, biceps, butts and even calf muscles were flaunted. Having to buy a crow bar to undress at the end of the day was just one of those sacrifices made in the name of fashion. And all signs indicate Evan has always loved fashion. 

 

Evan’s current apartment has five closets he has equipped with double and triple rods for accumulating and cramming in the maximum amount of clothing. As well, he has the largest chest of drawers I’ve ever seen. More cramming! Although he asserts he got rid of a lot of clothes when he moved from Seattle to Denver two years ago, “a lot” means too little for someone who can’t walk past a vintage store without going in and will ramble on for twenty minutes espousing the virtues of the brand, Dsquared2, or Ralph Lauren’s contribution to the betterment of the world. (I try to nod and say, “Uh-huh” in the right places.) 

 

Evan has dozens of cowboy boots, at least fifty pairs of jeans, countless jackets and blazers and drawers of shirts I’m afraid to open for fear I’ll never be able to shut them. Do a Google Images search of clothes horse and Evan’s photo should be the first thing that pops up. I believe the Oxford Dictionary is currently amending their definition to include Evan as a synonym.

 

With all that handy storage, Evan has had the luxury of holding onto a massive stockpile of clothing. 

 

That, however, is about to change. His big move is from Denver to the Aspen area, widely regarded as one of the most expensive places to live in the United States. Costs to rent a place are outrageous. At 57, Evan does not want the hourlong commute that some of his younger coworkers have opted for in order to find something more affordable. As well, he rightly considers himself as having aged out of a time when having one or more roommates is palatable. After finally finding a MUCH smaller place for just himself that’s a reasonable commute to and from work, he now has to go through a significant downsizing. Many of his possessions are going to a storage locker but other items are just going. Hello, Goodwill.

 

This leads to the daily “Am I portly?” question.

 

Downsizing comes with painful decisions. What stays? What goes? I’ve shared with Evan the oft-stated rule: if you haven’t worn something for a year, chuck it. I hear him restating it as he talks to himself while staring into one of his closets. He amends the term to two years. But there are too many exceptions to make the rule a rule. While I go out and write—he won’t let me in on the decision-making—he proceeds to try on countless items. 

 

Let me restate the shopping philosophy he was raised on: the tighter, the better. Imagine what happens to him then when trying on a pair of leather pants he bought ten years ago, a shirt from fifteen years ago and a blazer that dates back to last century. (If he reads this post, he’ll take great offense to this paragraph. Where are all the adjectives to describe the utter awesomeness of the pants, the shirt and the blazer? These are not ordinary clothing items. Each has a story and a long list of features to make the item particularly precious.) 

 

Clothes Evan bought many, many years ago were as tight as they could be when he bought them at twenty-three or thirty-six. (I wonder how many XX Small shirts were left on fitting room floors when a sleeve ripped as he tried to get the darn things off.) Now fifty-seven, it stands to reason that some things are even snugger. Uncomfortably so. 

 

Yes, aging sucks. There are indignities even for people who remain fit. That mirror, mirror on the wall betrays us every time.

 

Hence yesterday’s welcoming when I returned from a writing session: “Am I portly?”

 

The day before: “Am I portly?”

 

The day before that: “Am I portly?”

 

The move happens tomorrow and Evan still has to tackle that colossal chest of drawers today. I know I’m going to be hit with that familiar question yet again. And again. Twenty-four hours cannot pass fast enough.

 

 

 

 

 

CAN WE GET ON THE SAME PAGE ABOUT ANYTHING?

NOTE: This post has nothing to do with being gay. It probably has nothing to do with growing older either, other than the fact I may sound like a stereotypically grumpy old man. This is just a chance to recover from some of the culture shock I seem to experience every time I find myself in the “great” state of Texas.

 

They’ve been saying it for decades. Everything is bigger and better in Texas. Is it pride or arrogance? Likely both. But when you boast, you leave yourself open to criticism. 

 

I lived in Texas from 1978 to 1989. I told everyone (in Texas) I left because I couldn’t handle the heat. But there was more, of course. I didn’t like the politics. I didn’t like living life in the closet. I didn’t like how Texas leaned too much into tradition as an excuse to not change over anything. 

 

Driving from Dallas Love Field Airport two hours east to Tyler where my parents live, the “bigger” was constantly in view. My rental car was average-sized, a Nissan Altima. It might as well have been a clown car as I was surrounded on the interstate by oversized pickup trucks, SUVs and semis. There was no way to see over or around the other vehicles as I drove the 70 or 75 miles per hour speed limit. It had me wondering how much harder the drive would have been if I’d driven my Mini Cooper from Denver. (I did not spot a single Mini on the highways going to or from Tyler.) In my mind, bigger was clearly not better.

