There was an analogously frightening article by Austin Corona in the newspaper this week (“Aspen infrastructure running its course,” Aspen Daily News, May 13) about the city’s aging systems that reminded myself of me. The parallels and analogies are utterly comical.
He astutely wrote: “Elements of the city’s electrical grid (my flickering brain), stormwater drainage system (my prostate, like a non-compliant leaky garden hose with a permanent kink), bridge infrastructure (my played-out tendons and ligaments, meniscus or lack thereof), buildings and street network (my withering limbs, rusty joints, falling-out hair and crêpey cancer-infested skin) are all hovering around the end of their useful lifetimes.”
Also noted by our new Public Works Director Tyler Christoff (congratulations on the promotion!): Main Street suffers from unusually thin asphalt coverage. I took that metaphorically to mean some Aspenites, the ones who commonly refer to themselves as “passionate” about local issues, have thin skin.
I remember growing up in Aspen and being a spry, immune kid. In my exploits around town on my BMX bike and skateboard I’d see these old, hunched over, washed-up, straggly gray-haired ski bums staggering around town like creatures in a human zoo. They were usually sporting a backpack and sunglasses, and seemed in good spirits. I viewed them with an unspoken envy as men and women who wore the platinum badge of a life well-lived, but to me there was sense that they’d been beaten-down by something or someone. Turns out the thing doing the beating was our environment and themselves.
Just the other day in passing, my ghost-like, blurry-faced reflection appeared in a random downtown storefront. The realization hit me like a ton of old collector’s item mall bricks: I was that haggard likeness of myself, a peculiar high-altitude cross, teetering between an apple doll and a scarecrow. I always knew the day would come, and it did. That’s what the real cost of living in Aspen looks like.
There’s a big part of Aspen that’s an illusion. We as a community put a lopsided emphasis on appearances. “Look good feel good” is a common unspoken mantra. Just below the surface, or right behind the curtain, things aren’t exactly as they seem. Our town’s collective physical and mental infrastructure is crumbling. All the while, we defiantly chase the illusive foxtail of fitness right down the rabbit hole of injury, grievance, blame and denial.
I have three jobs — two of which require me to use my entire body, the other only my brain. I learned the hard way that I have a finite number of times in which I can bend over and pick things up before my back goes out. Then there’s domestic engineering and recreation.
I came to the realization that if I do the activities I love less often, and with less vigor, I’ll be able to do those sports for longer. For example, I skied less this year, and when I did, I generally stayed away from moguls. I logged 30 days at Buttermilk and 25 at Snowmass. Most of my mountain-bike riding occurs on Sky Mountain now. Blue runs, flow trails and mellow days are my new “getting after it.” A “two-sport day” flex for me now is skiing groomers, then raking and mowing my lawn. I can live vicariously through Aspen Cycling Club results in the paper and other’s multiple daily Highlands Bowl hikes on social media.
I’ve learned to loosen my grip on the reins of big athletic endeavors, which I used to think I needed to do to prove something to others and myself. I earned a Leadville 100 belt buckle. I’ve climbed all the local 14ers. I own a limp to prove it, and it usually takes me three tries to get off of the couch now.
Joint replacement has basically become preventative, elective, borderline cosmetic surgery for those that can afford the luxury. I can hear the surgeon’s changeup pitch now: “You might as well get both knees done while you’re under … it’ll save you time, effort and money in the long run.” Not me. Call me stubborn to a fault (and you’d be correct) but I’m going to stick with the original factory parts as long as possible.
There are insanely fit people here in their 70s, 80s and beyond that aren’t exactly doing me any favors. In Aspen, 60 is the new 30. That being said, I’m in my late 20s. I think I’m actually in my late 50s. Klaus Obermeyer has set the proverbial bar of aging insanely high in his graceful way.
Not only that, every time I start whining and feeling sorry for myself about my “aging infrastructure,” I see a dude old enough to be my dad doing what I do, better and faster. You’re supposed to feel motivated by people like that.
Aspen will put you in your place quickly and without any remorse in that regard, under the cunning guise of inspiration. Every time someone like me over 50 in Aspen complains about an injury or whines about getting old and decrepit, Klaus yodels.