My Dad used to say, “You can’t scare a man who ain’t afraid to die.” I don’t think I’m afraid of dying, but I must admit that I am afraid of getting old. Aging is an easy process. No matter what you do the clock keeps on ticking and with each passing second, we age.  But aging without getting old is difficult. I don’t mind aging, but getting old scares me to death.

Every time I look in the mirror I see more wrinkles, more pronounced lines, and more gray hair. In fact when the stylist finished cutting my hair the other day she asked if I wanted hair gel in my hair. When I replied that I did, she looked around for a minute and said, “Let me get the gel that looks better in gray hair.” I guess that means I’m aging, or at least my hair is turning gray. I’m not ready to get old, but that doesn’t stop my biological clock from ticking away.

The problem with aging is that the person inside my body doesn’t know it. I still feel like I’m in my twenties or thirties (at least in my mind). I still think I can haul hay all day long, play tackle football, take a tumble from a horse, and any other laborious, or possibly injurious, activity. The truth is that I can still do all of those things, but the recovery time is about ten times longer than when I was younger. In my mind I don’t feel any different. My skills are essentially the same. My physical abilities are still pretty good. My desire to take on a bit of adventure is still strong. The difference is that my body isn’t capable of recovering from the aches, pains, or injuries of strenuous and taxing experiences. It takes me weeks instead of days for my body to put itself back into working order, and that is only if I take copious amounts of ibuprofen. My mind is still young and doesn’t want to accept the fact that my body is aging.

As I come to grip with my own gerontological journey, I realize that I am becoming the “crazy old man” I used to make fun of as a teenager. You all know some version of the crazy old man I’m talking about. The one who wears socks with sandals, Bermuda shorts, and a funny fishing hat as he sits in the local diner all morning ranting about the government and the sad state of society. (By the way, the root word for gerontology comes from the Greek word geront which means “old man” lol.) I find myself wanting to wear only long pants with an elastic waistband to hide my aging legs and cover my increasing paunch. I catch myself talking about the way things were when I was growing up. I hear myself say things like, “Kids these days…” about some random twenty-something punk with his hat on sideways. Yep. I am becoming that crazy old coot that teenagers laugh about, and ignore. Some days I fight the urge to become the crazy old man, and some days I embrace that persona.

Old people aren’t any smarter than young people, but they do have more experience. That experience speaks to them and guides them. Young people have no seasoned guide, no intuition, to carry them through difficult choices. They have no tingle in the hairs on the back of their necks warning them of danger. Their brains haven’t developed the ability to process large amounts of input in short order and produce a conclusion that manifests itself in the form of a hunch. Old people aren’t smarter, but they do have the advantage of experience, and that experience is worth all the exuberance of youth when it comes to making quick decisions.

Of course there are some other advantages to aging. Discounts. I often get asked if I want the senior discount and save lots of money on purchases. Time. I don’t waste time on things I know don’t work. I have made most of the big mistakes in life and I don’t waste any time on making them again. Emotion. I expend less emotional energy on things that don’t matter. I don’t get as angry as I used to. I don’t get as worried as I used to. I don’t get as stressed as I used to. I figure if the whole world goes to pot, I don’t have that long to live anyway and it doesn’t matter. Lust. The drums of lust don’t beat as loud as they used to, and I’m okay with that. I’m happy with who I am and what I’ve got. Spirituality. I don’t know if I feel more connected to God because I am closer to seeing Him again, or because I have seen a lifetime of His hand in my life, but the things of the unseen spiritual world have more impact on me now. Aging does have a few perks.

If I want to age without getting old, I must refuse to accept some of the negative things that come with getting old. I refuse to stop learning. I refuse to stop trying new things, as long as I can avoid injury. I refuse to become pessimistic about the future. I refuse to waste the time I have left on trivial things. I refuse to carry grudges or seek revenge. I refuse to spend all my time looking back at the past. I refuse to spend all of my time chasing a dollar bill. I refuse to look in the mirror and only see someone who is getting old. I will continue to live as long as I have breath, and I will fill each day with twenty-four hours of living (as long as I get to take a nap from time to time).

