Woodstock Revisited

I took a stroll down memory lane over the weekend. I attended a concert by a band whose music might have come out of the Sixties--a little bit folk, a little rock, some blues, mostly singer-songwriter stuff. Actually, I don't know what they call it anymore, but it was definitely not Britney Spears or Kanye West.

But it was more than just than the band (who were mostly in their 30s) that got to me; it was the audience, about 300 strong, who were jammed into a banquet room.

Everywhere you looked, you saw beards, braids and bandanas. I suspect there wasn't a tube of lipstick in the bunch, nor a comb. Instead, there were plenty of (proudly) mismatched clothes, a minstrel's cap, and a general spirit of joy and liberation.

A one-year-old baby was stumbling around discovering, by trial and error, how to walk.

Seven and eight-year-olds were twirling on the dance floor, trying to emulate their parents.

Twelve-year-olds (surprise, surprise) were enchanted by a video game, amid all the music and dancing.

A 70ish couple sat with smiles on their faces soaking in all that was around them.

And there I stood, watching it all, listening to the music that harkened back to my past, and feeling a few tears creep down my cheeks. Understand, however, that the playing of the Clydesdales commercials around Christmastime can also get my waterworks going.

But this was something more. This was re-connecting with my youth when everything was fresh and new and exciting and beautiful but very, very complicated and occasionally confounding.

Now (I think) I understand it all, and I can appreciate it with full awareness.

Would I like to go back and re-live it all? Hell yeah. I'd be so much happier, so much smarter, so much cooler. But that's not the way it works, is it? Instead, you've got to be content with listening to a little Bob Dylan music in a banquet hall, watching the swirl and color of humanity in front of you, and feeling a few, warm tears creep down your cheeks.

Training for the Noque

I've lived in the Upper Peninsula for nearly eight years now, but I've yet to tackle the Noquemanon Ski Marathon.

I bought a budget package of cross country ski gear a few years ago and I've managed to get out a few times on the trails every winter, but never quite caught the fever.

And also, inexplicably, never managed to accelerate much beyond four miles per hour.

I thought I'd give it a try again this winter, even with the preparation time for the race rapidly dwindling. The marathon is next week.

Maybe, I thought, this time I'd get into the Zen of cross country, I'd become one with the skis, and the skis would become one with the trails and...Well, maybe this time I'd go faster and I wouldn't fall over.

My companion, a female equally inexperienced at the sport, and I unloaded our gear in the snow-covered parking lot, donned our hat and gloves, laid down our skis, and snapped our ski boots into the skis.

Well, she did, anyway. Snap. Snap.

Me? I set the toe of my boot down on the ski, and pushed. And pushed again. And again. Nothing.

"I think you're supposed to push down on that white thing," she suggested.

"I did!" I snapped angrily. "The damn thing's not working!"

Clearly there was a serious problem with my skis which would require some repairs because....Oh. There. I pushed down on the white thing, and the boot snapped into place. The second one did likewise. Piece of cake.

So, standing tall and proud and athletic, I was ready to attack the trail.

A little clarification here: I've never tried skate-skiing because...I don't like falling down. Instead, I'm a "classic" cross country skiier. I like that word, "classic". It sounds so much better than "easy" or "non-athletic" or "for old folks".

We cautiously sidestepped into the two tracks, and we were off. Two and a half miles of trail lay ahead, waiting to be conquered.

After 100 yards, my companion was 15 yards ahead. After 200, the margin was 25 yards. What the hell? My legs were longer and my body was stronger but, for some reason, I lagged behind.

Maybe it was because I dragged my poles on any slope with a downhill grade higher than 2 percent, or maybe it was because I took little, mincing steps on even the slightest of curves in the tracks.

Or maybe it was because I was tense and didn't quite trust my body to do the right thing. As I say, I'm not fond of falling down. Falling on a cross country track for me is certainly not the same as a "garage sale" crash in downhill skiing, but I'd liken it to a "sidewalk sale"--a few items scattered here, a few items there. Pick them up, get over the embarrassment, and you can be on your way.

And I recalled that last winter, my last few runs had been accident-free, and I had actually started to get into the rhythm of the sport--push with the pole and sliiiiide...push and sliiiiiide...

