F-ck Fifty-one

This morning, to celebrate my birthday and the fact that I’m probably in the best shape of my life since I was 17, I went cross-country skiing alone at a local state park (James Baird). Anyone who knows me or has followed my blog for a while knows there’s nothing unusual about this. Indeed, it’s axiomatic: If there’s snow on the ground within 100 miles of where Chris Orcutt lives, chances are he’s out there cross-country skiing on it.

Anyway, while I was skiing this morning, climbing up and gliding down the rolling park hills, skiing off-trail far away from the machine-made path, my 76-year-old father, Al, happened to show up at the park as well.

Al’s been skiing for 25 or 30 years and was out there this morning for an hour of exercise. I spotted him a quarter-mile away or so. He was heading for a fork in the trail, so I picked up the pace to cut him off. Suddenly I saw him stop in the distance and had no idea why. He was watching me. I raced the rest of the distance, running up the snow-covered hills with a brisk herringbone step, and zipping down the other side. When I caught up to him he gave a start.

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“What’s wrong, Dad?” I asked.

“Oh, Chris,” he said in his inimitable Downeast Maine accent, “that’s you! I didn’t even recognize you! I thought you were a professional Nordic skier out there, like some of the guys I’ve seen up at Lake Placid.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “That might be the nicest compliment you’ve ever given me.” (Although he’s been equally complimentary of my novels as well.)

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re doing everything right out there, and so smoothly—gliding along like you were born on these things.” He picked up one foot with the ski attached.

We skied for an hour together, as we have just about every day this season while there’s been snow on the ground, and then we went our separate ways. We’ll probably meet up again tomorrow.

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Here’s the thing: I’ve been cross-country skiing for about 22 years. This year, however, everything has clicked and I’ve gone to a new level in my skills. After hundreds and hundreds (probably thousands of hours) over the past 22 years, all of the elements have come together: the practice on the trail (including skiing through blizzards); studying books on the subject and watching videos on it; my year-round strength training; the yoga and TB12 flexibility/pliability work I’ve been doing for the past 5 years or so; my sobriety; my mental maturity and fortitude; and the self-direction and self-discipline I’ve developed from 30 years as a professional writer—all of these disparate elements have coalesced to take my cross-country ski skills to a new level.

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As I was driving home from the park, my arms and legs burning from having just skied 7 or 8 miles in two hours in 20-degree weather, I reflected on the fact that shortly after midnight today I turned 51 years old. I glanced at myself in the rear-view mirror—my ruddy cheeks, the sweat running down my head—and said out loud, “You know what, Chris? Fuck fifty-one.”

Whereas some people might reach this age and feel that it’s all downhill from here, I don’t feel that way at all. In fact, I have a sense that my 50s and 60s are going to be the greatest decades of my life—a magical time when my knowledge, wisdom, experience, confidence, mental acuity, work ethic, self-discipline, self-direction and excellent physical condition are all going to come together: that magical point on the graph where the lines measuring the progress of these various data points all intersect.

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About three years ago, I took my best friend, Jason Scott, golfing with me. Jason isn’t a golfer and was never an athlete, but as a master in his own right (in the realms of computers, filmmaking, the internet, and now even podcasts, the bastard) he appreciates any endeavor done well. I should mention that, in addition to playing golf and writing my behemoth epic novel that summer, I was working out for two hours a day and swimming a mile three times a week.

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At the 5^th hole of the course we were on, I stepped up to the tee and drilled—I mean fuck-ing drilled—an arrow-straight 270-yard drive that sailed over the cart path, bounced twice and landed on the green. I said to Jason, “I’m sorry, Jay, but I have to brag for a moment. I don’t think you don’t realize this, because you’ve never been a golfer or an athlete, but what I just did was a professional-caliber golf shot. I’m talking Tiger Woods or Jack Nicklaus-level. That was the best shot I’ve ever made.”

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He was happy for me and said it was really something to see, but then he added, “It’s good that you’re out here now doing this stuff because we’re both going to be old men soon.”

“What?!” I stopped the cart and adjusted my sunglasses for dramatic effect.

(I should note here that my friend and I have known each other for 40 years and have always admired and respected each other, so I knew I could talk to him as I did, and I also knew that he would know I was just being Chris Orcutt emphatic.)

I said, “Speak for yourself, dude. I’m never getting old. I’m never letting an old person in. That shit with doctors’ offices and medication and retirement and aches and pains and stiffness and complaining. Fuck that shit. That’s never going to be me. NEVER. When that Old Man starts a-knockin’, I’m gonna open the door and kick him in the balls.”

This made my friend laugh, relieved the tension of the moment, and we enjoyed the rest of the day.

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Today, during my ride home after skiing, I thought about some recent profiles Jason did of me on his podcast, and an interview I gave last week to WorldClassPerformer.com. The website interview was a total surprise to me because I’d never heard of the website, and I didn’t solicit the attention in any way. I still have no idea how they’d heard of me.

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Anyway, I thought about this recent, unsolicited publicity, and how all the cylinders are firing perfectly in my life right now: my writing, my mental acuity, my physical fitness, my nutrition (well…after the chocolate cake-cups Alexas made me today, this area isn’t perfect anymore) and my sobriety. And I had what was perhaps a post-exercise endorphin high-induced moment of clarity with a sudden insight. (The Japanese call this state satori.)

In that brief, brief moment, the clouds parted in my mind and I caught a clear glimpse of my future. I realized that I was never meant to be a wunderkind, an enfant terrible, a child prodigy; rather, I am the quintessential (and much rarer) late bloomer, and my best years are truly ahead of me.

Fuck fifty-one. It’s nothing but a number. And when that old man comes a-knockin’, I’m still going to kick him in the balls.

Hard.