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.
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