Being sick as a kid teaches you about afternoon TV game shows and soaps (for us Boomers), huge piles of Kleenex and how easy it is to coax up another round of vomiting if you've been doing it for three days straight. As for the Kleenex, my mother once came into the living room with an old towel and said, “You've blown through two boxes of Kleenex...they're pricey. Use this!” I was ok with it, a big giant SNOT towel. The terry clothe nap does a great job at absorbing it all.

The only weird memories I have being sick as a kid are the dreams I'd get, even more imaginative ones if I had a fever. 99% of them were forgotten as soon as I would awake but you knew how weird some of them were. The 1% never made any sense as they morphed from one subject to another in rapid succession. I'd wake up, think on it, forget it and go onto the next matinee that's going to play in my head. The only benefit of being sick as a kid is that no one expects anything from you except to stop pestering them for sympathy or requests. “You're sick not DYING!” my brother would say. That or “Ohhh...pooooor bebee” he'd torment me with.

As a teen it's still sort of the same but you are expected to nurse your own damn self. I had one sickness, now that I look back on it, that probably was pneumonia. I was coughing and sneezing pure wood glue traced with hot streaks of blood and felt like someone had beaten me with an ax handle. I gave my mother a bit of a shock once. I had got up from the couch to go the bathroom for something and I was wrapped up in a giant quilt because I was so cold. As I walked by her, she shot an amazed look at me. I didn't get it then but I came to realize my own Dad had worn the same quilt and walked by her, just as sick back in February '77. He ended up dropping dead at the kitchen table from bilateral pneumonia. Guess the deja vu for her was pretty intense.

A few days later, while rotting on the couch, my brother opined that perhaps, “I should take a shower or something” as all I did during the past few days was either space out on the couch or tried to remain unconscious in bed. I was too tired to eat, move or do anything else beside hack up that bloody wood glue.

“The last thing I want to do now is get WET” I told him. It was late November and this house was always drafty and though I could put the shower setting on “Boil,” getting out meant I'd evaporate in that chilly air and be even more miserable.

I wondered how I looked so I looked in the bathroom mirror. Ugh. Red crusty nose, lips with extra peeling skin, very greasy stringy hair...and I probably smelled like a dead goat but how could I tell? My nose was full of snot. I gave in and took the shower.

I froze like I knew I would later but did it only to shut the brother up.

I eventually got better though to my amazement I lost 6 pounds. The first day I walked to school I stepped outside into that freezing 6AM morning air and hacked my brains out. My lungs, being fairly cleared still weren't ready for that abrupt change in air. That was fun. The only thing facing me now was nearly a week's worth of school work I had missed.

Being sick as an adult? Oh great! Life's responsibilities don't take a break at all!

Matt, Rob, Mark and I ended up at Barn's apartment on Penn St by Atwells after class as we didn't want to drive home during a major snowstorm from RIC. To be honest, it was more of an excuse to get real drunk for free and crash at his place. We were already getting drunk in a classroom at RIC earlier in the afternoon. (We could get away with things like that then...we were SPECIAL!)

At Barn's place, I had noticed the back of my throat burning, then the sneezing came on and by the next morning, a full blown chest cold or flu. I'm not sure which one. Either way, I was a mess and felt miserable. It was time to head home so we got a ride from Barn and he dropped me off in front of Robert's Hall where my car was nicely plowed in. After a few minutes of digging I got it out and headed home, dreaming of a nice long nap to forget how shitty I felt.

So I get home and realize the driveway, sidewalks at my house are NOT shoveled. “FUCK!” I have to do this now while I'm sore and wretched. I get out of the car and start shoveling the Great Wall of China from the front of the driveway, all the time hacking and nearly losing my balance because I'm so out of it. I finally go into the house and there's Mom, with another list of things she needs done because she was snowed in and was too scared to drive at all. I say “Sure, in about 8 hours! After I sleep!” I thought digging the house out was enough for now and any additional requests can wait.

