I am slowly coming back into something that resembles fitness. I've been running, cycling, and lifting weights, and my diet, while not perfect, has at least been cleaned up a little. I feel better and I am starting to need to hike up my jeans every once in a while to keep them from slipping down my hips. Even so, I notice that when I do my "time trails" around the campus on my moderately high-end all-carbon steed--the one that weighs scarcely more than a thought--all dolled up and sparkly in my cycling jersey and shorts, I am regularly passed by young men in jeans and hiking boots, riding clunky mountain bikes.
They are as the freely-flowing wind blowing by, while I am as the ancient holly shrub, all prickly and rooted in place.
It matters not, for with the years has come wisdom, and what I know that they do not yet is that it is style that counts in the race against time.
Actually, I must have known this even in my youth, since that's a photo my brother dug up from my father's archived slides. We're both dressed up for the annual bike parade in Roswell, New Mexico, some forty-plus years ago. Wish I still had that outfit. It would look extra good on my time trials.