When we look back in history at the beginning of the downfall of the United States of America, we will see that it all began with the writers’ strike in Hollywood.

Go ahead and scoff at that statement, but hear me out.

After the writer’s strike of 1988, TV producers began looking at alternatives for producing programing if and when the next strike came along. That alternative came in the form of Survivor and reality TV was born. Now all producers had to do was pull together a group of narcissistic fame seekers and put them on an island, in a house, or in a dating competition, add some contrived drama and BAM! —the viewing public lined up in droves to watch. Who needed a plot when you could watch someone get naked on an island and try to spear fish, or each other? Who needed to cast strong noble characters when you could ask for volunteers to compete in a singing competition and thousands lined up outside coliseums? Who needed a romantic setting when you could fly wooing couples around the world to exotic locations? Why pay for writers to actually write drama when you can put a bunch of housewives together and let the drama unfold? Writers became obsolete.

In 2001 when the next writers’ strike loomed, the Writers Guild had less leverage than in 1988. And the strike of 2007 pushed reality TV to the top of the charts. Our society ate it up. We longed to see the likes of Snooki or the Bachelor. We yearned to enter the world of ice-road truckers, crab fishermen, or doomsday preppers. Now TV is filled with self-absorbed characters looking to extend their fifteen minutes of fame and cash in through some flamboyant act of self-indulgence that attracts the public attention like a two-headed calf, or the Kardashians.

Reality TV was the beginning of the end of the world.

Since writers could not make a living producing actual stories with plot and characters, they began working in reality TV. Producers, directors, and writers all worked together to make “reality” TV more emotional, drama-laden, and bizarre. They encouraged conflict since they didn’t have a plot to thicken. They encouraged brash behavior since they had no characters to develop. They manipulated the dialogue since they weren’t required to produce any. In other words, reality TV isn’t real, but it appears to be, and that has the viewing public conditioned to believe anything they see on TV. The lines between fact and fiction became so blurred that we actually thought two people could fall in love while millions watched.

Fast forward to the election cycle of 2016. What did we get? We got possibly the two worst candidates in US history. Why? Because the public longed for more reality TV and these two candidates provided more material than anything the viewing public had seen to date: clandestine (and illegal) email servers, claims of sexual misconduct, violence at rallies (intentionally promoted and fostered by the way), shouting matches, secret meetings on airplanes, third-grade name calling, secret deaths, political spies, moles, and hidden tax returns. As the campaign unfolded candidates stood on the moral high ground the size of an anthill and hurled disparaging tweets at each other. The viewing public stood on that same moral high ground and snapchatted about the need for a third candidate. It was a reality TV bonanza! Unfortunately, the results of this season’s voting has more serious consequences than a record deal.

Reality TV conditioned us to accept whatever we saw on TV as reality. We no longer have the ability to discern between fact and fiction. We no longer look for a moral deeper than who gets the most votes. We lost our ability to guess the culprit in a mystery, or unravel a tightly woven plot. We have been reduced to spoon-fed entertainment and spoon-fed information. We are no longer capable of eating the solid foods of individual thought or critical thinking. We just want to know what the Kardashians are wearing.

Yes, reality TV made us easy to manipulate and control. When the 2016 election cycle began, we got front-row seats to the biggest reality TV show of them all—the biggest losers—and we voted for them.

I watched the dawn burst across the dark morning sky from the seat of my motorcycle and wondered how the day would go. Would I enjoy the trip? Would the weather be good? Would I finish it without any mechanical problems and without accident? Would we make it to Zion? Would I make it to see my new grandson?

Zion is an interesting word full of symbolism. Originally it was a mountain outside of Jerusalem, but over the years the word has taken on the meaning of a utopian society where everyone lives in peace and cares for each other both spiritually and temporally. Several religious groups seek to establish “Zion” where their followers can be free from the toil and trouble of the world. My goal for the day was not so lofty. I simply wanted to ride trouble free from Gilbert, AZ, to Zion National Park in Southern Utah, and then on to Provo, Utah, the next day.

