Don’t Let the Old Man In

Cool Air and a Heavy Sky

Being old isn’t just a physical state. It is a state of mind. And if I want to remain “young”, especially in the face of physical decline, I need to push away the feelings that life is finished when I wake with more aches and pains than usual.

Sounds simple enough but thoughts of mortality coupled with those early morning surprises make keeping the old man out a real challenge. Getting on a scooter or motorcycle and going for a ride is a way of thumbing my nose at old age.

I don’t remember why I decided to ride the Vespa GTS scooter that morning. Looking at the photograph of it under the heavy overcast sky I do remember the thrill at being out on the road. The reason doesn’t really matter.

Morgan Freeman

There were a few old men at the lake. Myself included. It’s strange sometimes to think of myself as an old man. So many memories from decades ago still feel as fresh as having happened yesterday. Getting old is a state of mind.

I stumbled upon an interview with Morgan Freeman recently. The conversation was a rambling discussion of his career and longevity as an actor and the predictable question was posed — “What’s your secret to being able to keep acting?”

Freeman smiled and shared a conversation he had with Clint Eastwood, another actor with a long career. He said Eastwood told him it’s simple — “Just don’t let the old man in.”

It took a moment to comprehend the meaning. Now I carry it along with me as an important reminder and philosophy. Not to live forever but to live as fully as I can in the face of whatever limitations time and body present. A big part of getting older is a direct result of my thinking and making sure I don’t let thoughts of getting old in without clear evidence to support them.

Awareness and Realizations

Most of my riding takes place on quiet backroads. There’s little traffic or pressure to surge ahead. The only moderator of my riding is me. I can go as slow or fast as I wish and stop almost anywhere. When riders speak of freedom this is it for me. When I can pull the Vespa to a stop to look around and take a picture I am a free man. I am aware of the world and realize I can change and adapt as needed.

Recently my rheumatologist wanted me to taper a drug used to treat psoriatic arthritis. Remission is possible but the only way to know for sure is to cut back the dosage.

This sort of medical stuff can start me thinking about getting old. The woes of taking a handful of medications every morning along with the constant reminders of the physical changes in my body due to aging and illness. A long history of psoriatic arthritis and a past heart attack have a way of waving their hands on beautiful days. I suppose I should be grateful of the reminders and adjust life accordingly rather than blithely forge ahead while my head is still buried in the sand.

I’ve cut my dose by 25%. So far it has not affected how much I can ride. A fine barometer of health and aging. I try to remember — don’t let the old man in.

Diagnosing Problems

I love the myth of not having a care in the world. The idea that there are people wandering the earth unconcerned about anything is just a fantasy. Aside from a tiny slice of the population of children I don’t think anyone is free like that. There’s always something to deal with.

Standing in the road in front of my Vespa scooter on a cool, gray, autumn-like morning I should have felt unencumbered by much of anything. But what I saw was an electrical issue. I have started to think there’s a current drain on the battery while the scooter sits in the garage. I won’t bore you with how I came to this belief but it is something I now have to address. And later in the day with my friend Paul’s assistance and his fancier than my multi-meter we determined there was no unusual current draw. The voltage and amps were as they should be. The battery was fine. But now I’m wondering if the starter is binding for a moment causing the hesitation when I first push the starter button in the morning.

This is the same mental gymnastics I can perform with my aging body. The difference is the scooter is a simple machine that can possibly be diagnosed by me. My body is a complex organism that won’t yield to myself or Google Gemini. If I don’t want to let the old man in I best leave the medical shit to my doctors.

Getting to the Pleasure

After all the years and miles on my Vespa GTS250 scooter it remains a joy to ride. Combine it with all the wonderful roads and paths close to home and I can easily embrace a beautiful, rolling sense of pleasure.

It’s great to be out on the road and enjoying life. The old man is no where to be seen.

Pleasure Turns Toward Hunger

There is always a moment when my stomach nudges my brain. Always. And the ride shifts from a relaxed experience with no destination in mind to one with a definite destination. Envisioning the roads winding ahead through the valley I began to plot a course that would lead me to fuel for the scooter and food for me. It wasn’t a bad shift but one rooted in reality.

If I don’t want to let the old man in I need to have a firm grasp on reality. There’s a difference between feeling old and thinking I’m old.

A Simple Breakfast Experience

A gallon and a half of premium fuel topped off the Vespa. I like to keep all the machines full and burn through a tank of gas every month so I don’t have to winterize anything. The same goes for me—I don’t winterize either. I just keep riding and walking, slowly adjusting to the changing season, though motivating myself to head outdoors when it’s genuinely cold has become more of a challenge. The aging process at work, no doubt. I’m fine with limits, so long as they’re real.

Sitting outside at Sheetz was a quiet way to eat breakfast. My phone served up a few stories from the New York Times, and I was comfortably relaxed until two young guys and a young woman pulled up in a beat-up old Toyota pickup. Two dogs were crammed into the extended cab, and all three people were piled into the front bucket seats. The raw determination of youth.

Things got uncomfortable when they began inspecting their terribly misaligned front tires, which looked to be suffering from catastrophically worn tie-rod ends—or something equally grim. One of the guys raised the truck with an old bottle jack and crawled straight underneath, hammering away while the entire chassis swayed precariously. I’ve never understood people crawling under vehicles supported only by a single mechanical jack.

I watched for as long as I could bear, but as the jack wobbled, I knew I couldn’t stay. In the past, any suggestion of risk in situations like this was met with pure disdain, so I simply got up and left, having no desire to witness a tragedy.

It was another ride reminding me that I’m still young in heart and mind—and doing just fine in the body, too.