Older

Growing older. You don't think about it much until it happens to you. The mountain bike boy I met a few weeks back whilst walking in the forestry, tackling scary obstacles on the narrow bike trails carved out of the hillside: we are two generations apart and yet he had the grace to stop and wish me well. I don't even know your name, but I hope that the brakes on your bike are good - please don't fall and hurt yourself because I want you to live life to the full.

Another boy in his early teens: I teach him woodwork - there's such a sparkle in his eyes, such a rejoicing in his new-found skills, so thankful for the time I give him, so outspoken for his age (in a good way, wanting to complete the projects I set by himself without my interference). Again I find myself looking forward and wondering what life has in store for him.

I wish I were young again. Without a care, no aches or pains, with a portion of that youthful vigour that now seems so elusive.

But then there's T, now in his late teens, suffering from leukaemia - I know him only via social media, but have been praying for his "complete healing" for about eight years now. The medical staff have no doubt been wonderful, but I have hoped and asked for so much more. A young life in the balances - why, why O Lord? And how dare I complain about my own aches and pains when he has had to grapple with this condition for so long, in and out of hospital.

I aim to jog four or five miles several times a week (barefoot of course). It used to be that, when it was cold outside, I would start off with a long enough sprint to warm up. But I find I can no longer do this: chest tightness tells me to slow down. I am told this is due to plaque forming in my arteries - not yet life threatening but the doctor wants to put me on all manner of drugs with scary common side effects. I don't want drugs. I want to be young again!

Generally speaking I think I am relatively fit for my age and I am so thankful for that. But there's no getting away from it: I'm not as young as I used to me. Growing older.

Will I ever run as far as to church mountain again?

A friend, a few years older than me, sitting across the room has just returned from the US visiting her granddaughter. In telling us about the visit she observes that this was probably the last time she would make such a trip.

Growing older is insidious. I don't like to admit that I am growing older, and certainly not that I am growing old, but every so often I catch myself thinking I might never do or go to such and such again. Or thinking that there is no point upgrading certain equipment or software because what I have will last me through. So I kind of plateau or worse still start going downhill. There is of course some truth in this position, but the negative implications get me in the belly - that gnawing feeling that not all is well. Taken further I think they'd call it depression but I'll not give in that easily.

But, honestly, why upgrade my CAD software when that which I have does all (or at least most) of what I need? And in any case I am gradually retiring my design business. Or why learn the latest programming languages when what I have used till now does what I want and, may I say, often does it more slickly that the new fangled stuff. Threads and generator functions indeed. When tackling a longer than usual run I wonder if it will be the last time I will run that far.  Mind you, I have no intention of giving up trying.

We watch Meg (she's the dog, now way past my age in dog years). She has rheumatism in her back legs, has suffered mini-strokes so holds her head on one side, is almost totally deaf, and is far less sociable than she used to me. One day she will die. And that will be that. Till then we feed her, try to make her life livable (she doesn't complain - dogs don't).  I wonder what I'll be like at that age? Or what it will feel like, same old me but in a crustier and less forgiving outward shell. I don't know and I confess I am a little apprehensive - not so much of death but not at all liking pain or inconvenience.

Short term memory loss is another getting-older thing. I go to the loo, flush it, wash my hands and then wonder - did I flush the loo? One learns to manage this by having only certain places that one is allowed to leave things like shoes, wallet, gloves and the like. But it is still endemic and a nuisance. And the management schemes are very well until one's customary ways are interrupted.

On the other hand I am glad to be alive. I am very thankful that I discovered barefoot running and am (still) able to go interesting places on my own and totally under my own steam and with no help from Adidas or whoever thank you very much. I don't have to pay subscription fees for my exercise and the world is my gym. Although I admit to buying foot moisturising cream. And I am so thankful that I still find enjoyment in seeing beauty, hearing music, tasting fish pie... even if my senses are dulled.