A Year of 50 #1: We're Gonna Need a Bigger Boat...

Yesterday was my 50th birthday.  I started getting freaked out about turning 50 back in December, even before Christmas.  Suddenly shit just got real.  Real like the look on Roy Scheider's face the first time he sees Bruce the shark.  I remember my contemporaries being upset when 40 reared it's dreaded head.  For me 40 was a piece of cake.  I didn't understand what all the fuss was about.  In December I did, in a big way.

Photo courtesy of Universal Pictures

The people close to me saw it.  I was remote and freaked out.  I asked for advice from friends, from my contemporaries that had recently crossed the void between 49 and 50, I asked my older friends.  I asked the internet, but it just told me to look at porn.  All of them blew past 50 with nary a second glance.  I actually wanted to punch everyone who said to me, "50 is the new 30."  No, "50 is the new 30 but I've fucked off for 20 years and been busted by the AARP."

I didn't like the way I was feeling.  I wanted to banish the sense of dread that was hanging over me.  I resolved to put all my determination into making my 50th year an epic year.  And that's why you're reading this.  Back when I was getting divorced, to make sense of the massive shitstorm my life was becoming, I turned to photography.  I participated in the 365 Days Project.  This was back before selfies were a thing but I made an effort to take a self portrait a day for year.  I also began writing more and more to try and bleed the sadness out of me.  Like lancing a boil. To cut to the chase, after a fashion, it worked.  So, I came to the decision to resurrect my old blog as a means of putting my money where my mouth is and document the epic-ness as it ensues.

For these first few entries I'm technically cheating and starting before I actually turned 50.  I guess in White House terms this will be the alternative-timeline of my 50th year.

December 31st, 2016:

 
One of the things that I realized what that my internal turmoil about turning 50 had made me hyper-aware of the "failings" of my body.  I was feeling aches and pains, the stuff that makes you feel old.  Plus I had noticed numbers on the scale that were creeping into the troubling zone.  Two years ago before I went on a surfing trip to Morocco I had resolved to be in better shape.  I lost 27lbs before surfing North Africa.  I felt great.  Not only physically from the lost bulk, but emotionally as well.  I was proud that I'd accomplished something that had been eluding me for years.  In the intervening two years a fair amount of the weight has crept back on. 

Goal #1 - Return to my Morocco weight or below.  I'm a pretty active guy.  Surfing, volleyball and martial arts keep me active 6 days a week.  December, however, had thrown me off.  Holiday scheduling kept me mostly off the volleyball court and a rainy December had kept me from surfing.  I had to do something.  So on a cloudy and cold New Year's Eve morning I took it upon myself to take a run down at La Jolla Shores.  Running always seems like a great idea until I actually run.  I hate the plodding, heavy, graceless feel of my body when I run.  I have some ankle and knee issues.  The first quarter mile has me contemplating joint replacement.  I mean, it worked out pretty good for Steve Austin.  But as I relax and try to become more smooth in my gait the inner chatter damps down and get to the business of just getting this shit over with.
 
I'm running barefoot on the beach and the sand is satisfyingly cold and wet.  The ocean and the sky are a palette of muted grays.  The tide is up and for a few hundred feet my running companions are a flock of sandpipers who eventually get annoyed with me and take wing.  Somewhere the gulls are crying out like they're beating up a little kid and stealing his bag of chips.

I get to the pier and turn around.  On the way back I see a seal pop his head out of the surf, maybe only 10 feet off shore.  He watches me lumber by with a a surprised, "you don't see that every day," kind of expression.  Stupid seal.  If I were a seal, body fat would be an advantage.  I could endure the cold ocean and hot female seals would think I'm sexy.

Eventually I make it back to the parking lot and see three Asian kids with a 35mm DSLR posing Stormtrooper actions figures in the sand and taking photos.  Probably making wildly creative dioramas.  I feel like they should run more.  In the end I make another trip to the pier and back, this time walking.  All in all, two miles.  I call it good and hope for sunny weather to surf in so I never have to run again.  

Certainly not my proudest moment and, to some, barely qualifying as a run.  But I'm proud that I got out there and did it.  Baby steps toward not needing a bigger boat...