Get your pacemaker running -- head out on the highway ...

I like to think I act my age. I’m not saying I do act my age, only that I ‘like’ to think I do. I try to carry on with my days in a manner that befits a male of a ‘certain’ age – not yet having slid into geezerdom, and still youthful enough to be active, aware, and tolerant of the changing modes of life in contemporary society. I like (again, note ‘like’) to think I’m mature, even with a patina of sophistication. You know, Cary Grant-ish. An interviewer once told Grant that he (the interviewing reporter) had always wanted to be just like Cary Grant. “So did I,” Grant replied.

My point here is, I know I am no longer a youth. I don’t even want to be a youth. I didn’t like being a youth at the time because it mainly consisted of being broke, so why would I want to go there again? Anyway, I don’t know any of the music, nor do I want to. Honky-Tonk Women and Wild Thing will have to carry me through.

So, the question I ask is, why do some men want to carry on as if they are still, say, 25? I have an older friend. I see him regularly, his rather portly frame encased in skin-tight leathers as he glides up on his Harley. Nice bike, I’ll concede, but does my friend think he is fooling anybody? Does he believe somebody will mistake him for a youthful biker boy? I mean, if he falls off that Hog, he’ll really hurt himself. And, considering the hypertension and atrial fibrillation he suffers from, the chances of him falling off are pretty damn good. I don’t want to relegate him to a scooter yet, maybe something along the lines of even a nice sportscar – with four wheels.

But, there are legions of ‘pseudo-dudes’ like my friend. At a coffee joint I frequent, I avoid Tuesday mornings because that is when an entire gang of these ‘Heck’s Angels’ gather and pay their weekly homage to Peter Fonda and Marlon Brando. And, they sport all the gear, and they possess motorized velocipedes that considerably exceed the family sedan in cost.

In fact, there aren’t just legions of these guys who are hanging on to ‘something,’ there are veritable armies of them. Consider the success of the recently released film Wild Hogs, starring Travolta (It’s no longer Vinnie Barbarino days, Dude) William H. Macy, Tim Allen and Martin Lawrence. It was the weekend box office champ, and it is essentially the tale of a bunch of old buzzards attempting to recapture whatever it is they want to recapture.

I understand the impulse to a certain extent. I love the movie American Graffiti because it captures a summertime night in a small California town in the early 1960s, and I actually spent the previous summer to the one suggested by the film in the same town, and I will attest to the authenticity of the flavor of AG. I was also always much more of a hotrot buff than a motorcycle afficionado. At the same time, in watching it, in listening to the fabulously evocative music, I have no desire to go back to that time. For one thing, I have a bit more money and my sex life is way better now.

Yet, yesterday, I was out for a walk with Wendy and this absolutely cherry 1934 Ford pickup hotrod cruised by. It was wondrous to see this vehicle. And, it was fascinating to see the owner behind the wheel. He looked a lot like my grandfather used to look in the days when he’d accepted the rigors of his age.

But, people did that before the age of denial.