I met up with Tom and Tim, two of my riding buddies, and we headed northbound watching the sun come up over the mountains. As we climbed in elevation, I listened to the playlist of 80’s music my daughter helped me put together the night before. Back in the day when I was listening to those songs, the world was full of gloom and doom—the Cold War, hostages in Iran, nuclear winter, etc. I never expected my life to turn out as good as it has. Lately, however, I feel like the best days are behind me. It’s a nagging feeling that lurks in the back of my head like some dirty thought I have disciplined into the recesses of my mind in an attempt to remain virtuous and can’t seem to shake. Tomorrow doesn’t hold the promise that it used to, but today I am on my motorcycle climbing a winding mountain road watching the sunrise with friends. I have been blessed.

My grandson is inheriting a less than perfect world. Zion is still just some ethereal place longed for by the faithful. The world is still full of conflict, trouble, and despair. I hope he gets to experience some of the great things I have experienced and that his life will be better than mine. I hope the world he inherits from my generation is a better place than the world I inherited, but when I watch the news I can tell that our world is still a long way from Zion. Maybe Zion will be possible in his lifetime.

Riding motorcycles is risky, but that’s part of the enjoyment. Having a baby is also risky. Women shake hands with the Grim Reaper to bring a child into this world. Sometimes the Grim Reaper wants more than a handshake, and women have to slap him across the face. Only a mother can understand what if feels like to stare death in the face in order to produce life. Only a mother understands the physical cost of delivering a child. Thankfully, we all benefit from a mother’s risky endeavor and enjoy the fruits of her labor. Each child renews our hope that tomorrow will be better than today.

We traversed mountains, crossed the painted desert, and endured an afternoon thundershower, but we arrived at Zion National Park without accident or incident. The towering canyons of painted rocks against a blue sky reminded me of majestic temples. Man may build tall towers and broad domes, but God’s works of architecture are unrivaled.

After a long day of riding we enjoyed dinner (topped off with pie) and headed to bed. My riding buddies were traveling in different directions the next day. I would be traveling solo to meet my grandson.

A thunderclap woke me up at 0454. I could hear the rain pelting the windows and checked the radar. The only storm in Utah was right over my head. Fortunately, I had recently purchased some good rain gear, and now my ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure. By 0600 the worst of the rain had passed and I climbed on my bike in the dark. Tom waved at me from his hotel window as I pulled out of the parking lot and rode off into the storm. I had an appointment to meet my first grandson, and was determined not to let a little rain stop me. However, I must admit that I took things a bit slower than usual, especially when I passed flashing signs warning of deer. Would I make it without incident or accident? Would meeting my first grandson be all that I hoped it would be?

As I rode, I wondered how I was supposed to feel about being a grandfather. Everyone tells me that being a grandparent is the best thing ever. My friends say it’s much better than being a parent, or that grandkids are the payback for all the struggles as a parent. I knew my wife was giddy, but I wasn’t sure how I felt.

I can honestly say that being a father is the best thing I have ever done. It has brought me more joy and happiness than I ever expected. It has stretched me in ways I never knew possible. As a father, my emotions have ranged between the extremes—worry, fear, elation, joy, impatience, frustration, anger, and yes, happiness beyond compare. I was afraid that being a grandfather might somehow diminish the greatest experience of my entire life. I didn’t want to adopt some cynical attitude about my struggles as a father because being a grandfather was so much better. I wanted it to add to my joy, not diminish the struggle, or joy, of fatherhood.

The rain subsided and the sky burned with streaks of red, yellow, and orange as the sun came up. I wasted no time and only stopped when I needed gas or a bathroom break (which is more often than I like as I get older). Somewhere overhead my wife was flying to Salt Lake City, and I needed to arrive around the same time she did. Fortunately, I didn’t hit any of the deer the flashing signs warned me about.

