The last thing I'll say about being 60

About 10 months ago, I had the idea that I would start recording what it was like to approach age 60 and beyond. I was sure that it would be monumental.

Here is some of what I wrote:

August 10th 2006

On this hot summer day, I realize that six months from now, on a surely cold and snowy day, I will turn 60 years old.
I want to celebrate that. My daughters Diana and Naomi think a girlie winter vacation getaway is a good idea, and so does Lorne, who hates to sit on a beach anyway. That’s something down the road.

Meanwhile, as February approaches, I will add thoughts that come to me so other women turning 60 will feel hopeful and possibly I will feel hopeful too.

August 11

I mention to my friend Cynthia my goal to record the next six months. I’ve created the folder, I say. It’s empty.
“You’ll have more to say looking back,” says she who has already passed this milestone. “Six months after, instead of six months before.”

August 12
Daughter Diana and I volunteered at a triathlon supervising the bike turnaround on Colonel By Drive near our house. When the last cyclist had passed, the two motorcycle officials offered us rides to the finish line on their bikes, and we each hopped on.
“You’re pretty cool,” Diana said to me in disbelief.

August 13
Two fisherman beside the Canal showed me the wide mouthed bass one had caught with a plastic worm, and then they threw the fish back in the water.
That’s what I want for 60. You can catch me, show me 60, and then throw me back in the pre-60 water.


August 20
The Battle of Brockville

As I ran across the finish line at the Thousand Islands triathlon, Mike the announcer pointed out to everyone that my friend Kristin had already beaten me, finishing the race 4 minutes ahead.

Rubbing it in, he announced that the two of us have an ongoing rivalry to avoid last place, and this time she had won.

Indeed she had, improving on her swim and bike, so that it was impossible for me as usual to “reel her in” on the run.

And even though I was last, for me it was a huge accomplishment just to be there when only a few years ago I was quivering in the Try a Tri in the Carleton pool, and never envisioning I would actually be smiling in the choppy waters of the St. Lawrence River.

I thank the kayaks circling me like sharks at the swim for not just hooking me into the boat and heading for shore. As usual, I had trouble sighting, complicated by waves that blew up on the return swim, enhanced by a nearby large boat. I couldn’t see the furthest buoy; one kayak told me to keep left or I’d be caught in the current, another told me to keep right, and I flopped around like Flipper until I ultimately reached the three powerful “pullers’ who yanked me over the very slippery boat launch exit.

It was not hard to find my bike.

And it’s funny, I was afraid of not being able to see because of water in my swim goggles, but in fact they were fine. It was the raindrops on and in my glasses as I biked that were a minor annoyance.

I didn’t know until after the Brockville Triathlon whether I’d want to do a race report. That’s because my training for this event was even more bizarre than usual.

I had spent the first three weeks of July walking around Europe in 40-degree heat, and doing no running or aerobic exercise at all. And then I spent two weeks before the triathlon enrolled in CycleFit Boot Camp trying to force my unused muscles back into shape.

Hence on Saturday when Kristin and I headed to Brockville (great accommodation at St. Lawrence College for $34 each, including breakfast), I was even more sore and creaky than usual. I had read Rick Hellard’s advice to athletes that there’s nothing they can do to improve themselves in that last week before a race, only make things worse. I wondered if I would become a negative example of that philosophy. He was obviously a positive example of his own advice – he won the Olympic Tri.

And when you’re last, it’s hard to know what makes any difference.

The reason we had even entered Brockville was as step one of a pact we’ve made to do an Olympic distance Tri when we both turn 60 in six months. The Sprint Tri swim at Brockville is one 750 loop, and the Olympic there is two. This was to be an information reconnaissance to see if Brockville merits our symbolic efforts next year.

We’re still working on that decision, but we were pleased that the variety of races meant company most of the time (except when I was swimming). It buoys the spirits to feel you’re not alone, and many of the Olympic Tri people were very friendly and supportive as they passed by on bike or run.

Meanwhile, rematch to avoid last place at The Canadian on Labour Day Weekend!

August 22
I report to a younger colleague that a former freelancer of ours has a letter in the Citizen complaining about sidewalk cyclists in Stittsville. “Is he a cranky senior?” he inquires. My first reaction is, ‘no, he’s my age.’ My second reaction is, ‘I better not be cranky any more.’

More recently, a Citizen news editor announces at a meeting that the Ottawa Senators are so popular that when they were put on the front page, the paper didn’t receive the usual letters from “little old ladies” complaining about sports being given major coverage.

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And you know what, that clinched it. I didn’t want to be focussed on age any more. I am who I am, and that’s more important than chronological age. This blog will contain things I like or have written, book reports and bits and pieces that haven’t appeared anywhere else. I have seen 60, and it’s no big deal.