I peel off my wet, frozen jeans, the wet frozen boots and crawl into bed, lamenting ALL the crap I have to put up with AND being sick. Woe is me. Is there anyone I can sue in court was my attitude.

Yeah, right. Get used to it kid! As I got older, I replayed this show out countless times when sick. You drag yourself along till you can't and thee will be NO medals or parades for you either! Sick? Snotty? Coughing blood too? Fuck you! Get back into the trenches you!

Yesterday...

I haven't been sick in years, except for the occasional norovirus that's a gift to me because of the profession I'm in. But I must've caught something last week as it made it's appearance on Friday.

First was the copious snot I keep sneezing out. Well, that's odd. I haven't sneezed like that in years. Then the watery running snot that kept flowing. “Oh shit” I thought. “Don't go into my lungs! Don't go into my lungs!” I begged the virus. Too late, it had. Then came the ridiculous coughing that can made my face turn beet red and is kind of startling to anyone watching. Add to that, the old feeling of someone having beat me with an axe handle came back as well. Aaaa-CHOO! as I fire another rope of snot into those damned paper towels that rip up your nose if you use them 30 times in a row.

In my head I say: “Admit it kid...stop wishing it way, you ARE sick!”

As the day passed I kept getting queries from others, “Are you alright?” “No...but I will drag myself on” was my answer. Later on that night Red, comments: “I know you're HERE. You're doing the work...You've helped me too...but YOU have totally checked out! I can see it in your eyes!”

I tell here she's right. I HAVE checked out. When sick, disappearing from reality as much as I can is a coping tactic. Why be so Zen and “in the moment with the here and now” with the sickness? I'd rather be floating around Pluto and occasionally check in when need be. Which is what I did. Return to reality just enough times to keep things going safely is all that's needed.

Driving home and using the tried and true tactic for sickness I've always used, unconsciousness was my plan. I did a very good job at it too. I zonked out and stayed that way as long as I could.

I haven't been sick in a long while and I was kinda surprised at how it can beat the shit out of you. Then again, I was much younger then and being nearly 55 now, well...I guess things can wear on you a bit harder than usual? What I noticed was that although the body may be less adept at fighting it all, my mind isn't. It's plain pig headed, unreasonable stubbornness that keeps you going. It's what I've always done in my life to tell the truth when other more subtle tools won't work. If the scalpel wont' work, use the ball peen hammer!

I'm feeling a bit better today and by my side, is a nice snot TOWEL at the ready. Thanks Mom! Great idea if the Kleenex runs out!

60 Beats per Minute, 120/80...Sunday Morning, As It Shout Be

Click and Play the Mood Music Needed Here

You know them. You have too if you drive. Aggressive guys in over sized pickup trucks. A couple of months ago on an early Sunday morning, W. and I were heading to Mt Watatic on the Mass/NH border. Most of the ride consisted of riding up 146 and then 190 and it probably wasn't even 7 AM yet. 
 

There was no rush to get there as this was a for fun and entertainment. Just lay back and we'll get there soon enough. The mountain ain't going anywhere. It's Sunday morning and a normal person would have a casual attitude. Hence that song I posted up top. The song nails it right on the button.
 

But...

As we were going up 146, winding it's way through the woods, it was pretty empty that early. On occasion we'd see low clouds rolling up the hills as the sun was just starting to burn them off. Other drivers were few and far between. I was doing the speed limit because I know how bored small town cops are and they would like nothing better than to pull me over. Being a cop in Millbury can't provide much in the way of excitement. (Bet you don't know where Millbury is, neither did I till we drove through it). 
 

Well, for some reason a young guy in one of those pick up trucks that have grills that look like their purpose was the same as the “hedge hog” teeth on Sherman tanks in WW2, to bulldoze down anything it's path, gets up right on my ass. He's tailgating me within a couple of feet. This is odd as there is plenty of room on the entire highway to drive on. 
 

