Sliding downhill to longevity

On the north end of the Misawa Air base, I found a steep grassy hill that could serve as a workout spot that would help me get in shape for an assault on Mt. Fuji this summer. Jogging the 40 degree incline burned, but at only 100 yards long I was able to reach the top before getting too tired. From the top I could survey Lake Ogawara at the northern end of the Misawa Air Base and peak through the haze to see the Hakkoda Mountain range to the East.

No Air Force jets were flying today, but this would be a good spot to watch the maneuvers over the lake. Legend has it that the lake served as the practice range for the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. A building shaped like a US carrier sits on the edge of the lake, supposedly used for target practice by the Japanese bombers. Today, the ship-building is occupied by a USA Boy Scout troop with its own military-grade flight simulator. Just as the Japanese colonial history seems to be acknowledged in neither the Japanese history books nor Japanese memorials, information that would help verify these legends seems to be non-existent. Viewing the Japanese from the Japanese perspective, they are and have always been a peaceful people who were victims in during World War 2. Not sure which legend is tougher to believe, the one in the history books or the one that cannot be verified. But, that is old news; since then, the air base has long been shared by American and Japanese forces, and Misawa seems to have become a model of Japanese and American cooperation for the defense of Japan and the monitoring of threats in the Asia Pacific.

The hill was a bit too steep to climb straight down without slipping in my worn running shoes or putting too much strain on my knees, so I jogged a wide loop that took me on a gradual decline toward the lake, then back to the base of my hill. By the third loop, the steep incline started to look daunting. The driving guitar of Malagueria Salerosa blasting through Zune headphones helped pace my climb; but, I almost dropped at the top. I had told myself I would climb the hill five times today, but heaving for breath and writhing in pain, I started to justify saving some for another day.

Looking down, I could see a couple of mattresses and some sheets of cardboard in a ditch at the bottom of the hill. I realized this must be a spot for kids to grass sled at night, like I used to do with my high school friends during late night raids of the Glendora Country Club. Before video games grabbed the attention spans of kids, steep grassy hills and cardboard boxes could be sources of endless thrills; at least until the security guard scattered the gang or until one of the gang rolls a golf cart down the hill. I wasn't about to climb down just to grab a sheet of cardboard; but, I did decide to test the durability of my polyester sweat pants. I applied my ass to the grass, and pointed my feet down the hill…

Purple spring flowers flashed past as I screamed down the hill. I became acutely aware of imperfections like patches of rocks in the smooth grass, and quickly learned to momentarily raise my butt by planting my heels in the hillside. I wasn't going g-force fast like when I jumped out of an airplane to celebrate my son's 18th birthday; but, if I had hair, it would have been flowing in the wind. Just as I started to realize how much fun I was having, a self-conscious guilt prevented me from letting out a yelp.

For godsake, how old are you? You are a 50-year old college professor barreling down a grassy hill on your ass while "Step into Liquid" drowns your ears. What if someone actually sees you? I dug my heels into the hill and popped to my feet. I was going almost faster than I could run, but was able to slow myself from a full speed downhill run without toppling. Not a graceful stop; but a successful two-leg landing.

At the bottom, I composed myself and faced the hill for my fourth ascent. As I climbed, I continued to chastise myself. I was too old to be acting like that; I needed to be more mature. In fact, a recent George Will article had nailed me. George railed on mature men for wearing jeans and t-shirts. Guilty as charged. As George would put it, I must be suffering from arrested development. Perhaps I need to be more like George, who wrote that he had only worn jeans once in his life, and that was because jeans were the required dress for a friend's party. Maybe it's time to buy some real slacks, not the fake cotton slacks I usually wear when work requires something more formal than jeans. Let’s not forget the patent leather shoes and tie. Maybe it’s not just time for me to dress the part, but to be the part. I mean, how mature is it for me to be trying to conquer hills like this, not to mention looking for volcanoes to climb. How about the 10 mile jogs around the perimeter of the air base, riding my bicycle to work, working on my mogul techniques on ski runs, carrying my office in a backpack, attending college to pursue a PhD, shedding 25 years of accumulated goods to move to Japan for an opportunity to serve and study? Is this all part of an arrested development sickness that is preventing me from doing what I should be doing: grow up and gracefully decline? Why should I be making the same effort to learn and grow at 50 as I was when I was 20? Life would certainly be much easier if I could be more mature, like George.

As I approached the top, I flashed on the research I had been conducting on maturing adults, essentially that the day we stop learning is the day our brains start to die. Whether we are talking about our bodies, minds, spirit or genitals, whatever we don't use we lose. Scientists are starting to learn that maturing into a stress-free life is the quickest path to decline and dementia. Counter to the American ideal of retiring into relaxation, a key secret to longevity is to continuously and actively engage in mental, physical, and spiritual growth--and to have fun doing it. I suddenly realized a key reason why the Republicans may never recover: George Will is the model to which all Republican men should aspire. If I succeed in becoming more like George, I could be limiting any longevity I might hope to achieve and accelerating my way to dementia. In other words, throwing out the jeans and t-shirts for a pair of slacks and a tie could kill me--or, at least, make me wish I were dead.

Good thing I am not a Republican, or I could be suffering additional cognitive dissonance by failing to fit the mold of a decaying breed. Forget about feeling self-conscious guilt for doing a seemingly childish thing. I mean, I am 50 years old and I can still do a screaming slide down a steep hill. When I was a kid, it seeed 50-year olds could hardly go for a walk, let alone jog for 10 miles, run up a steep hill, or dive down steep ski slope, or dive out of an airplane. Go to school or learn anything new? Whatever you knew or had at 50 was all you were going to know when you died; actually, the 50-year-old then would know less and have less at death because the belief and behavior was that adulthood was a period of decline, not opportunity. Adults forgot, they did not learn; they spent, they do not earn. I am doing things today that 50-year olds 20 years ago wouldn't even think about, and would soon forget they had even thought about if they ever did. What was I saying?

Well, to hell with being like George and suffering self-conscious guilt for doing something that is seemingly childish. I had a practical reason for sliding down the hill; it was a faster, more efficient, and safer way to get down. Plus, it was a lot of fun. As Kartman might say, screw you George, I'm going down the hill...

I applied my ass to the grass, pointed my heels down the steep slope, and started to slide.