A long way from a La-Z-Boy
When my father was in his mid-50s, Saturdays were spent in a La-Z-Boy listening to Percy Faith. To be fair, he’d had back trouble since falling as a boy, but few — if any — of his peers did anything more strenuous than golf or doubles tennis.
Fast forward 40 years. I’m in a pace line at 27 mph with guys in their 50s (and a grandmother), three guys over 60 and some 30-somethings.
Chris, 30, jumps to sprint; I try to catch his wheel. Heartrate spikes to 169; power hits 1,100 watts (OK, very briefly). And he gets away. From a guy old enough to be his father.
So what changed in 40 years? Expectations? Inhibitions? (Just picture a 1970s dad in Spandex. I’m sure they existed but not in my neighborhood.) Maybe it’s just an ever-tightening grip on youth and the fear of what happens if you let go and land in a La-Z-Boy.