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.

Turning 50 (1997)

Onward and upward: Some thoughts on hitting 50


It was when we were both talking casually about 1964 that it hit me.

We were discussing the Beatles, or something like that.

"I started university in 1964," I said.

He paused. "I was born in 1964."

And until then, I had felt we were the same age.

I may be 50, but I feel as if I fit in with those who are 20 or 30 or 40, even though I know that that’s not how younger people may perceive me.

What is 50?

For me, it’s not a lot different than 40 - although there is certainly a heightened sense of making the most of time available.

I find myself wishing I hadn’t wasted so much of it when I thought my options went on forever. In the past couple of years I’ve pierced my ears ( at least it’s not any other part of me), studied watercolour painting, taken a workshop on Romance Writing - and not written the novel - and become more regimented about keeping fit.

There’s a particular joy in discovering late blooming pursuits, even if you can’t help thinking if you’d started sooner, maybe now you’d be Picasso or an Olympic athlete. I take strength from a quote by author George Eliot (1819-1880): "It is never too late to be what you might have been."

Anticipating an "empty nest", my husband and I moved downtown from the suburbs. Our downsized dwelling bulged for a year with three adult children - and then they left again.

Because we’re generally healthy, active and involved, we in our 50’s tend to be an invisible age. Alike and yet different.

And yet I know from discussing this category with the 20-somethings and 30-somethings at my office, it’s easy for them to group together everyone between 50 and 100 as 50- plus, separating them into them and us.

As with any age group, it’s hard for someone who’s not in the category to really understand it. And it’s hard for us to know our place.

I suddenly find myself asking, "do I look silly doing this?", or "am I too old to do that?" It’s an odd place to be, and it happens in an instant.

I think the message that this generation wants to get out about ourselves is the same as that for any other - don’t generalize about us; we’re all different, and don’t judge us by our appearance; there’s a lot going on in our heads.

Fifty plus and beyond

Getting older, getting better


o The Older Traveller: ...Children will gravitate to you. Local women will be protective, and you’ll suffer less from unsolicited male advances...If you’re experiencing the hot flashes of menopause, pack a wardrobe of ‘layers’ that can easily be adjusted to your fluctuating body temperature."
- Advice for the Woman Traveller, Department of Foreign Affairs and International Trade

o "Most journalism is about young women and middle-aged men. But young women haven’t done anything yet. Middle-aged women have lived through so much; this is a great untapped subject."
- Canadian Malcolm Gladwell, writer for The New Yorker magazine, who loves doing stories on middle-aged women. Interviewed in The Toronto Star.

Ah, the different ways of looking at middle-aged men and women. The different ways we see ourselves. I even hesitate to be writing this at all, to be saying, ‘Look at me, a middle-aged woman’.

Is it different past 55 to want to grow, to learn, to travel, to exercise, to feel romantic, to have friends of all ages? C’mon, we’re a lot more than wrinkle cream.

One day, I was looking for a birthday card for my friend Laurie. A sign of aging, no doubt, is that the funny cards just weren’t funny. For instance, one card listed ‘Ten Things We’re Still Too Young For’: "10. Plastic rain scarf. 9. Tissue box cover made of yarn. 8. Adhesive shower floor daisies. 7. The once-a-week hairdo. 6. Drawer of newspaper clippings. 5. Huge vinyl purse with a padded strap. 4. The seven-day pill organizer. 3. Tissue in every pocket and/or sleeve. 2. Shaky lip outline. And the number one thing we’re still too young for: Finding a second use for bread bags."
I’m 57, and it’s not like that. It’s not like that at all.

I am heartened by the friendship of women over 60 whom I admire and hope to emulate. Women like Roseanne who runs marathons, Helen who travels alone for months to Mexico and Central America, Cynthia who laughs and shares and makes you feel good to be with her.
It is a paradox that my childhood and teens can seem so far away, and yet like yesterday. A blur of fuzzy memories, usually governed by worrying too much and relaxing too little. It took a long time, but I have learned that lesson now. I approach 60 with more serenity than I had at 50. I am taking chances and enjoying life.

Sometimes I feel as if I’m trying for the Guiness Book of Records for most things done badly within 24 hours. Other times I am so greatful to still be learning and growing. I have run eight marathons and look forward to running 50.

I am a before and after in my life, but the difference is internal, not makeup. I can say with amazement that since the age of 50 I have learned to run marathons, to cycle to work, to swim laps, and to cross-country ski. Starting from 0. It frustrates me terribly that I can’t do any of those sports faster, or with the perfect form. How I wish I had received this divine inspiration sooner, and that I had the "body memory" of sport learned in youth. But I look forward, not back.

I have a friend who shrugs, "anyone can do an Ironman if they do the training." To my surprise, I now know that’s right. And there is no shame in "doing the training" no matter how long it takes, or when you start.