Aging: It Happens

Huff, huff, Whew. WHEW!
“What’s your heartrate?”
“One-forty.”
“Stop and rest until it’s under a hundred.”
“I only need a minute or two.”
“No, I want you to stay put until it’s under a hundred.”
“Okay, you’re the boss.”

Bob, one of our field guides, had seen me setting up my Apple watch to show my heartrate. He started frequently asking me for my heart rate, making sure I stopped to rest often enough.

“But the others are way ahead of me!”
“It doesn’t matter,” he answered. “I’m the sweep. I stay at the back and make sure everyone
gets there safely. We’ll just go at our own pace and we’ll get there when we get there.”

But it did matter to me.

Again, I was dragging far behind the rest of our group. It was my second
day of a Road Scholar tour. The informational guide had said “Hiking, biking, horseback riding and kayaking at Mount Rushmore and in the Black Hills of South Dakota.” It was described as “Active”.

“I can do that!” I thought.
“That sounds like fun!”
I had been on a few Road Scholar trips before, and one or two of them had been labeled “Active.” I had managed just fine. But this trip was different right from the start.

The first day Bob led the group and Megan was the sweep. Three times Megan
offered to carry my backpack. Twice, I declined her offer. I was determined to pull my own weight. I was also determined to keep up with the others, but I found myself falling behind, just the same. The third time Megan offered, I nodded, too exhausted to speak, and handed her my backpack.

Both days, when I finally made it to the top, the rest of the group erupted in cheers with high fives and shouting, “You did great!” “Awesome job!” “Super!” That was very kind of them, but, really, I was by far the last one to make it to the top of the trail.

I’m seventy-five years old. But I had believed that I was a pretty fit seventy-five-year-old. Who had slipped into my bedroom while I slept and stolen my capable body, replacing it with that of a frail, little old lady? It’s true that most of the other fourteen members of our group were about a decade younger than me, but still, my pride was hurt that I had lagged so far behind. I had to face the fact that I was growing older and not able to do everything that I had done only a few years prior.

“There’s an easier trail that goes around the lake,” Bob told me as we got ready for our third day’s hike. “If you want, you could stay behind and walk that trail. I would recommend it since the one we’re taking is quite a bit harder than the last ones.” I knew that I had been at the very limit of my ability on the first two hikes, so I willingly agreed to take an easier hike on my own. Still, realizing that I couldn’t participate in everything was a bitter pill to swallow.

Now, I don’t want you to get the impression that my Black Hills vacation was a bad one, full of disappointments. Far from it. I had a great time. I rode an e-bike for the first time on a fifteen-mile trail. I rode horseback. I kayaked across a lake and back again, splashing cold water all over myself, but having fun. But there were also times– those little experiences that reminded me that I was getting older.

After climbing to a vantage point in the South Dakota Badlands, I was very carefully making my way down a steep and slippery grade, planting my feet sideways and taking very small and very careful steps. About halfway down, I moved over a bit, to allow three young men to get by me on their way up. A few seconds later, one of the men went past me again, going down. There he stopped and put out his hand to assist me the rest of the way down the hill.

How did I become so frail that a complete stranger would stop what he was doing to go back and assist me to safety? Don’t misunderstand me. I appreciated the help he gave me because I had been struggling. My complaint is this: When did I get to be so old? What happened to my strong body, and how did I end up with this one?

Copyright © 2024 by Linda Hanson