Purpose for Living
The How
“Hello, you made it.” “Made it?” “Yes, you made it to the New Generation, you are now 60 years old.” “What now?” “Living…”
It is just my theory of course, but 60 is the new 40. We are the New The New Millennials and ours is an amazing convergence of strength, knowledge, wisdom, resources, rational processing, emergence of new confidence, good credit, buying power and a fondness for the color gray. We have a glow about us. It feels surreal, that the age which has been long considered as retirement, or referred to as The Golden Years, more associated with a rocking chair and liver spots. Now has been transformed into a mythological Phoenix.
We all remember watching as small children the very exaggerated movements of our grandparents, as they strained when they moved to lift something, or how carefully they walked, taking extra precautions when they approached a curb or even a crack in the sidewalk. That became, for me, a lasting image about aging. In late 80's I remember playing basketball at New Cassel Park in Westbury. Some of the games were billed as Us vs. players and teams who we referred to as “the old heads”. I noticed as the games wore on how quickly they would tire and how their lateral and especially their vertical agility became increasingly limited the longer we played. At moments like this, I would often find myself visibly saying, “that will never be me”. Then there was that physique. The places where ripples of muscles once resided aka “the six pack” were now replaced with this thick soft roundness and their shoulders resembled less the broad wings of a fighter aircraft, angular and sturdy, were now curved. I will honestly admit that sometimes they would win. However, it wasn’t often or pretty.
That was then and this is us now; we are agile and our waist lines reflect a consistent effort to control excess weight with balanced proportions and exercise. How in the span of 40 years are we still steady on our feet? You can recognize us, because when we are at a restaurant, we ask politely; but within our posture, we are truly saying something completely different. Yes, we are reminding you that we have made it here and that is something that needs to be respected.
Six, much less sixty, is a magical number. Many years ago, I remember there was a TV show titled “The Six million Dollar Man", and there was this strange music that would play when he, Lee Majors, would display some inhuman feat of strength. They, the creators of the show, could have used any arbitrary number, say the 3-million-dollar man or the 1-million-dollar man. Why six? Well it’s an indisputable fact that sixty years old is 6 decades, 21,900 days and\ or 525,600 hours of living. That’s a really big number. Mathematically I'd like to illustrate an even bigger number. Think of sixty years old as measured in heartbeats. The average heartbeat is, let’s say about 68 per minute. If you multiply that by 60 minutes in an hour, that number is 4,080 heartbeats in an hour. There are 24 hours in a day or 97,920 heartbeats in one 24-day. There are 7 days in a week or 685,440 heartbeats in a week. There are 4 weeks to each month, that’s 2,741,760 heartbeats in a month. There are 12-months in a year, that’s 32,901,120 heartbeats in a year. You. Yes, You now have lived to 60 years of age or older; that equates to what I call The Life Clock which is now at 1,974,067,200 heart beats in 60-years. As a result of that Big number, it stands to reason that sixty years old is a Big Dam Deal!
To confirm this, I wear a heart measuring chest band attached to a small Bluetooth sending device whenever I train. What the ap reveals is indisputable, vital information regarding the health of my heart.
Now that I have numerically proven how big a deal getting to be 60 years old is. There only seems to be two remaining questions; How did we make it here and why? The how is kind of simple. We avoided dying. For sixty years we have avoided Thanatos, Shinigami, La Muerte and The Grim Reaper. This is not an easy task and like the title of the TV series states, “There are 1,000 ways to die”. I personally believe that list needs to be updated, because life as with death has become very creative. I have death face to face and it is frightening. Medical science defines death as when the heart stops beating, but what about all the events that have lead to that point? Those events are infinite, in essence death may be the ultimate singular outcome, however, there are thousands of possible causes. I think it appropriate if we pause for a silent moment, out of respect, and remember fondly the people within our circle of family and\or friends who may have passed away, either recently or within the last few years. Thank you. Death is conclusive, but the event(s) which cause death are multifaceted. Let’s not even contemplate what we do to each other as human beings, in conjunction with the many creative ways, tools and methods crafted by man to cause the death of another man, woman and child. I make no apologies here, because I refuse to engage in any conversation regarding partaking of any role that ends someone else’s life. That would include DUI and Reckless or Distracted Driving. The How we have made it here is a combination of divine providence, fate and good *fortune. The asterisk mark on fortune represents the infinite times my good fortune, or your good fortune has occurred at the lack thereof, for someone else.