 

I made a pit stop along the way to use the restroom. I pulled off at a Buc-ee’s, one of a growing Texas-based chain of massive roadside convenience stores. My parents rave about it so I’d stopped there on my last visit as well. I didn’t get it then, but I thought I’d give it another try. Maybe I’d been a bad mood. Maybe I’d been too anti-Texas. Maybe I just needed to lighten up and immerse myself in good ol’ American consumerism. 

 

I will concede that the restrooms were very large and remarkably clean, as they are reputed to be. But everything else about the place seemed unnecessarily big and just plain unnecessary. I bought nothing. I didn’t even slow to a browsing pace. The restrooms are situated in the middle of the store, intentionally so, no doubt, so you have to pass the maximum amount of merchandise no matter which side of the store you enter from, but just like the duty-free shopping spaces between the security screening area and the departure gates at airports, I was not wooed to reach for my wallet. 

 

Buc-ee’s, schmuck-ee’s. Big—massive even—but not better. Still, I may speedwalk through the centre aisle yet again on my next visit. There is something to be said for being able to stand at a urinal without having my shoes in a puddle of urine.

 

So “Big” Texas did not impress me. What about the “Better” part? 

 

Sorry, no signs of that. Instead, I found myself frustrated by what seemed like a hell-no-we-won’t-change attitude. Like many a red state, Texas has shifted from conservatism to denialism. Climate change? Hogwash! Environmentalism? Hooey! Let gas guzzling big vehicles dominate the roadways. Let oil and gas continue to be Texas gold. I suppose I expected that. (My parents curse wind turbines.) What surprised me, however, was the lack of change in terms of how things are packaged and consumed. 

 

My parents live in a three-building condominium complex. There is no recycling. Apparently, recycling is optional instead of required. In order to have a recycling program, there needed to be two volunteers in each building to take on the responsibility of pushing wheeled recycling bins to and from the curb once a week. Two people volunteered in my parents’ building, but no one stepped up in either of the other buildings. Lack of full participation meant there would be no recycling at all. I spent my five-day visit being hyper aware of all the recycling materials getting chucked into the trash can. (I packed my paper recycling to take back to Denver.) What’s more, when I parked on a residential side street to go to a café to write, I noticed that each home had only one disposal bin. Everything would be bound for the dump; no separation of goods required. (Incidentally, the café had no indoor seating. As was the case with so many businesses I came across, the drive-thru ruled. Why stop a vehicle from idling? Why park and walk thirty feet from one air conditioned space to another? Let the gas and emissions continue uninterrupted.)

 

I will admit, I’m obsessive about recycling. I consider the packaging before I put items in my grocery basket. I avoid things that strike me as excessively packaged or come in non-recyclable containers. It just feels like the right thing to do. Imagine then my discomfort during the couple of times I went out to eat with my parents. Plastic straws (which I first viewed as an unnecessary waste in 1992) come with every drink. My parents, both in their eighties, are not big eaters anymore so they always need a to-go package to take home half their meal. In Vancouver, in Seattle, in Portland, in Denver, the to-go containers are made from recyclable materials and are themselves recyclable. In Texas, they still use Styrofoam and give you a large plastic bag to carry two tiny boxes. 

 

Better? Not a chance. 

 

Be better, Texas. Be sustainable. Be willing to change. It’s so discouraging to live in areas where people are genuinely trying to live more responsibly when there are large areas in North America that refuse to adapt. I hear a lot of people say they make changes—or sacrifices—to be kinder to planet Earth on account of concern for what things will be like for their children and grandchildren. I have no offspring. It would be easy for me not to care at all. I could go to my grave not giving a hoot about the future to come thereafter. But I actively seek ways to leave a smaller environmental footprint simply because it seems the right thing to do. I can’t come up with an argument for opting out. Climate change or not, I’d rather err on the side of planet Earth whenever possible. I wish Texas would get on board, too. 

RE-ENTERING THE RED ZONE

There’s an unofficial understanding that, as a Canadian, I am not supposed to be travelling in the United States. I have a few friends who have refused to cross the border for many years, probably dating back to Trump’s first term as president. To them, the U.S. seems like a scary place or, at least, a place that is extremely foreign compared to Canada where citizens seem to be considerably more tolerant of differences and much less inclined to discuss political opinions. We express our views at the voting box (or via mail-in ballots), not loudly at a table at a local café. The “unofficial” avoidance of going to the U.S. officially began around the time of Trump’s second term when he started taking pot-shots at Canada, stating it should be the 51^st state and rushing to impose tariffs on one of what are traditionally the closest allies of the U.S.

