I love these guys. The retirement home runaways. I spotted them in Deerfield Beach, like pints of ale among glasses of lemonade. They could sit at home in easy chairs and watch M*A*S*H reruns, fussing over their blood-pressure medication, what time they’re going to have supper, going to bed at nine. They could have decided that it was all a slow ride downhill from sixty-five, but apparently they’re going wherever the hell they want (I think they were heading southwest, actually). Funny that they’re in the middle of South Florida, the retirement capital of the world, when they appear to be anything but tired. These guys are usually hard to find, and I admire when “getting old” is not on one’s agenda. I may be assuming too much. Maybe they didn't party all night and shoot smack like Keith Richards. Maybe they headed back to their senior community that night and played bridge. But you have to admire that they’re still riding their bikes, doing what they love as long as they’re able to. Of course not every elder should live like a rebel of sorts, and I know not every senior is a bore. But to an extent, age truly is a state of mind, and I believe if anything is gonna slow or bring you down, it should be bad knees and incontinence, not a number.