As an example, in the backseat of a car sits two passengers, each with their seat belts fastened. However, what neither is aware of is the oncoming vehicle that has run the stop sign. The accident occurs in a second and this vehicle strikes the car at the midpoint between the end of the front door and the beginning of the rear door. The “b” pillar. The force of the impact causes both belted rear passengers to sustain tremendous whiplash. However, the passenger nearest the impact point is dealt a fatal blow. While the life of the passenger to his or her right has survived, because their body is cushioned from severe trauma as a result of colliding with the passenger seated next to them. Hence good fortune and the lack thereof for someone else. This of course is no more than a fictitious example of fate, but there are more than enough actual situations that have occurred to present a point of view, or perspective that good fortune is a part of why we have made it here.
Candidly the numerous times when good fortune or fate prevailed in my own life are too many to count. Such as when I was a boy of about 10 years old (Life Clock: 329,011,200) living in New Cassel, Long Island. A small enclave of Westbury, Long Island about a stone’s throw from Hicksville. It’s the late 60’s (again that word) and the Long Island Railroad is beginning its expansion and transformation from diesel engines to electrified rail cars. I like many of my friends at the time, were enamored by trains and we enjoyed playing on the railroad tracks. There was something truly magical about the sound trains make as they roar down the tracks; and that whistle…! That piercing whistle. Added to that was the power of this locomotive, which would shake the very ground which we stood upon like an earthquake was occurring. That power was awe inspiring. After the trains had passed, we would walk on the tracks, searching for what I don’t know nor can I remember. Later, the fashion taste of the times was to make your girlfriend a bracelet made from dinnerware crushed by the wheels of a locomotive. So we would take our parents, real silver flatware and tape it to the train tracks. Carefully laying the silver spoons and forks down on the tracks and then securely taping them using heavy duct tape.
Simple. Or so it would seem. Back then, because I was so small, I always felt that I needed to be bigger and what is a better way of looking bigger than to be daring. Since I had no brothers or sisters; this may have been a part of my defense mechanisms. So, I was very daring and always looking for the perfect spot to create my one-of-a-kind jewelry. This one time I unknowingly had ventured too far from the path that led up and down to the railroad tracks. Suddenly, without any warning, I could feel the ground start to tremble and when I looked up, I could see the light of an oncoming train. Yes, I was too far from the path that led down to the tracks. Panic, takes but a moment to become abstract fear. Fear is palpable, and you can taste it. It's like an alkaline taste, like a 9-volt battery placed on your tongue. It's amazing how paralyzing fear is, something that occured 50 years ago is as fresh today in my mind as it was on that day it happened. These moments have become embedded into my psyche. I can still see that light on the train, I can also still vividly see in my mind, the root of the vine that I grabbed onto in that last second attempt to clear myself within the minimal space between the train and myself. The earthen dirt that held the vine was carved out and exclusively designed for the railroad tracks; as such the train fit snugly in that space. However, that space was not designed for the three of us, regardless of my size.
There I was, a mere 10 years old, holding on to a vine growing out of an embankment. A vine! As the train rushed by, I could feel the power of this vehicle built for mass transportation, but now potentially serving a new role, the instrument of my death. The vacuum was amazing, the speed at which the air rushed around my body forced me to close my eyes, because of the debris that was blowing on me and into my face. Sheepishly I took just a peak and yes, it really did look like a silver bullet. Truly, I can only imagine the expressions of the passengers sitting in their seats and looking out of the window at this small black boy who was holding on for dear life; to a vine. Then as quickly as it came, it was over and as if on cue, the vine broke, and I fell onto the tracks. That day, I escaped certain death. What did I do when I stood up you ask? I went looking for my silverware of course. After all, I had come there to make a bracelet for Tina Miller. Yes, that’s it. That is the part of the How?
At this point, I have been driving cars long enough to have developed some thoughts and one of my favorites is this. If you give a boy a car, he will race with it. If you give a boy the access to a fast car, he will race faster…(JLA). I am now about 19 years-old (Life clock 625,121,280. As I played hard, I equally liked to drive fast. I actually got my driver’s license long after I was able to drive and well before the age of 17. As such, I was proudly driving my father’s small truck when I was about 13 years old. This He knows now. As I was always mechanically inclined, it didn’t take me long to realize that once you popped the clutch. . . Now the truck was running and ready to go. No steering wheel locks back then. Keys, optional. Friends, many. Licensed drivers, none. Off I went. Just far enough to show off, but never far enough to be spotted by the Police. Quietly I would return home, often with the engine off and I’d park the truck where I had placed some rocks on the ground earlier to align the tires. He, my father, would never know it was missing. Or so I believed.