 

A year and a half later, Trump still occasionally mentions the 51^st state thing to rile Canadians, distract Americans and be a commonplace menace. Many Canadians continue to choose other countries to visit.

 

I don’t have a choice. I go to the U.S. because I lived there for sixteen years from 13 to 30. My family continues to live in Texas and Colorado. I’m the only one who decided to return to Canada. My boyfriend, whom I met in Seattle in 2022 during Biden’s presidency, also lives in the U.S., currently Colorado as well. I’ve viewed visiting American friends as a luxury and have thus avoided trips to Boston, Cedar Rapids, Tulsa and Los Angeles, but I will not end my relationship with Evan just because Americans put Trump back in the White House. A president will not be the end of us. So, yes, hello again, Colorado.

 

It used to be that my parents would fly to Vancouver to visit me and I would fly to the family cottage in Ontario to fit in a second visit with them. But all that changed a couple of years ago. My parents, now eighty-six and eighty-nine, are done with navigating airports and flying places. They also can’t handle the altitude in Colorado so they’ve stopped visiting my sister and their granddaughter here. 

 

In order to see them, I must do so on American soil. I can no longer avoid entry to Texas. This is an early Father’s Day visit, five days in completely air-conditioned spaces because outside temperatures rest in the thirties (in Celsius, not that Texans or Coloradans or other Americans, for that matter, know anything about that scale). Basically, it’s going to be very, very hot for the entire time I’m there so I’ll find “relief” immersed in very, very cold artificial indoor conditions. 

 

Oh, if only temperatures were the only significant adjustment for this Canadian.

 

My parents voted for Trump in 2016, 2020 and 2024. My mother purports to be an “Independent” but, when I ask if she’s ever voted for a Democratic candidate for president in the forty-eight years she’s lived in the U.S., the answer is no. (She did once vote for third-party hopeful Ross Perot.) 

 

Over the years, we’ve had some heated phone calls when anything political comes into conversation. I think the only issues we’ve ever agreed on are gun control and Queen Elizabeth II had ugly purses. There is no other common ground. 

 

This wouldn’t be so problematic but for the fact my parents are news junkies. When I step out of the guest bedroom in the morning, a news program is on. It may well have already been playing for an hour and it will continue for at least another hour. I sit in a chair in the living room, ostensibly to be social, biting my tongue every time either parent adds their own commentary about the news. I have a rebuttal at the ready, but I’ve learned it’s better to search for new Instagram followers instead and “like” the latest photos from Lake Bled in Slovenia and the striking landscapes of the Lofoten Islands in Norway.

 

All is well as my parents step out onto the balcony for breakfast and I take my rental car to a local café to write, the one with a biblical quote from Luke taking up a whole wall. 

 

Evenings are dicier. My parents tune in for another hour of news, first on Fox News—yep, that network—and then on CBS. My mother always chimes in about fairness of Fox, especially when it comes to her favoured news anchor, Bret Baier. Typically, I sit through one Fox newscast per visit. I’m genuinely curious about what biases it is feeding my parents. (The days of unbiased news coverage officially died when Trump first campaigned for president, the final nail in the coffin coming when Kellyanne Conway repeatedly talked straight-faced of “alternative facts.”)

 

After my first sit-through of Fox News, I retreat to the bedroom for subsequent broadcasts of the evening news. I read the news as presented by CBC (the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) and scan the headlines on CNN’s website. I’m as up on the news of the day as much as I want to be. 

 

Given our striking differences in almost everything political, my parents and I have reached an unofficial détente whereby we don’t engage when one of us expresses a political view. This came to be a few years ago during my parents’ last trip to Vancouver. As I popped up to my parents’ room after dinner in the hotel restaurant, my mother stepped into the bathroom and, by the time she stepped out, my father and I were yelling at one another, my father insisting that Hunter Biden was wholly relevant to the assessment of Joe Biden’s presidency. I was incensed that he would see things that way and he was equally incensed that I didn’t.

 

After decades of no-win political disputes, enough was enough. Under no circumstances would my parents change my opinions and the same applied to my own impassioned arguments. The impasse would always be. 