I'm looking in the rear view mirror and think, then comment to W., “God, here's another one.” Within 30 seconds he swings into the left lane, hammers down the accelerator and takes off down the highway pushing 90 with the engine of his truck so revved up I can hear it suck air into the intake. 
 

I start shouting through the windshield. “It's Sunday MORNING kid! RELAX!”

“W, I see these guys all the time. I don't think there's a moment when they're NOT waving their dicks around and especially when they're behind the wheel! Even on a Sunday morning!”

We get to Watatic mountain and enjoy the rest of the day.

**

Today's Sunday morning...

Winter's coming. I have been busy buttoning up the yard, house and whatnot so I don't have to do it when it's 30 degrees and snowing. So, at times, I have to make a run to Home Depot to be overcharged for things. Coming back, I have to drive over a bridge where below, the Amtrak Acella rides by. For you locals, you know this is Newport Ave by the Market Basket. You also know that anyone driving south from that stretch in Attleboro can usually hit that bridge still doing 50mph and then be completely surprised when they crest the hill, and see, the traffic and RED LIGHT on Cottage Street. 
 

But it's Sunday morning today and as I leave Home Depot, climb that hill and what do I see on the empty road behind me? Another Big Balls pick up truck that's all jacked up riding up onto my tail. Of course, he nearly skids to slow down but doesn't go into the other empty lane till we're nearly at the red light, which is turning yellow. He blows through it, with AUTHORITY! I then yell out the window, “Tough guy! I bet you got the BIGGEST DICK in RI...You faggot!”

He didn't hear me. How could he with that diesel engine roaring? The few people on the sidewalk by Honey Dew donuts did though. Whoops! Not what they were expecting to hear at 7 AM on a Sunday morn. Great, now I'M the one shattering the peace of a Sunday morning...

If you have a short, very tiny penis, you MUST get one of these.

I Ain't Dead Yet, Still Have It..Somewhat.

So why am I doing it? Hiking and climbing? I'm 54, 30lbs beyond my normal weight range, have less lung elasticity and “should know better by now” about dangerous pursuits.

Is it an older man's last, desperate clutch at his youth? You're GODDAMN right it is! I've long since reached the age where self deception falls away. I know myself. I know what I am, not who, but what. (Really, think of it in that term of “what” and you'll soon reach some startling conclusions about yourself). And I know full well I'm testing myself on these climbs to see what reserves I still may have and what has waned. And some things have waned. When pulling myself up a 50 degree slope by grabbing branches, I could feel that my upper body strength ain't was it once was. My cardio stamina? That too has waned. I found myself having to stop more often now vs. when I was young humping up these rocks. On the plus side, I found out my ankle's tendons are probably leather now from doing this all summer. I can walk on anything horribly uneven now.

I never believed that 50 was the new 40. Know what the new 50 is? It's 50, period. On these climbs, I came across many teens who are made of elastic, strong and bounce their way UP these slopes. For them, they have the physical wherewithal. At my 54, it has to be mental. I accomplish this with fuckin' sheer, hardheaded determination as my natural strength diminishes. It's what I have left and so far, it's enough.

For women who dread getting older, it's beauty. Tight skin, perky tits and that damnable, compelling magic to turn men's heads as they pass by. For guys it's power (financial, political, career or whatever), strength and vitality. You're not supposed to admit this but c'mon, look at Propecia hair restorer, the beauty industry for women, Viagra and much older people in Coral Gables wearing sports Lycra attire to shuffleboard. It's a giant elephant in the room and since I was a kid I often pointed them out to the dismay and consternation of other people. “Oh Jesus...he went there again!”

We love youth and what it means and hate the fact it fades.

So, I'll admit it. I'm still hanging onto what youth I still own. So-do-YOU! I know a guy in his late 40's who has gone back into the ring to box. Another tries to pardy hard at Gillette arena concerts and yet another who tries to stuff his overweight ass into a kayak and cascade down whitewater. And why mention all the 40+ girls in the gyms? That's a given. We Boomers won't just age gracefully!

