Go For It!
Don’t Wait Until It’s Too Late
I recently did something profoundly silly. Actually, some people consider it worse than that, a possible indication of latent suicidal tendencies, while others will shrug and go “What’s the big deal??”
The big deal is I went waaaay beyond my normal boundaries and did something I vowed never to do. However, I no longer care about discretion, prudence or precaution because I’m on a mission.
The Quest
My new raison d’être is to go kicking and screaming into that inevitable dark night, or at least put up a bit of resistance as my heart, eyes, brain, knees and about 50 other organs start grinding to an eventual halt. You see, I’ve suddenly discovered mortality.
Actually, “discovered” is a bit of a misnomer. As a retired police officer, you couldn’t help but confront the impermanence of life on a regular basis. Whether it’s somebody’s granny who hasn’t been seen by neighbors in a while or a young child getting wiped out in a horrible accident, any illusions you might have about living forever disappear about one week into the job. So, it’s not that.
However — secretly — I always thought I’d still be running ahead of the pack well past my 100th birthday. Ignoring the fact I’m now significantly closer to the century mark than to zero, actual aging and physical deterioration never crossed my mind. Oh, I knew it might actually happen but it was always in the same category as asteroid strikes and hits a royal flush in Vegas.
It’s an ironic universal truth that living a while has a way of ruining all your fancy notions about life.
In my case, this new mission didn’t start with an epiphany. I learned years ago that when you go looking for an epiphany, you’ll never find it. You might stumble across a truth or maybe even a small nest of insights, but true epiphanies are few and far between. They also must show up unexpectedly or they’re probably just a revelation masquerading as something more important.
What does happen to most people is the slow-motion train wreck we call “existence.” Personal and family problems — contrary to what you thought at a younger age — get bigger and more complex, you start spending far more time at funerals than weddings and you finally realize your body always feels like a sack of broken dishes. It now takes me weeks to recover from strenuous physical activity such as brushing my teeth.
I’m certainly not complaining as I fully agree with the popular trademarked phrase/bumper sticker/T-shirt stating “Life is Good,” but I would like to point out the first truth you learn over age 60 is “getting older isn’t for sissies.”
Unfortunately, all of those vows we collectively made to keep living life to the fullest just end up slowly grinding to a halt, much like a train running out of steam. In the last year or so I found myself sitting figuratively at a standstill on the tracks, slowly starting to rust alongside most of my friends — at least the ones who are still here. Dammit, this wasn’t what I signed up for!
Time To Fly
So, I began a mission to regain some semblance of my earlier self. Instead of talking about making fun trips, I get on the computer and book a flight. Rather than watch television, I reload some rifle ammo, or garden or go fishing; something, anything, to be active and not sit idly by as the Laws of Entropy ravage my being. We recently did an overnight hike. I look up my old buddies occasionally. And — I bought a canary-yellow motorcycle.
Some have called this my late-life crisis vehicle but both I and my spouse love it. It’s been great to spend a few minutes relaxing on a cruise around town, joining friends for longer rides and I’ve even had a couple of pretty girls wave at me — though I know they’d recoil in horror if I lifted my helmet visor and they suddenly saw Grandpa Walton inside.
Even though a lot of cops ride motorbikes, a lot of them don’t because bikes have a well-earned reputation for sanding off large swatches of epidermis using only pavement and gravity. Having personally seen various limbs and heads removed from bikers, I know firsthand of what I speak. Thus I was always in the “Hell No, I won’t Go … to the motorcycle dealership”-faction. Despite the urging of countless friends, I vowed I’d never ride a motorcycle.
A Change of Heart
My huge switcheroo came when I was invited last summer to a special motorcycle event for gun industry insiders. When I told Mark, the organizer and chief conspirator, I didn’t ride, he chuckled semi-evilly and said he’d take care of me. He certainly did.
My throne for the weekend festivities was inside the sidecar of a CCCP-painted Ural motorcycle belonging to Ron, a well-known figure in the industry. Aside from the first hour or so when I did my best impression of a turtle withdrawing into its shell, I eventually relaxed and began to enjoy the ride and our numerous adventures along the way.
Aside from visiting the famous “Poopies” biker bar — of course I bought a T-shirt — another memorable moment was seeking refuge from a terrible thunderstorm in one of the seediest saloons in Illinois, if not the entire Midwest. It had all the standard-issue dive-bar accoutrements including a bullet hole in the door and I was certain a major rumble was imminent when a gray-bearded mountain of a man approached our table and asked what we were doing.
Mark cooly answered the question and there was a pregnant pause as everyone — even the jukebox — held their breath until the unkempt giant said, “Neat, you guys want any beers?” After that, things went fine. Better than fine, actually. Due to some kind of miscommunication, the dozen or so patrons decided our group was actually riding across the entire United States and had inexplicably decided to stop in their unkempt little corner of America.
Later, after drinking a collective total of one beer among the entire group — the bar only carried a single brand of very low-budget swill — the storm cleared and our troupe saddled up to hit the road. As the bikes fired up in the dusk, a pair of earnest tube-top tavern doyennes came outside to lovingly throw two-handed heart symbols at the departing bikers. Standing on the steaming, rain-slicked heartland streets in the orange twilight, it was like living in a Bob Seeger music video. I was suddenly hooked on motorcycles. Vows be damned.
Lessons Learned, Bridges Burn
There’s actually a bigger idea here aside from buying a vehicle that is quite likely to kill you, or being seen in public wearing a shirt saying “Poopies.”
Our GUNS audience, just like their illustrious editor, on average is made up of folks “of a certain age” and we share common foibles. Frankly, we’re not getting any younger and it should already be apparent why hearses don’t come with rooftop luggage racks as standard equipment because “You can’t take it with you.”
Thus, realizing we’re in the inevitable fall season of our lives, it’s high time we do something about it!
Most of us finally have a bit of discretionary money saved so I declare it’s officially high time to enjoy ourselves. Nothing crazy mind you, but if you want to finally buy a motorcycle, a boat or that one special gun you’ve dreamed about, go for it! In fact, speaking as literally one of the youngest “Boomers,” I say we wrestle this slogan away from the kids and make it our collective group shout in the face of eternity — Go For It!!
Just do me one favor, though: Please don’t tell your spouse some magazine editor just ordered you to go out and buy that once-in-a-lifetime rifle. Learning to ride a motorcycle is all the danger I need at the moment!