I arrived ahead of schedule and traded the thrill of the motorcycle for the safety of a rental car. When we pulled up to my son’s small basement apartment, my wife was so excited that she jumped out of the car before it stopped rolling. I took a deep breath and tried not to let my emotions get away from me. I was holding it all in. How would I feel when I held my grandson? Would it be everything my friends told me it would be? Would I take one look at that beautiful baby and suddenly have disdain for my parental journey thus far? Would I mock the years of struggle, the frustrating nights, and the moments of sheer joy that fatherhood had brought me?

I entered the apartment and found my grandson doing what newborn babies do—crying, eating, sleeping, and filling diapers. I washed my hands and waited my turn to hold him. When my daughter-in-law put him in my arms, all my fears melted away. I found myself transported back to my early years as a father pacing the floor with a crying baby and worrying how I was going to provide for all his or her needs, but when I looked up at my grown son and his wife, the sting of worry melted away.

I suddenly got it. Being a grandparent is awesome because your children have taken over the burden of the parental struggle. Grandparents are there to love, support, and spoil. My years of parental happiness had not ended. They had just been multiplied. I smiled and relaxed.

Back in the day I needed to ask a hot girl out to the AFROTC Dining Out (a formal military dinner), but I wanted to do it with pizazz. Having watched my six teenagers over the years I know that nobody these days picks up the phone to ask someone out on a date to the big dance. They all do something special like drop off a poster with candy glued to it and some cute saying to ask out their date. Back in the day, we really didn’t do that. However, I really had the hots for this girl, and I wanted to make a statement.

My buddy was a year behind me in AFROTC and in charge of the Honor Guard. He was one of the most squared-away troops I knew. On top of that, he had a sword. So I hatched a plan. I offered him, and a few of the other Honor Guard members, pizza if they would go over in their uniforms (complete with the drill rifles and the sword) and ask out this hottie to the Dining Out on my behalf.

When they knocked on the door with the sword drawn, it got everyone’s attention in the apartment complex. With a crowd of young ladies looking on, my buddy delivered the invite with perfect military precision and bearing. He barked out commands. The sword flashed. Rifles twirled. Heels clicked together. The invite was delivered in perfect military fashion.

How can you refuse a man in uniform with a sword? She said yes.

Fast forward almost thirty years. My buddy and I finished our military careers. We both pursued post military goals. We both had families. We both got back in to motorcycles. We both got gray hairs and put on a few pounds. I was going to be in his neck of the woods riding my motorcycle, so I gave him a shout and asked if he could lead me on one of his favorite local rides. He accepted. The night before the ride he sent me a text with a time and coordinates.

The next morning greeted me with a clear blue sky and cool temperatures. I geared up and left the condo early. I pulled off the highway and looked at my map to confirm my position, but before I could get the map pulled up on my phone I saw my buddy riding up on his KTM decked out in high visibility gear. He pulled up beside me, opened up his modular helmet, and gave me a long once over. “It’s good to ride with someone who knows how to find coordinates and be on time,” he said with a grin. “Nice gear too.” Then he proceeded to give me full safety briefing on his riding style, signaling, and hazards of the road we were taking. I knew right then that I was in good hands.

The ride was an alpine loop combining crowded four-lane highway and a small mountain road without any striping. I followed him through traffic and then through the hairpin turns and switchbacks of the deserted mountain road. He was fun to follow and he pushed me to improve my riding performance. As we rode we talked via Bluetooth headsets. He caught me up on his family. I caught him up on mine. We talked about riding, flying, and our common faith. Then he told me he had started a YouTube channel on the side—Nutnfancy. It was doing pretty well and he enjoyed it. Just like all those years ago in AFROTC, he was still the same squared-away guy going above and beyond the average Joe. He was still living life with a touch of pizazz.

I enjoyed riding with him and catching up after all these years. I’m a better rider because of it. He reminded me that it only takes a little more effort to be prepared, squared-away, and above average. He showed me what it means to manage high risk without sacrificing safety, or fun.

I still remember how he impressed that bombshell blonde all those years ago. She said yes to the Dining Out, but she also said yes when I asked her to marry me. I guess I owe my buddy another pizza.