Tales from Exit 22 by Al Batt

 

I tromped through the snow, following in my own footsteps.

I’d planned on traveling by ferry, but bad weather wouldn’t allow it. I needed to get to some speaking engagements, so I booked a small plane.

It was a cute little airplane, the kind that comes into this world when a pair of giant airliners fall in love.

The flying service not only weighed my bag, but asked my weight, too.

“Hop in,” said the pilot. We’d howdied, but we hadn’t shook.

I tried my best to hop.

He told me the weather was good because he could see the propeller. That wasn’t reassuring.

I curled into a ball, not out of fear, but in order to fit inside the form-fitting aircraft where there wasn’t room for a deep sigh.

We took off. The plane was noisy, but I didn’t notice any parts falling from it. The pilot looked over at me and asked, “Guess how old I am?”

I don’t like that game. I’m not good at it. The average adult human brain has 100 billion cells. None of mine were working. He pressed for an answer. “Twenty-nine,” I said, hoping to make him stop.

He shook his head and said, “I’m 83.”

Newspaper headlines flashed before my eyes. I hoped the tiny plane would have the chance to grow up. I’d watched “Twilight Zone” shows years ago, never dreaming I’d be in one.

Airline pilots are required to retire at a certain age, but apparently there was no mandatory retirement age for general aviation pilots. I learned later about a working pilot who was 92.

I must have looked concerned, as the pilot added, “Don’t worry. I’ve never crashed a plane or lost a passenger that didn’t deserve to be lost. And I get a physical exam twice a year.”

There was no time for handwringing. I flew without having to flap my arms furiously. I found comfort in what E. Hamilton Lee, an airmail pilot, observed in 1949: “There are old pilots and bold pilots, but no old, bold pilots.”

The landing was good. A good landing is one in which you can use the plane again. I’m happy to get out of an airplane and get to where I’m going. I feel that way about most means of transportation.

After surgery and a lengthy hospital stay, in which I’d spent time tethered to a bed unless given assistance to escape its bonds, I’d pared down my goals. A hospital bed causes a person to redefine success. I thought of that senior pilot who flew me from here to there and back. He didn’t drive cars. He preferred walking and bicycling. A driving objective of mine was to stumble from that hospital bed and walk without end. After getting the boot from that infirmary, my version of a lengthy hike was 50 paces requiring the aid of a walking stick.

Now I walk each day — considerably more than 50 paces. Walking spaces can be easier to find than parking places — trails, malls, gyms, health clubs, sidewalks, etc. I walk down a gravel road and pretend I’m walking on a Pacific Ocean beach lacking the Pacific Ocean. We want more time. I wanted more time to walk. I obtained a Fitbit. It’s a conscience I wear on my wrist. It nags me. It tells me to walk for my own good. It prods me along.

I liked walking before my surgeries. Now I love walking. I glory in the ability to put one foot in front of another, each step a miracle. I wasn’t given a trust fund. I inherited a must fund. I must be doing something. Walking is something. Walking is my aglu. An aglu is that breathing-hole made in the ice by a seal. It keeps a seal going. Walking keeps me going.

Walking helps me think. I come up with answers to perplexing problems. I carry a little notebook or 3-by-5 cards in which to pile words. I’m a chronic note taker and walking encourages thoughts.

I walk. It’s not as good as the things you’ve done. You do amazing stuff. I walk. My trifling achievement wouldn’t be a worthy subject for a bad movie trying to emulate “Rudy,” or “Hoosiers,” but walking is better than being in a hospital bed.

I regularly visit a good friend who has been unable to walk for years due to a dreaded disease. Her wonderful attitude reminds me how lucky I am to be able to follow in my own footsteps.

Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Saturday.