Today is my fortieth birthday. After you turn 30, I find it wise to only truly celebrate your birthday every 10 years. Because if you try to get a buzz going around about a 43rd birthday party, chances are you’ll be the only one at the bar wearing a party hat and doing shots of tequila. Not only will you be drunk, but you will also be murderously depressed.

In all honesty, I can’t say that I’m surprised that I made it to forty. I was never a self-destructive type that thought I would never make it to forty. I wasn’t one to subscribe to Def Leppard’s creed of “burning out before fading away.” As a rule, I don’t take advice from guys too thick to be able to spell either “deaf” or “leopard” correctly. I would rely on their acumen at finding and purchasing quality weed without question, but to use their lyrics to form any sort of lifelong longevity philosophy seems like a stretch to me. I suppose I come down in a more “anti-Leppardian” camp when it comes to growing old.

In fact, I look forward to becoming more curmudgeonly with each passing year. I already complain at practically every opportunity; I am starting to consider the practicality of cardigans; I have not seen any manner of “late night” show for years; I am older than almost every athlete I watch on TV (thanks for retiring, Morten Andersen); I think that music was better in my day (do you think there’s a chance they’ll play Minor Threat at any retirement homes? Any at all? I can’t face the prospect of drooling into my rice pudding while listening to an Aerosmith crap ballad – I simply can’t. I’ll maneuver my futuristic hovering Rascal scooter right into traffic first – don’t think I won’t.); and finally, I think about my regularity – a lot.

I wish I had some sort of magic aging revelation to share here, but I don’t. Mortality has been faced by better writers than me—and I would suggest you seek them out. I find myself surprisingly bereft of insight at the age of forty. But there is one thing that really surprises me at this point in my life—I really hoped to be much wiser. As a younger person, if I were to imagine myself at forty, I envisioned a self-asssured man about town with a loving family (which I do have—thankfully that turned out well), a tweed jacket with elbow patches and maybe even a perm—I might have been modeling myself after Mr. Brady from the Brady Bunch a little too much there—but I was eight, give me a break.

 

It’s surprising to me at my semi-advanced age, that I still occasionally find myself feeling like the same awkward and socially inept eighteen year old that I was when I first ventured out into the world as a college freshman. I really thought that by now those troublesome, uncomfortable feelings would have evaporated completely, but in reality those feelings were only replaced by the ability to pretend to not be an awkward teenager. I can play a grown-up convincingly in all sorts of social situations. Ask me about property taxes—I can fake my way through a conversation about them for a good 15 minutes, after that, I have to rely on other subjects (while resisting fart jokes). But I can definitely convince a stranger that I am a legitimate member of society—if we only talk for 15 minutes—after that they are exposed to the sad, immature goggles with which I view the world. I have, although, learned a few things for certain in my forty years though. Here they are in no particular order:

 

• Stay away from drinking large quantities of green-label Jack Daniels (did you know there was such a thing?)—it is distilled evil.

 

• If you can convince someone wiser and smarter than you to marry you—do so as quickly as possible.

 

• Don’t try to pretend to be anyone you’re not, because it’s really confusing and it’s hard to remember what you’re supposed to say.

 

• If you are obnoxious, ignore the rule above and pretend to be someone who’s very, very quiet.

 

That’s it, that’s about all I can say I’ve learned for certain. Not bad, about a revelation per decade. At that pace, I have about 5-6 more things to learn (if I’m lucky). I’ll keep you posted. I do have a sneaking suspicion that I will appear to be wiser to others in the future, but I also can’t help but feel that in my advanced age, wisdom might just mean I will be too tired to do anything stupid.

 

Friday November 7, 2008

 

Today was a day of sprints on a roadway full of wet leaves. That should help explain why my wattage numbers are down – lack of traction. Instead of throwing down the full might of my sprint, I had to keep my back wheel from sliding out like a drunken otter in the Ice Capades. I cannot therefore take these numbers very seriously. It is convenient to dismiss these traction-challenged sprints as below the norm of my ability, and I will take this opportunity to do so. Let’s call it a form of positive reinforcement, shall we? Because training yourself to delude yourself is still technically a form of training, isn’t it?

 

The sprints were as follows:

1005, 1077, 1024, 959, 1065, 1049, 1022, 998, 976, 1076

 

 

Monday November 10, 2008

 

This is the time of year when the yards of Northern New Jersey cough their leaves into the streets like big brightly colored lumps of autumnal phlegm. I did the wise thing and stuck to  the bike trail that the sturdy crews of the Bergen County had cleared of the slippery yellow and brown hazards. This is the beginning of the time of year when the roads get thinner and thinner. First with piles of leaves in the gutters, and then later with icy piles of snow in the gutters. I suppose if I had to choose between these two annoyances, I would choose the leaves, as they don’t leave a wet streak of grime up your backside.

 

 

Tuesday November 11, 2008

 

LIke some older Russians may miss the Stalin era, I sometimes also long for the comfort and familiarity of some of my well-worn training routes. Today I went out on a route that has my musk all over it. You can tell by the burned out grass and browned flowers.

 

I did my 20/10 intervals up my training hill and rolled on through the rest of my customary course. You can look at my little hill right here. Isn’t it cute? I think Uncle Joe would like it.

 

 

Wednesday November 12, 2008

I’ve been reading a great biography of Teddy Roosevelt lately that focuses on his years after he was president. He became president after McKinley was assassinated and then became the youngest serving chief executive at 42 years old. After his term was up, he set up his tubby pal Taft as his successor and went on a year long safari sponsored by the Smithsonian, where he shot pretty much everything in sight. You know, for science.

 

Roosevelt believed in a philosophy called “The Strenuous Life” which he outlined in this passage from an 1899 speech:

 

“I wish to preach, not the doctrine of ignoble ease, but the doctrine of the strenuous life, the life of toil and effort, of labor and strife; to preach that highest form of success which comes, not to the man who desires mere easy peace, but to the man who does not shrink from danger, from hardship, or from bitter toil, and who out of these wins the splendid ultimate triumph.”

 

Does it sound like Teddy would take the elevator at work? I think not! He’d shoot it first and then charge his way up the stairs, barging past any waylayer that might want to thwart his progress, and then he’d get to his office where he could quietly ponder whether any of his future relatives would marry each other—which they would—confound it!

 

Oh, and he was also shot while running against his old buddy Taft, but did Teddy take it laying down? No! Rather than treating the wound from a .38 caliber gun (.38 is really the caliber of cowards), he delivered the speech he was there to deliver while the wound in his chest slowly bled through his white shirt. He did alter his speech for the occasion saying, ” I am all right. I am all right, and you cannot escape listening to my speech either…” Afterwards I assume, in the spirit of the day, he then walked his wound off, rubbed some dirt on it and got back in the game.

 

Why am I throwing out all this Teddy Roosevelt information? One, to prove that I can read and two, to shame myself into never complaining about riding my bike in 50 degree weather again.