COMMENTARY: Master Plan Foiled By New Wrinkle

This is going to come as a shock to anyone even remotely familiar with his history, but Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones is almost 70 years old.

Funny, he doesn’t look a day over dead for three weeks.

Jim Fixx, the man who virtually invented the running craze, dropped over with a heart attack and Richards, who put the “excess” in “wretched excess,” soldiers on. Odds are Richards’ household staff draws straws every day to determine who has to hold the mirror up to his face to see if he’s finally cashed in his chips or is just sleeping in that day.

Actually, not only has Richards escaped what seemed an almost certain early end by at least, oh, 40-plus years, but at an age when whatever old rockers remain are usually holed up in the south of France, trying to remember any of the lyrics to their songs (or the names of their children. Or, frankly, their own names), he and the rest of the Stones are planning a summer tour.

It seems tight leather pants serve the same function as support hose.

In other news, Robert Redford is 76. Apparently he observes being within a stone’s throw of 80 by taking his grandchildren snow skiing for three days, starring in and directing a movie and running the Sundance Film Festival.

One of the most successful action film heroes of a past few years is 61-year-old Liam Neeson. When Tom Cruise, who is 50, takes off his shirt, women swoon. I’m not sure what swooning sounds like, exactly, but I’m 53 and I’m pretty sure it’s not the noise I heard when I take off mine.

If 40 is the new 30, apparently any age past 60 is the new Rejoin A Rock-and-Roll Band, Direct a Movie or Punch An Albanian Mobster in the Mouth. Which would be fine. Except it’s annoying the heck out of me.

You see, I had this plan, first explained to me by my father. When I asked him how he was winning so many trophies and medals at his running events, he shared that if you keep at it long enough, your age group gets so small you can’t help but win something. The secret, he said, was to outlive the competition.

And so was born my dastardly plot. Why work hard to exceed the bar of expectation when you can just wait for it to sink back to you in the sands of time?

I’d have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for those meddling 70-yearolds.

Apparently, unencumbered by things like Monday morning staff meetings, kids or any particular sense of the alleged ravages of time, men of a certain age are deciding not to act it.

Looks like, once again, I’m getting it wrong. I thought it was “refuse to grow up,” when apparently it’s “refuse to grow old.”

And it’s not just movie stars and dissolute rockers who appear to have decided to pass on aging.

That iconic picture of the fallen runner on Boylston Street? That’s 78-yearold Bill Iffrig, who, after being knocked over by the force of the terrorist bomb blasts, got up and finished what was his third Boston Marathon. I complain about having to drive my car 26.2 miles, and Iff rig has run it enough times to get Frequent Flyer points.

Locally, 65-year-old Doug Nelson of Bella Vista just finishing walking the Appalachian Trail. And I read a note about 101-yearold Charlie Reutzel of Fort Smith, who works out three times a week at a fitness center. Apparently, a beach body just doesn’t get any easier to maintain.

Go for the burn, Charlie.

Go for the burn.

All of which leads me to say, “congratulations, and, hey, you all want to give me a break here?” It’s OK during a 5K when some 20-something passes you and you get to mutter “see you after a couple of kids and a mortgage there, whippersnapper.” It’s quite another when you can ask the guy who passed you, “so, that knee- and hip-replacement, was that some sort of combo deal?”

I was anticipating being complemented on looking good for my age. Now, I’m going to start getting asked why I can’t play “Honky Tonk Women” on a guitar or when I’m going to take up whitewater kayaking.

So, Keith and Robert and Liam and Tom and Doug and Charlie and all those other guys who have decided that age is just a number they can’t read very well without the bifocals or while going full speed on a Black Diamond ski run or downhill on a mountain bike, we appreciate you showing us what’s still possible. And that it’s all still possible.

And thanks for spoiling my plan.

GARY SMITH IS A RECOVERING JOURNALIST LIVING IN ROGERS.

Opinion, Pages 5 on 06/20/2013

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