Here's a bitching complaint about what Boomers have turned into.

"staring down the barrel of middle age burnout" Click it!

This isn't new. Ever since we hid in caves, afraid that an eclipse would eat and kill the sun forever, we glorified youth as beautiful. But we Boomers created a religion out of it. I'm one of them.

There now, we're past those awkward truths about hanging onto youth, we can move on now...

I first got the idea of climbing from an Eastwood movie called, “The Eiger Sanction.” It was panned by critics in every way but one, the cinematography of having to film a climb on the north face of the Eiger was astonishing to Hollywood's technical people. The Eiger was known to kill experienced climbers with ease. In fact, a climbing adviser for the film got his face flattened. A boulder had came loose, tumbled down the mountain, striking his face and sending him to Heaven rather quickly.

So, being 10 years old, the tree in the backyard was my Eiger and with nails, rope and a good deal of imagination, I started to climb up it. I was about 20 feet up, hanging there, suspended when the old rope broke and the next thing I knew I was rolling on the ground. But I was 10 and made of rubber so I just got up, got a new rope and tried again.

In high school, I had a geometry teacher who taught boring algebra with it's quadratic equations, graphs and such. She rarely strayed off that topic when one day she said, rather deadpan, that she spent her last summer climbing the Matterhorn. Since when do boring math teachers have interesting lives? This surprised my 15 year old worldview.

This perked me up and I asked a bunch of questions of her. How much to do it? She wouldn't say but I suspect she came from some money, from some where. How can you breath when the oxygen is 80% less that high up? Ever fall? Freeze toes off? Later on, we immature teen boys wondered if she gotten laid on the world's highest peaks too. A real, hard core Mile High Club.

So, a few years pass by when I notice an escarpment in Attleboro composed of that red slate rock you see all over that town. Hell, why not try? When your 20, you think death and accidents only happen to other people and up I went. It was perhaps just 30 feet up and there were plenty of hand and footholds to make use of, but to fall 30 feet onto jagged rock below, would've cut my scrambling career short.

I lived.

So as a few more years passed, I learned about the needed safety measures you have take. Busting a leg 6 miles into the woods w/o an Iridium phone, ain't too smart. I never invested too much money into this and did it only on nice spring, summer and fall days. It was a pass time if anything else but I learned a few things that have come back to me all these years later and why I did it. You learn a lot about yourself.

Maybe it's a guy thing? You prove to yourself you can “do it.” For some reason I'd put myself in situations where I had no one else to rely on but myself (Gee, that sounds familiar to me and others that know me) and see if I can pull it off. The navigation, the climbing, the stamina, the decisions you have to make. All go to improving that situational analysis. Be Aware! Wake Up!

**

I've done about, perhaps...14 places this summer so far. So what does the next season hold? I keep looking at Katahdin in Maine, the worst one around here for height, struggle and weather. To do it, you have to know yourself and what I've found out is to go damn slow. The problem occurs is that too slow won't get you off the mountain before sunset. So, camp in place, overnight with thunderstorms at 4,000 feet? I'll have to think on it some more. 

The People You Meet on the Trails

 

The Trail Runner: I never knew they existed till I hit the trails again. I suppose each sport has it's “extreme” variant and hiking/scrambling seems to have theirs. The guys/girls you see out there doing this have about 1% body fat. They are incredibly fit and all seem to be about 23 years old. They alone can wear the spandex tops and bottoms that accentuate everything that a great looking body should look like. They also tend to wear Oakely sunglasses whether it's sunny or not. Gotta need those accessories to finish the look! The first time I saw one was while we were going up Blue Hill outside of Boston and this guy comes thumping by us, at a decent clip, uphill! Some of those grades will make your calves burn but these types are too fit for that to happen anymore. Their bodies are trained! The second time was when we were going up Mt Watatic and I swore I heard a deer bouncing by me and I caught a glimpse of a shadow. No, it was a runner bounding down the slope past us fairly quick, leaping past rock, roots and streams.