 

The dynamics can be tricky in a newsy household as it’s two against one during my visits. I tell myself that, when my parents express a political view, they are conversing with one another, not me. I don’t ask them to turn off the news or to even watch a little less. I will always be the guest now on visits. It’s their home. They have their own habits and make their own choices about how to be informed and entertained.

 

It's only five days. I’ve got this. 

AGE ADJUSTMENT

As the decades pass, I keep shifting the bar regarding what is old. I’m closer to sixty-two than sixty-one and I know there was a time I thought sixty was old. I’m embarrassed to say that, in my twenties, I thought forty was old. Oh, to be so young again. (Forty, not twenty.)

 

Despite the fact I usually feel young for my age, I found myself doubting that this past week. Exercise at high altitude in the mountains can do that. 

 

For work purposes, Evan is moving to the Roaring Fork Valley of Colorado, a corridor that includes the ski areas of Aspen and Snowmass. We spent four days last week in Snowmass Village as he connected with colleagues, worked on new projects and looked for housing. (So expensive!) 

 

I used the small-but-good-enough hotel gym for one day’s workout but then did back-to-back days of biking roads and trails that run from Snowmass to Aspen and from Snowmass to Basalt. It’s the rides that had me feeling my actual age. 

 

Looking back, I would not say that my twenties were my fittest decade. I was still figuring things out. What were all those gym machines? Who were all those buff guys who seemed to have established routines and seethed with impatience as I worked with light weights on the cables? Why jog when it was such a sweaty experience? I loved tennis, but I struggled with back pain, popping Motrin and, on one occasion, lying on my office floor, door shut, unable to get up as I repeatedly called out to my admin assistant for help.  No, the twenties were plain awkward in terms of fitness.

 

It was during my thirties that everything clicked—in fitness, in work, in life. I wasn’t quite there, but I was beginning to realize I knew a lot less than I thought I did during the years from sixteen through twenty-nine. Not knowing brought on humility and a greater sense of relaxation—I didn’t need to know it all. I still found the gym intimidating, but I went more regularly and I knew which machines felt good with my body and which ones just made me look like a struggling fool. (Way too many mirrors!) 

 

From my forties until now, I’ve been relentless about exercising. I ignore the steroid-y dudes bench pressing twice my body weight and grunting loudly as they drop the barbell after a leg press set. (I’d say they grunt while sipping from their water bottle too, but I can’t confirm it…being as I’m ignoring them and all.) I still don’t like sweating while jogging and biking—especially when sunscreen seeps into my eyes—but I’ve accepted that it’s proof of exertion. I know that my form sucks, but I still swim laps at the pool, doing my own version of a flip turn, a roll that would make Michael Phelps and actual pool mates laugh. Despite all my workout flaws, I follow that old Nike slogan—Just do it!—and I even consider myself athletic, not just for someone who is sixty-something but even at a level for thirty-year-olds. Yes, I keep up!

 

But, oh, Roaring Fork Valley, you had me doubting myself. You humbled me. At the beginning on that first day when I set out on my bike to go to Aspen, the most exercise I was getting involved my hands as I kept squeezing the brakes on the curvy downhill route from the hotel above Snowmass Village. I might have even laughed if I hadn’t been aware that, as a cyclist going round trip, what goes down must come up. Yes, it would be a grind, but I told myself that’s what first gear is for. I would just make the adjustment and pedal my way back to the top, breathing evenly, keeping my head down so as not to be overwhelmed by how steep the incline was. 

 

There is always a learning curve in cycling a route for the first time. I don’t know what’s ahead and often find myself shifting gears too late as hills seem to rise out of nowhere. The road (and bike path) to Aspen were no exception. At one point, I had to dismount and walk my bike up one hill as I swear a couple of Steller’s jays laughed at me—loudly, too. (I reclassified them as mocking-birds.)

 

It didn’t help that, as a fair-skinned Canadian who prefers vacations in Iceland and Sweden, I was still adjusting to the Colorado heat, the temperatures above thirty degrees and I’d foolishly set out without a water bottle. 

Once I reached Aspen, I walked my sweaty, messy self into a bougie coffee shop and ordered a ten-dollar iced latte. (Oh, Aspen.) I knew I didn’t fit with the wealthy clientele so I grabbed my drink and walked my bike around town, window shopping at the Prada store and listening to a busker sing a cover of John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High.” (Of course.)

