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"NEVER AGAIN" NEVER
SOUNDED SO GOOD |
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I am here to report that there are advantages to getting old.
While there are many disadvantages, such as impending death,
I like to focus on the positives. And giving up pastimes that you never
enjoyed in the first place certainly fits the bill.
I thought about this a few years ago when I took my last
horseback ride. I climbed off my lumbering mount, who had disliked me from
the moment I climbed onto her back, and announced to the world that I
would never ride a horse again. It felt wonderful.
No longer would I bounce painfully up and down while
trotting, or agonize over the prospect of falling off with one foot still
locked into the stirrup, thereby eliminating any ligaments I had left in
my body. I had survived, and it was time to move on.
The same holds true for some other activities, like zip
lines, or thrill rides at the amusement park. I never particularly liked
them, and now I'm old enough to use age as an excuse for never doing it
again.
This point was driven home to me again a few weeks ago, when
my wife and I took a short trip to Colorado. We had a day to kill in
Denver and learned that a Class IV river was only 45 minutes outside of
the city. And lo and behold, there was space available for an afternoon
whitewater rafting adventure.
I've never liked whitewater rafting. That's strange, because
I love the water. I live near the water, work near the water, and love
being in the water. It's just that I've always considered whitewater
rafting 95% boredom mixed in with 5% pure terror.
Off we went, though, because I've got a distorted memory.
Maybe this time I'd enjoy it. Maybe all those bad memories I had were an
aberration. Maybe I'm clueless.
We arrived at the departure station, paid our death money,
and sat down for the orientation. The nice young man expressed his
confirmation that his company's mission was to keep us alive and well.
Then he went into a long diatribe about the dangers of a Class IV river
(defined as intense, powerful, predictable rapids).
After being fitted for life jackets, helmets and optional
wetsuits, we climbed aboard an old school bus with the other victims. I
quickly noticed I was by far the oldest of the 35 people packed on the
bus. That should have been a sign.
The river loomed ominously and angrily out the window as the
bus chugged along. This was going to be a wild ride, and I wanted no part
of it. Neither did my wife, but we had already paid and committed to our
suicide.
Each raft held six people, and we introduced ourselves to our
four compatriots. Then our guide, Mongo, (not his real name, but it should
have been) ordered us to carry the raft into the river and select our
spots.
My wife and I took the middle section, figuring that was the
safest. We launched the raft and Mongo immediately began barking orders,
letting us know that if we didn't paddle correctly we'd all soon be dead,
or at least bashed to smithereens on the rocks.
I quickly missed the 95% boredom part. This river was 5%
boredom and 95% pure terror. Between barking orders, Mongo would name the
next rapid. I can't remember them all, but Hell's Gate, Soul Crusher,
Decap Rock, Death by Dismemberment, Satan's Gut and Cascades of Extinction
come to mind.
Maybe those weren't the exact names (okay, I stole them off
the internet), but they were close. All of them got everyone's anxiety
levels rising, and I'm too old for rising anxiety levels. After the first
rapid, where I almost fell out 17 times, I swore I would never go river
rafting again.
Miraculously, we survived without flipping the boat or losing
any of our new friends. When we got through the final rapid, Mongo
congratulated all of us for being alive. He told us a few more horror
stories of accidents on the river, and then we boarded the bus for the
ride back.
I was beaming. Not because I enjoyed the adventure, because I didn't, but
because I knew I was too old to ever do it again. And that was just fine
with me. |
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