The legal license brought with it, the legal use of the car. That was my unleashing. At the time, my mother owned a 1969 Ford Mustang, white with a beige landau half roof and beige interior. It possessed a sturdy 302 V8. Not much on the braking as drum brakes were still in use, but it was quick off the line and could leave a mean Power Brake burnout. One of our favorite spots to race, back then, was of course Railroad Ave. Another was a quiet street on the other side of the tracks in an industrial area. We would often race on Bond Street as it was as straight as an arrow. Unfortunately it was also littered with trucks and the street was not at all smooth. The other spot was near a store named Friendly Frost, on a street called Frost Street. It was about a half mile long with no curves and with very little to no oncoming traffic at night; it offered the perfect starting point. This was especially true, because these races began in the parking lot that extended into the street, which made it perfect for early street racers. The only real issue, besides that of it being illegal, was that if you raced from North to South, you were heading onto the very busy two-lane traffic of Old Country Road, which for obvious reasons was not a good thing. However, If you raced South to North, then you were racing towards the Long Island Railroad Tracks. Which, in all respects considered, was not good either.
Yes, we raced anyway.
On this one particular night, I was with a group of friends and we had begun racing. It’s worth mentioning that fuel at that time was no more than 55 cents a gallon. So, 'Couch Surfing' could get you almost half a tank of gas. I was by that time an experienced driver, so I really didn’t pay any attention to the mist in the air that night. It wasn’t raining so what could be the problem, or so I thought at the time. However, the street had a thin layer of moisture on it, just enough to give you some traction, but just not enough to secure braking. Yet, that didn’t matter to me, because I was racing a 1969 souped-up two door Cadillac Coup-de-ville. So as far as I was concerned, it was a boat as compared to the Mustang I was driving. My plan was simple, I would get him at the start of the race and hold him off until the end. Again, that was the plan. What I failed to realize was that the Ford did not come with a limited slip differential and only one wheel would spin, causing the car’s rear end to get loose. Worse, the drum brakes got over-heated very quickly, especially if you were racing. Once overheated, they would simply fail. If I recall, I mentioned earlier that the road was now not a good place for a set of bias-belted tires to be driven on, much less racing on. With all of these negative factors, what did I do? Well, I raced of course. My plan worked, I got him, as I predicted at the start. However, I had underestimated the power of the Cadillac’s 400hp behemoth engine and before I knew it he had moved on to me quicker than I thought. So, I mashed the accelerator to the floor and the Ford responded. I was now in front of the Cadillac, or so I thought. What was actually occurring, was that this Cadillac was slowing down. Ya see, we had both run out of road. That is, he had run out of road. I unfortunately hadn’t really noticed that aspect of the race, because I was focused only on winning. I was already in celebratory mode.
When it became apparent to me, it was already too late. I was nearing Old Country Road and all I could see was cross traffic and lots of it. The Mustang, as I mentioned earlier, did not come equipped with power brakes, so when I stomped on it with both feet, nearly putting a hole in the floorboard the car abruptly jerked and spun out to my right. This action caused the rear end to spin around with the front end now pointing in the opposite direction; I was literally going backwards across a main busy four lane road. Then out of nowhere I hit a curb, bounced a little and ended up in some dirt. Everyone there that night was totally shocked and amazed. Words at this point can not adequately express the intense nature of that event. For what we all witnessed on that misty night, was that of an out of control car crossing a very busy intersection, speeding right through a red light and then passing between both oncoming and opposing traffic. If I failed to mention it: yes, I was scared too death. Both shockingly and miraculously, I wasn’t hit by another vehicle, nor was I spotted by the Nassau County Police Department. Aside from some mud on the quarter panels and tires, no damage was done to the car. I wasn’t even injured and technically, I had won the race. Yes, most importantly, I lived. Divine Providence? Fate? Whatever occurred that night, was never lost to me or ever explained to me. But there was a reason.
As a side note; when I became a parent and my children reached the age to drive. I can say this now, but unbeknownst to them, because I was a mechanic, I would always secretly modify our cars. Effectively, I would place a restrictor or governor on the cap & rotor, essentially restricting the engine from achieving a sustained 4000 RPM’s. This mechanical tip I offer free to all parents. As the memories of that night have never faded, I was determined in not allowing its reincarnation.
This is a part of the How. These anecdotal stories are a part of the How. I, we survived. I, we, didn’t die. My relentless attempts at death all failed and it was not for the lack of effort. Why?
If you have or know of anyone who has any stories discussing “The Purpose of Living…The How”. Please feel to share your thoughts or comments.