The next time the summer Olympics are on, look at the sprinters. These trail runners have that kind of body. Am I jealous? Sure. I want six pack abs and the ability to wear spandex in the forest or a busy street without looking like a pile of PlayDoh stuffed in a plastic lunch zip lock baggie.

The Normal, Traditional, Not Dysfunctional and Wholesome Family: It's a family outing and they're all there, Mom, Dad and with the gaggle of kids swarming in and out. Mom is usually leading the way up the trail. None of them have any of the equipment and are dressed like they're going to Olive Garden after the hike. The funny thing I saw was that, at times, I'd see the Dad with a backpack baby carrier. The baby seemed totally disinterested in the whole thing. The Dads did too come to think of it from judging the look on their faces. This Sunday hike was the wife's idea. “Great idea honey, let's do this instead of lying on the couch watching women's gymnastics on TV and drinking beer.” What bothered me about it was that on one trip, I saw a couple of family groups out there with all the mosquitoes, disease bearing ticks and rocky trails where you can bust a kneecap or break an arm depending on which way you fell. No matter, just because you're 15 miles from the nearest outhouse/road/cell phone tower shouldn't worry you at all.

The Former Cheerleaders Who Stay Desperately Thin: You've seen them in the mall, soccer fields, schools and you can see them on the trails. They're usually older women, 40+ who still have nearly the same figure as they did when they were in high school. They are wearing the sports Spandex, if they can get away with it. They travel still in that teen girl pack mode, three abreast if the trail is wide enough. Some have great unlined faces due to Botox or surgery, but time still etches itself on those faces in one way or another. Each has their cell phone out till the signal dies. They absolutely HATE the Trail Runner Girl who may bound by them. The Trail Runner Girl is about 23 and in fantastic shape with the assured hope of at least seven more years of looking young and great. One bolted by one Cheerleader group I saw and after the pretty one was out of earshot, the old cheerleaders started to complain about the way she dressed. No ladies, admit it, you're jealous YOU can't look like and get away with it anymore.

Hyperactive Teens: You hear them about 50 yards behind you on the trail but can't see them. Just wait. They'll catch up to you! They come by, usually 4-6 in a pack and they too aren't well equipped either. They look like they'll be hitting Misquamicut beach after. With all that energy and great, young cardio, they charge right past you with a quick, “Hi!”. The boisterousness of their talk will fade as they easily disappear into the woods ahead of you. However, give it time, you'll catch up with them. Since they charge onto these trails with all the gusto of hoping to hit the summit in 20 minutes, they blow all their stamina fairly quick. I, tortoise-like, will come upon them later on, sitting on rocks, with “this was harder than we thought” faces on them. They all tend to quiet down the higher they go too. The reality of clambering over rock is a wake up call. This is WORK. They also bitch about losing their cell phone signal. The teen girls complain their neat sports clothing is getting dirty.

The Geologist/Biologist/Botanist...Hobbyist: I came across a few of these guys. One was collecting rocks and showing me the various crystalline structure of them (like I cared) and another was plucking leaves off some plant and putting them into little zip lock bags. Both times I had asked if they were working for URI or some other scientific organization and they said “No,” they just enjoy doing this. They're not hiking at all, they're just exploring. The only two others I knew who did this was from long ago, Ted Duluk and Duncan Grey, both PhD's in Biology and who did go prancing into the woods looking for weird creatures and plants. The two had a weird sense of humor and by weird, I mean they took a Kermit the Frog doll into the woods and placed him in various horrible accidents that befell him. Kermit under a boulder. Kermit drowned in a stream. Kermit falling down an escarpment with his arms and legs all broken and twisted around his body. Kermit wasn't wearing his day-glo orange vest and got shot by a hunter. How do I know this? The two would take pictures of various creatures, plants and Kermit, transferred them to slides to show us in Biology class from an overhead projector. “Here's Polypodiopsida, a common fern.” *Click* “And there's Kermit sinking in the mud! Haw, haw, haw!”