After a mile or so, with my companion still barely in sight, I was again feeling it. I was efficient, I was a machine, I had to be zipping along at maybe five or six miles an hour until, of course, I came to a hill when I would necessarily grit my teeth, stiffen my body, drag my poles deep in the snow, and pray.

There was no oneness with Nature on this day, just a gritty and satisfying determination to keep my legs under me and stay upright.

The one challenge on the course lay near the end; it's about 40 yards of downhill where a thrill-seeker (someone who doesn't drag his poles) might achieve 15 miles per hour, tops. I'd fallen on it in past winters and had developed an unreasonable anxiety about it, to a point where I was obsessing about it 10 minutes before I came to it.

It was all in my mind, of course. I had nothing to fear but fear itself.

And there I was, looking down on it, Mt. Everest but it honestly didn't look that bad. It wasn't! This whole fear thing was silly! My God, I'm an adult, I'm reasonably coordinated, I'm supposed to be having fun!

So do it already.

I edged up cautiously to the very top and noticed a few crusts of extra snow lying in one of the tracks. No problem. Just slide right through it and....

"Jzzx!mnt?!!"

And there I lay with my "sidewalk sale" on full display, my legs twisted, one ski sticking up in the air, my knit hat flying off, my face chin-deep in snow.

So no, I never achieved Zen, never really relaxed so I could enjoy the serenity on the trail, and never exceeded six miles an hour.

But I did, however, manage to efficiently detach my skis from my boots in the parking lot. Snap, snap. You shoulda seen it. I was slick.

Health Tips for Old Farts

Something I've noticed as I get older: we're all looking for ways to fend off death and to enhance whatever time we have left on this planet.

When you're young, you get by on three hours of sleep on a ragged, urine-stained couch, you eat Twinkies in the morning, you snack on a plate of french fries and a Pepsi for lunch, you grab a couple of stale donuts in mid-afternoon, you consume an entire pizza (cheesy crust) with a 32 ounce Dr. Pepper for early dinner, and some KFC (extra crispy) for a late night snack. While guzzling down a half pitcher of beer.

And, of course, you routinely drive 30 miles over the speed limit (while on the cell phone and sipping your Starbucks), you ride your bike without a helmet, you (might) engage in unprotected sex, and you might, on a dare, even dive off a cliff into three feet of water, and survive.

Youth! As they say, it's wasted on the young.

Now, old folks...well, as we see the horizon gradually closing in, we've learned to slow things down, we take more care with each and every step we take and every food that we eat, and we struggle to push that horizon farther and farther away.

That's why we're drawn to books such as The 50 Healthiest Foods and magazine articles such as Sex at 80: It Makes You Happier and Healthier
and those alluring and alarming Internet surveys--Seven Foods to Lower Your Blood Pressure and 20 Towns Where Seniors Are Living the Longest
and Seven Behaviors That Are Killing You!

That's also why we're eagerly lining up at health food stores to buy expensive organic produce that's bruised, brown or limp. Or how about seven-dollar-a-pound chickens that apparently just died from anorexia?

We're also discovering exotic new fare like kale, quinoa, and kefir.

And there are even some of us who are gulping down the "green stuff," which is a blended mix of kale, broccoli florets, green tomatoes, garlic, cumin, turmeric, brussel sprouts, and carrot juice. Or something like that.

In any case, it looks like vomit and tastes marginally better.

We're told it'll make us healthier, but it wasn't too long ago that our mothers were insisting that we eat every last bite of liver, and that we consume at least three 12 ounce glasses of milk every day. Now, the doctors and dieticians aren't so sure.

Experts have also changed their minds about PSA tests for men. Yesterday, they were vital; today, not so much. Breast exams for women? Well, maybe they're not so important anymore. Coffee? Used to be bad, now it's good. Wine? Used to be bad, then good, and now,well, we're not so sure. Chocolate? Terrible! Makes you fat! Well, hold on. No, actually it's good for you.

And just yesterday, the coup de grace: Yoga, we're now told (by a yoga teacher) may be bad for our health!

So what are we to believe? What are we old farts in our 50s, 60s and 70s to do if we want to improve our health and extend our lives?

Because seriously, if it doesn't make much difference, I'll take a Twinkie on a urine-stained couch any day over a pint of the "green stuff."