'Youth is not a time of life… it is a state of mind. It is
not a matter of ripe cheeks, red lips and supple knees… it is
temper of the will, a quality of the imagination, a vigour of the
emotions… it is a freshness of the deep springs of life.'
Unknown.
Oh really? I thought as I examined a hairy tongue and the glazed
eyes of a post-fortieth birthday morning. My cheeks far from being
ripe seemed unduly fevered and as for supple knees, mine creak.
Forty. Today I am forty. God's teeth! Who would ever have thought it.
Time for the bag over the head and the slow slide into decrepitude. I
don't want to sound too miserable about this age thing but I'm not
dealing with it very well. Call it vanity if you like, or lost pride,
or dented ego. Whatever. I like it not one whit.
Some people cheerily approach and chatter on about how life begins
at forty and inside I scowl and mutter that only people over forty
would ever utter such tosh. Of course life does not begin at forty.
At forty you are halfway towards the grave; some beginning. Life
changes at forty. I'll give you that and for me it feels pretty bleak
just now. What is it that they think is better after turning forty?
For the life of me I cannot say.
Arthritis. A belly heading inexorably towards your toes. Hairy
nostrils and tufty ears. Aching injuries and grey hairs. And I'm not
talking about a dashing salt and pepper sprinkle on the temples but
grey chest hairs; grey pubic hairs, for God's sake! How depressing.
So starting to look idiotic is better, is it?
What about the thinking parts? The insidious slide towards totally
reactionary thought without any apparent reason. Shouting at news
commentators and journalists' scribbles in outrage when for the past
four decades you never gave a damn. Whereas before your passion was
fuelled by the irrational and escapist stunts of youth now you care
less about that and mutter incomprehensibly at the television,
aroused and irate but too apathetic to do anything about it.
Why spend the first part of your life living on the edge of
everything, having those brilliant ideas that spring to mind soon
after eating the worm at the bottom of the Tequila bottle, rocking
the Kasbah and trying to sink the boat and then spend the second half
too terrified to change your toothpaste. Where did it all go? How
come I've suddenly got so many damned socks, and when one stout black
pair of grollies would last eight weeks in the Alps I now have a
drawer stuffed full of them and agonise over whether to iron them or
not - why?
It's the same with health. As a callow youth all my illnesses were
self-inflicted and worth it. Well, that's true to a degree I suppose.
I mean, a year and a half in plaster casts and on crutches, nine
operations, all those scars and stitches, pins, plates, wires and
nails - no they were not much fun or worth much at all. Nor
the morphine and the sweet stench of anaesthetic gas as I wheezed
into a conscious agony, or the sour smell of old plaster casts and
the wire taut pain of physiotherapy. But hell, think of the craic we
had, the tales to tell, laughing all the way to the operating table.
It was grand. Sure it was. And I miss it.
I miss the idiocy of it all. I miss not worrying about money, not
even caring about it further than the price of the next beer. I miss
the fact that everything seemed to work and yet today everything
seems to be falling off, or breaking down, or plain stopping. I dread
the day I can't drink five pints and not sleep through the night. How
long will it be before bladder control is just a distant fantasy? Why
don't I look forward to the same things? To dancing until dawn, to
swallowing anything I could get my heads on for no better reason than
I couldn't think of a reason not to. When doing things to excess was
more than enough for me. When I dreamed of sleeping with as many
girls as I could (preferably at the same time) but never did though
the thought was nice.
How did I ever think that getting out of my head and sledging off
a ski-jump could be anything other than fun? What is it about the
teenage mindset that differs so much from mine? I heard say that
drugs are just for teenagers because they are insane, paranoid and
unbearable at that point anyway so what the hell! At any other age
it's madness and a little sad. In more sober moments I would warn
myself never to grow old and live to regret not having at least tried
to do the things I wanted. Now I just regret being old.
I never used to think twice about climbing up into the third floor
bathroom window seven pints of Old Roger to the bad, or not that is,
until John fell legs astride a brick wall from forty feet, shattering
his pelvis in five places and acquiring bollocks the size of
grapefruits and a black pudding for a member. I'd climb tall
buildings with the glee of an anarchist and yet now I wouldn't dare
look down for fear of my teeth falling out.
We would gamble on anything. Play three card brag until dawn,
going to the edge of fiscal sanity, playing Blind and winning with
nothing and not a fear in the world, laughing fit to bust on the
adrenaline of it all. Now I'm scared of my shadow. I confront bold
challenges then turn and run howling, squirting urine in every
direction, like a kid from a haunted house. What is happening to me?
Now, too scared to lose, it would be whist or bridge and that's
shameless and too sad to think about. I swore blind that life ended
when you took up golf and now I'm a sad fanatic ruining a good walk
and tempted by appalling trousers and v-necked sleeveless
sweaters.
Then there are those friends with kids who sidle up to you and
murmur how having kids was the best thing they ever did and I go
misty-eyed and soppy and agonise about being single and childless and
think of a lonely, grumpy old age with no grandchildren to play with
and tell them stories of derring-do. That is until I awake with a
start and know I never wanted children because I can't stand the
little buggers - get thee behind me!
They say age brings wisdom, prudence and the comfort of experience
but I'd trade all that in (which I don't seem to be able to find
anyway) just to do something utterly daft without thinking, for the
chance to make mistakes and not give a damn. Good judgement comes
from experience and experience comes from bad judgement. What a
superbly dumb learning curve. What is the point of knowing everything
and being able to do nothing. And you can't because it's all so
damned hard all of a sudden and your courage has gone, and your legs
hurt, you're full of fears and your strength has wilted, and you
can't stop worrying about your goddamn mortgage.
I thought Jeremy Clarkson had it right when he wrote 'You go
through the first part of your life experiencing things for the first
time and knowing that, after forty years, you will have a big party
with all the friends you have made. Whereas in the second part of
your life, you fall over a lot, knowing that when it's all over there
will still be a big party. But you won't be at it - due to the
fact that you will be dead.'
I swallowed two paracetamols and a glass of Resolve and hobbled
down to the kitchen. As I waited for the kettle to boil I perused Mr.
Unknown's ditty with a jaundiced eye.
'Nobody grows old living a number of years, people grow old only
by deserting their ideals. Years wrinkle the skin, but to give up
enthusiasm wrinkles the soul. Worry, doubt, self-trust, fear and
despair… these are the long, long years that bow the head and
turn the growing spirit back to dust. Whether seventy or sixteen,
there is in every being's heart the love of wonder, the sweet
amazement of the stars and star-like things and thoughts, the
undaunted challenge of events, the unfailing child-like appetite for
what next, and the joy and game of life.'
A bit flowery but he had a point and then the phone rang and a
friend asked if I was going flying and I said no, I had work to do
and replaced the receiver. Then I looked at the blue sky, and the
cotton wool clouds marking the thermals and thought of wafting
through them, flying with the birds, rising effortless in an
updraught, heart jumping at the sudden partial collapse of the
canopy, and I looked at my laptop and thought 'sod it, I'll get old
some other day.' I grabbed my paraglider and headed for the door.
© Joe Simpson, Aug 2000
Joe Simpson is the mountaineer, corporate speaker, and author
of 'Touching the Void', (Jonathan Cape & Vintage), the
award-winning best seller about survival in the Andes which has
recently been optioned to a Hollywood studio as a star vehicle movie
for Tom Cruise. He has written four other mountaineering books and is
presently at work on his second novel, and his fifth work of
non-fiction.
Helen Hedley