I shit you not. They did this.

Anyways, back to my story.

The HardCore Environmentalist

I saw these guys on top of Watatic and Wachusett. They tend to climb in groups and all wear clothing purchased from LL Bean's catalog. They look the part I swear. They know every plant, rock, animal and geologic history of any spot you encounter them at. On Wachusett, a group of them were hawk watching. I never knew hawks migrated south for the winter and each time they saw one, they entered it into some data book. The funny thing about it is what follows.

These guys all had spotting scopes which go for several hundred dollars to thousands. They humped this equipment up the mountain and set it up. As W. and I sat on a bench below a fire tower, one of the guys yells out, “Peregrine! Peregrine falcon! 11 O'clock HIGH!” With that alarm, seven spotting scopes swung to that position and all started jabbering away about the bird.

I turn to W. and say, “Hey, that sounds like those old World War II bomber movies, like Memphis Belle, where the gunners yell out, “Bandit! Bandit at 11 O'clock high!” Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat! And the Messerschmidt goes down in flames. I had said it a bit loud when the leader pulls his head off his scope to shoot me a dirty look.

Gee, sorry!

The Granola Guy/Earth Mother: These are usually older people, my age and up who look like 60's hippies. When you come upon them on the trail they're usually alone, are kind but say little. I think they're kinda perturbed that their peace was disturbed by another human, me. I have to admit though they are very knowledgeable of the trails, forest and such, but I think that comes from their environmental bent that they have. They “hike and climb” but not for the usual reasons. They do it because if you're in the woods, you have too, and they like being alone. They would be the type that would be the “thru hikers” you'd meet on the Appalachian Trail, all in tune with nature and all that good shit, as long as they are ALONE. Eventually they put off a vibe to me that says, “Ok, I've acknowledged you, I've talked to you, now leave me by myself with the trees!”

Guys Like Me: We're older, heavier and either alone or in a small group. We tend to have the equipment and a more serious look on our faces vs. the younger ones. We're huffing and puffing and forever looking to where the trail leads to next, because the idea of staying overnight with the bugs is not fun if you get lost. We fall into two mindsets, or a blend of the two. We're trying to hang onto what's left of our youth or prove we “still got it” and/or we're doing what that Dr has told us: Exercise or be dead in 10 years from heart disease. One guy, about 60, tells me with some pride that he climbed Mt Washington and it took him “only 14 hours.” He hung that out in the air once he found out I was “just 54.” Ok, you win. You climbed Mt Washington and I haven't. Guys are guys, we're always competing about something or other.

We're dressed like rag bags. There's no stylish spandex or really rad and cool colors. Why do that? We're in the woods and our shitty clothing is perfect for this! We're dirty, sweaty and our hair looks like we never knew what a comb was. We're older men, we don't care anymore! Once we reach the summit, we're found sitting on a rock, just looking around. The younger ones run to and fro, with their phones out, taking pics of everything. They're off the summit in less than 20 minutes. Wow! All that work to leave as soon as you get there.

Mr. Forest Ranger.

Dressed like Smokey the Bear, crisp and clean uniforms to boot. They're Forest Cops whose job it is to keep the likes of me and you from killing yourself out there. They're also loaded, like the environmentalists, with every scrap of information you wanted to know about the mountain. I tend to look upon them a bit warily because they are COPS. They'll tend to look you up and down to see if you're poaching, stealing precious rocks or stinking of weed. They're a step below Game Wardens and I've run into a few of those in the middle of no where when I was in my 20's. They assume you have to be doing something illegal if you're out here. Lucky for me, they profile me as the silly old guy who might bust his leg proving he can still do what he did in his 20's and not a drug mule.