A rather odd thing happened over the weekend… I became old.
Up until then, I had been bumbling through life, quite content that, in my head, I was still 15 years old, and the rest of me was just outpacing that slightly.
But, on Sunday, I turned 61. You know, born in, well, 1961. The year Yuri Gagarin became the first man in space, and the Berlin Wall went up. The stuff they teach urchins in history now. Ancient history.
Funnily enough, 60 didn’t bother me so much. It was just a “big birthday”. But they keep coming, and the odometer keeps turning.
That I am no longer a spring chicken has been reinforced lately by a couple of lost points of reference in the arena of popular culture.
I had the pleasure of chatting to Dean Friedman a week or so ago, the man who provided the soundtrack to my teens. I could only find one other person in the entirety of Marischal Towers who had heard of Dean Friedman.
The subject of Leo Sayer came up in a chat with a colleague. I said “bay-bee!” to him. He looked at me as if I had suddenly taken leave of my senses. You might think this also.
When I sent him a YouTube video of Mr Sayer geein it laldy in the 1970s with The Show Must Go On in full Pierrot outfit, he asked: “Jesus, what did you just make me watch?”
Welcome to my formative years. Possibly your parents’, too.
But, worse than any of that is that when I read about folk in their sixties, my immediate thought is: “They’re getting on a bit.” Aye, these auld yins that are the same age as me.
Actually, maybe I am getting on a bit
I have always held the view that age is a label to be treated with disdain. The wrinkles on the face don’t run as deep as the heart. The most accurate measure is how you think and what you do.
That cheerful optimism was knocked sideways by the knee injury I picked up while training for the London Marathon. All of a sudden, I was hobbling about like – let’s admit it – an old man. And it was taking a long time to get better.
I remember buying sweeties with a sixpence. So what?
That’s when doubt crept in. The realisation that, actually, I’m the one who’s getting on a bit. The fear that this injury is the harbinger of many to come and decrepitude isn’t a far-flung concept. It has arrived.
London Marathon? Aye, right.
But then a miracle happened. Not being one to go gentle into that good night, I headed off to our friendly local physio who put me on three weeks of intense therapy, with stretches, strength work, gym sessions, cycling and swimming.
All of which led to being told at the weekend that I could start running again. Easy at first, but running all the same. Katarina, thank you.
So, yeah, 61 is old. I remember buying sweeties with a sixpence. So what?
My inner 15-year-old is in the driving seat again (although I might have to work on his optimistic belief about being immortal) and I’m back in the game.
London Marathon? Bring it.
Scott Begbie is entertainment editor for The Press & Journal and Evening Express
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