The other morning I rolled out of bed at 5am, laced up my running shoes, and headed out in the dark. It wasn’t some heroic act of discipline so much as simple maths: I needed a few extra kilometres to hit my weekly goal before flying off to the US for a week of business travel. That said, the 5am start isn’t exactly unusual for me. My alarm goes at that time every day and, other than the odd luxurious 6am lie-in, that’s pretty much when I greet the world.
Depending on who you ask, I sit somewhere between “active relaxer” and “can’t-sit-still”. Beaches and lounging about aren’t really my thing. Yes, I’ve been known to binge-watch Downton Abbey of an evening, but that sort of sedentary indulgence only happens if I’ve already clocked something vaguely energetic during the day. There’s a sense of balance to it, move first, relax later.
I was mulling this over at the weekend as I headed up my local mountain, Mount Grey, for a morning hike with a few family members. Mount Grey is a regular haunt of mine. My usual circuit is a tidy 21-kilometre loop that, for years, a three-hour completion time told me I was in pretty good shape. It was one of those outings that, despite sitting in the “bleeding from the eyes” category, was still achievable in that sort of time.
Fast forward to our family trip up the mountain. My daughter-in-law was nursing an injury, so a slower pace was to be expected, but if I’m honest, I can’t pin the whole thing on her troublesome gastrocnemius. Time has a way of quietly tapping you on the shoulder, and every now and then you look up and realise the pace you once held without effort has… softened.
I’m not ancient, still a good decade away from qualifying for Winston Peters’ Gold Card, but the reality is that my personal bests, the effortless days when the body just hummed along, are mostly behind me. I don’t say that mournfully; it’s just the natural order of things. You spend enough decades tootling around the hills and your hips start chatting to you, your knees develop opinions, and injuries take their time paying their respects before they leave.
In the midst of this quiet reflection, our contemplative climb was interrupted by a couple coming down the track. At first glance, they must have been in their 80s. Weathered by years in the outdoors, with the kind of leathery robustness that only time and fresh air can produce. But by goodness, they were sprightly: upright posture, bright eyes, and a fitness that made it very clear they hadn’t retired their boots the moment they hit 65.
We stopped for a yarn, as you do. Before long, the gent was telling us about the times they’d tackled the Five Passes route in Fiordland, a famously technical and demanding adventure. They’d done it in their 50s, then again in their 60s, and then, unbelievably, once more in their 70s. He told the story with no hint of bravado. It was simply his reality: they kept doing the things they loved, right up until their mid-70s, when they finally started to slow down a bit.
Meeting them stopped me in my tracks, both literally and figuratively. Here I was thinking about what I can’t do as quickly anymore, and here they were, living proof that age might trim your speed, but it doesn’t have to clip your wings. Their outlook was wonderfully pragmatic: yes, things creak; yes, you’re a bit slower; yes, recovery takes longer. But none of that is a reason to stay home.
Their example left our little group noticeably quieter for the next stretch of the climb. There’s something humbling about meeting people who live the philosophy you like to think you subscribe to. It’s one thing to say you’ll keep going as long as you can. It’s another to meet someone who actually has.
On the walk back down, I found myself thinking about how much of ageing is physical and how much is mental. The body undoubtedly changes; that’s unavoidable. But the mind can be an ally or an anchor. If you convince yourself your best days are behind you, that becomes the truth. But if you take the approach our octogenarian hiking friends do, acknowledging the realities of ageing without surrendering to them, things look very different.
So while I still grumble about how achy I am most mornings, and while the first few kilometres of every run feel like I’m coaxing myself back into existence, I’m still out there. And I intend to keep being out there for as many years as my bones, tendons, and whatever else is holding me together will allow. I’ve already farewelled the family half-marathon record, and I’m under no illusions that the few family bests I still hold will last forever. Everything has its season.
But after meeting that couple on Mount Grey, I’m more certain than ever that slowing down doesn’t mean stopping. Maybe the numbers creep up on the stopwatch, and maybe the climbs feel a bit steeper each year, but the joy, the pure, uncomplicated joy of being out there, doesn’t fade. And if those two are anything to go by, it might even grow.