 

Afternoon storm clouds nudged me to down my latte and get back on-trail to make the return trip. The overall distance was typical for me in summer though longer than what I’d been doing throughout the winter and spring. It was a decent challenge, the right stuff to shift me into summer mode. The return route provided a long, slow incline and my legs felt it enough so that I frequently shifted into lower gears, something I usually avoid doing for all but the most obvious hills. There was a switchback area behind the Aspen airport that had my mind flashing forward, fretting about how I would handle the mountainous stretch in Snowmass. One kilometre at a time, I reminded myself. Enjoy (or endure) the moment…

 

Instead of birds that mocked, I had to avoid cursing at the people on e-bikes who powered past, their legs opting for a pedal-free experience. (Eighty-five percent of “cyclists” were using e-bikes, half of them using them as nothing more than a sit-down version of an electric scooter.) 

 

When I reached the steep incline at Snowmass, I went easy on myself and the gears. I followed the plan. First gear, head down. Our hotel was above the village, where parking lots were numbered from one to our lot, lucky number thirteen. I made it to lot ten before I had to stop as a panted profusely. Even in low gear, I could not restart the pedalling effort, the hill being far too steep. I tried not to feel defeated as I walked up the final two hundred metres. I told myself the trek was not diminished by a short uphill stroll to the bike rack. I had done it. A good workout as my tight legs attested. 

 

I hadn’t planned to bike again the next day, but Evan needed the car for work and I felt restless after a short writing session at a café in the Village and staring at the partial view from the hotel room. I switched into my bike gear, slapped on the sunscreen and headed back down the mountain for a ride in the other direction to Basalt. It would be my longest ride in many months, but I told myself that, except for the final mountain ascent, the trail would be flatter. My still sore legs would appreciate a “lighter” workout. For the most part, the ride toBasalt proved to be a comfortable ride. Only one stretch looked like it would be a particular challenge on the way back before I had to tackle Snowmass Village. 

 

The temperatures were once again hot and, by the time I finally reached for the water bottle I’d remembered to bring, the water was warm. Once again, I stopped for an iced latte when I’d reached the turn-around point, this time in the charming, historic town of Basalt. My legs sent signals that they felt achy, but I did my best to prevent any whining from filtering up to my brain. I headed back, smiling proudly on account of the distance I’d travelled. I told myself that, worst-case scenario, I could take a slow but steady approach on the return leg, stopping all I wanted, refreshing myself whenever necessary by gulping down water that was now unequivocally hot. 

 

But as is so often the case, my mind went rogue, ignoring my legs, brushing aside any plan to be like the tortoise in that classic race against the hare. I knew I was in for a grind shortly after leaving Basalt when I took a wrong turn and dead-ended in a neighbourhood. To get back on-trail, I had to face an extra uphill segment that went on for half a kilometre. This was just the beginning of the trip back and, whoa, my legs were already protesting. 

 

Ignore, ignore.

 

There were distance markers I hadn’t even noticed along the bike path on the way to Basalt but now I found myself spotting each one and longing for the tiny, faded half-mile signs to show up sooner. So many to spot; so far left to go.

 

Once reaching the base of Snowmass and taking the tunnel under the highway, I had only four kilometres to go. I knew the last half (which had been part of my Aspen ride) would be difficult, but I didn’t realize how tough the first half—a sprawling meadow area with a series of smaller dips and rises—would be. Let the water breaks begin. 

 

In the end, I dismounted at the first lot instead of the tenth and walked my bike the rest of the way. My legs were pedalled out. My pride was severely bruised. I let my sunglasses mask much of the disappointment on my face. 

 

It’s been a couple of years since I last did the 140-kilometre, uphill/downhill roundtrip trek from my condo in Vancouver to Squamish, BC. My Snowmass experiences had me wondering if such outings are a thing of the past. Were my challenges just a sign that I was only at the beginning of summer biking season or had I gotten “too old”? Was an e-bike in my near future? I reminded myself that no one on a regular bike had passed me on my four-hour ride along the busier Rio Grande Trail to and from Basalt. I assured myself that I could still keep up with thirty-somethings. Alas, the assurances fell flat. I felt old. Sixty-one, if not older. 

 

Four days later, I am still shaken from the experience. Have I reached a tipping point where I am too old for more things than just rave events, rap music and TikTok? Is it time to take up pickleball? Lawn bowling? Bridge? 

 

In a day or two, I’ll get back on my bike and ride for hours along the flatter bike paths in and around Denver. I’ll tell myself I still feel like I’m in my thirties (maybe thirty-nine instead of thirty-six). Still, I can’t help but think the aging clock is ticking faster. It won’t slow down; instead, it seems I will. As that now-old movie from 1994 says, Reality Bites.