Last month I turned 60
I have a fairly standard roster of age-related complaints, including the compulsion to complain; a dodgy lower back (herniated L1), a BMI of 29, tinnitus, high blood pressure and cholesterol, a big, gnarly fungal toenail and upper body strength that would shame a chicken. It’s not a pretty picture, so I don’t look at it very often.
Come June 11th this year, I’ll still be an overweight, paunchy 60-year-old geezer. But I’ll be an overweight, paunchy 60-year-old who has just completed the Wicklow 200. And believe me, there’s a difference.
The clue is in the name; the Wicklow 200 is a cycle tour of the Wicklow mountains; 200km of suffering which will take me anything from nine to twelve hours. The only things keeping me going over the last three of these will be memory and lack of options. I’ll be way too exhausted for pride or shame to enter into it.
A few weeks ago, as I recovered at the top of some or other climb in the Wicklows, I chatted between gasps with a younger, fitter chap who, he told me, was entered for L’Etape du Tour in July. Respect. L’Etape is the daddy of manopausal, bucket-list challenges; an ordeal of masochism which sees thousands of amateur cyclists replicate a mountain stage of the Tour de France and so attain a sort of godhood.
Within seconds on that Wicklow summitette I knew that my destiny as a sad, tired old wheezer could never be fulfilled until at some social function – ideally a 50th birthday party – I could casually let slip that I had taken on and mastered L’Etape du Tour. I have already started to rehearse my patient explanation of what that means and, by subtle implication, what a paragon of potency it makes me.
I’m not looking to relive Glory Days. If anything, the plan is to turn back the clock to a time that never was. I didn’t have a sporting youth; I was clumsy and uninterested, way too self-conscious to expose myself in the goldfish bowl of sport.
The happy result of that, however, is that at 60 I can plausibly claim to be fitter than at any time in my life. Youth, they say, is wasted on the young. My pomp won’t be.
The jury’s still out on whether I’ll live forever, but if I can reverse the gradient of decline for a few years – or even just this year – that’s good enough for me. If I can kick sand in the faces of younger men, so much the better. They should have trained harder.
It’s not all gravy; I don’t understand why my weight isn’t in freefall, with all the work I’m doing, but I’ll sort that out somehow. The agony of hauling two pointless stones of fat up Slieve Maan is a powerful incentive. The important thing is that I can feel progress. From one week to the next, my legs are stronger, my recovery faster. I will never dance on the pedals like Alberto Contador, but in my head I’m spectacular. All the important things in life are in your head; it’s the battleground of ageing. You’ll lose the war, but you can and must put up a fight.
A nasty competitive streak has emerged in what was until now an unblemished sport-for-all, it’s-not-the-winning-but-the-taking-part mindset. My 33-year-old stepson has entered the Wicklow 200; he has a busy work life and isn’t getting much training in. Great; there’s just the faintest of chances that I could shame him. That means a lot to me; it’s not going to happen, but I can dream. He’s an Arsenal supporter and I’m Spurs, so this could be a very good year.
Seriously; this is about control, about setting and delivering an agenda for a phase of my life in which, traditionally, we take what comes our way. Bollocks to that, and to all the condescension, the patronising pseudo-respect, the stereotyping and marginalising that age brings down on us – mostly because we let it.
There are huge numbers of ‘old’ men and women doing incredible things in sport and re-defining the landscape of ageing; Ireland is especially rich in the spirit of ambition that drives age-group competition at all levels. I’ll never be an elite competitor at anything, in any category, but I’m not going to give way by default. If you think you’re better than me – in Wicklow or the Alps – you’re going to have to prove it. And again, next year.
For me it’s all about cycling: I’ve always been hypnotised by anything two-wheeled. Segways are an exception, but I hold chariots in high regard. Motorcycles sit at the summit of engineering, aesthetics and design, but a close second is the racing road cycle powered by that most noble of all engines; me. Cycling is a no-impact activity with no significant downside and a list of benefits that doesn’t need me to list. You can see it as the sustainable, eco-friendly urban transport of the future if you like; I’m not bothered about that so much – it’s my Path to Glory.
Or in your case, you. Some of us are already doing it, many of us can’t. But most of us arrive at 60 able to do far, far more than we have done for decades, and with the best reasons in the world for picking up the slack.
You are not your own grandad/grandma – so why act like it?
Get a bike. Give it some welly. Suffer. Repeat. Improve. Aspire. Target. Suffer some more. Get a bike with drop bars, not that cast iron Sunday afternoon yoke in the shed. Wear expensive sports gear for the right reason and keep a sharp tongue for anyone who mocks you as a MAMIL (Middle-Aged Man in Lycra).
I left out the bit where you consult your Health Professional before engaging in vigorous activity, but do that too. Then go for it.
By Conor O’Hagan
