By Graham Averill
Quick disclaimer: I’m hurt and injuries make me morbid. I just want to establish a baseline for my headspace, before I tell you that I’ve been thinking a lot about Dylan Thomas recently, specifically his most famous poem, “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.” If you ever took a literature class in high school or college, you know the gist of it:
Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
It’s not hard to decipher the meaning here. Death is coming, but only a sucker would give into it. I was never a huge fan of Thomas’ poetry, but I always agreed with the sentiment in his most famous poem, and I’ve essentially approached adulthood with the naive verve of a teenager who doesn’t think he’s going to die. Ever.
That attitude has served me pretty well into my 49th year, but I’m starting to rethink my approach. I just don’t know anymore. Raging against the dying of the light is exhausting and I’m tired of being injured all the time. I’m reading that poem now and I’m thinking maybe Dylan Thomas was an idiot. Maybe Dylan Thomas never pulled a hamstring rounding third base during a coed softball game and spent the subsequent couple of weeks limping around life.
So I’m wondering, do I continue to rage against the dying of the light, or do I accept the constraints of my advancing age and take a more graceful approach to the next chapter?
That’s the crux we all have to wrestle with as we grow into the middle of our lives. How do we handle the last half of our time on this rock when shit starts to fall apart?
Dylan Thomas never actually had to ask that question himself. He died before he turned 40. I don’t think I got hurt at all in my 20s and 30s. Nothing I couldn’t bounce right back from, and I certainly didn’t experience any of the nagging injuries that have defined my 40s. I think I’ve been injured more days than healthy in the last few years, largely because I’ve been following Thomas’ advice and raging against the dying of the light.
But aging gracefully doesn’t sound very appealing either. I’m approaching 50, and I’m not sure I have the character depth to pursue activities that are more appropriate for my age. The problem is, I process the world through physical activity. I always have, even when I was a little kid. If I was upset, I would go for a long run in the Georgia heat until I felt better about life, occasionally stumbling home on the verge of heat exhaustion.
When I was a teenager, I picked up my wife while playing volleyball at the beach. For the last 30 years, I’ve designed every vacation, weekend and day off work around some sort of physical adventure.
Speaking of work, I’m in a career that hinges around my physical ability. Yes, I’m a writer, but I write articles about doing hard shit in the outdoors. In the last couple of years, I’ve written about epic backcountry ski missions, multi-day bike rides, surf trips, mountaineering…I’ve set a goal for myself of dunking a basketball again by the time I turn 50. I think it will make an excellent ESPN 30 for 30.
Feats of strength are my love language. So who am I when I can’t do these things anymore? I thought I might have to answer that question when I hit my 80s, but I’m starting to think the “coming to Jesus” moment is approaching on a much faster timeline. I was camping solo recently and I was using a heavy electric cooler with a built-in battery. The thing weighs 75 pounds when you have a bunch of beer in it. It’s a great cooler, but it took a significant amount of effort to lift the dead weight into the bed of my truck. I struggled and I heaved. I worried about my back. It occurred to me at that moment that at some point in my life, I won’t be able to put that cooler in the bed of my truck alone. I’ll need help. And that moment is coming uncomfortably soon.
It’s such a simple thing—lifting a heavy object—but it sparked a wave of fear that sent me spiraling into a panicked depression. I instantly texted my wife and told her that when the day comes when I can’t put the heavy cooler in my truck bed by myself, she needs to put me down. Do it quick, I said, with the dignity you’d give a champion racehorse.
She said OK.
I was kidding, but only a little bit. I’m getting a taste of what life beyond “feats of strength” will be like right now thanks to this coed-softball-induced hamstring injury. And if I’m being honest with myself, I’ve been experiencing a general sense of fatigue even before this injury. I’ve been a little sluggish. I did a 175-mile multi-day road ride recently that was harder than it should’ve been. Sure, I came off the couch with zero training, but I didn’t have the zest for the adventure that I normally do. I was worried about traffic and climbed hills at an excruciatingly slow pace. It was like I was stuck inside a testosterone-supplement commercial.
Shit, do I have Low T?
So here I am thinking about the future. The five-year plan, if you will. Do I continue to go after it and keep pulling hamstrings? Or do I age gracefully and find fewer physical ways to explore the world? Bird watching, perhaps. Genealogy. Will I continue to rage against the dying of the light and keep putting myself in situations my body probably can’t handle, or will I go gently into the night and develop a wicked jigsaw puzzle habit and start wearing cardigan sweaters?
I do like jigsaw puzzles. Or maybe I’ll stick my head back in the ground and ignore the obvious for another decade. This hamstring will heal and I’ll be back in the game in no time. This is why God invented ibuprofen, after all, so dumbasses like me can keep pushing it long after they should’ve called it quits. I hear 50 is the new 40, which makes 60 the new 50, and my current numerical age of 49 the new 39. I can’t start aging gracefully while I’m still in my 30s! So my five-year plan is to pretend I’m younger than I actually am and put off making any life decisions until I’m at the appropriate age to make those decisions. With any luck, my wife will put me down before I even have to face any serious physical decline. I think Dylan Thomas would be proud.
