Almost exactly 10 years back, writing in the pages of Pique, I expressed a certain anxiety about our rapidly changing world.
“Not too long ago—I don’t remember why—I was struck with a horrible, terrifying thought: at just 26 years old, technology is already starting to pass me by,” I wrote. “Unless I make a conscious effort to stay up-to-date and educate myself on the ever-changing products on the market, I may soon be relying on my nieces to help me send my emails.”
Ten years later, I am proud to say I am still the master of my own (email) domain.
But I am also happy to report I have long since given up the ghost of being “with it,” choosing instead to happily amble down the winding dirt path to out-of-touch curmudgeon—and boy is it liberating.
I am in bed with my book by 9 p.m. most nights. I don’t worry a sniff about getting invites or tickets to exclusive parties—in fact, I dread them—and I no longer have to plan my life around my hangovers.
I eat raw vegetables for lunch every day, and am thoroughly unenticed by social media.
I enjoy jigsaw puzzles, ambient music and sitting quietly, not speaking.
I am an old, weathered rock amidst the eternal current of popular culture; my personal journey of relevance complete, I have found my space in the riverbed muck, where I will lay now forever, unbothered.
And yet, no man is an island, and even the most self-actualized of Zen practitioners can have a bad day.
Sometimes it only takes something small to remind you of your fast-approaching senior-citizen status.
Like walking through a Whistler grocery store, getting bombarded by PRIME advertisements—the overhyped, mass-marketed caffeine water the kids can’t seem to get enough of because… some weiner on YouTube hocks it? (And, in Googling it for this editorial, all the latest news stories appear to be about how it contains something called “forever chemicals”—so at least you’re getting great bang for your buck!)
Roll your eyes, shake your head, move on. Make it as far as the store’s exit before coming across some other half-baked product being shilled by some other dumbass YouTube personality called Mr. Beast.
There are surely a series of losing-touch milestones we all must meet along the way to personal obsoletion—things like not being up on the latest music or movies, or not knowing how to use the newest apps or devices—but there is a special sense of detachment that comes with the realization you don’t even recognize the names and faces of the people they’re using to sell you the garbage anymore.
I believe my own point-of-no-return—the day I handed in my Cool Card and my keys to the Fountain of Youth for good—occurred last summer on the Sea to Sky highway.
Heading to Squamish on a perfect, sunny day, I encountered no fewer than a dozen speeding motorcycles at different intervals, each seemingly faster than the last.
With each passing blur, a shiver up my spine, and a correlating curse for “those damn kids going way too damn fast.”
The revelation came to me in real-time. As I muttered about the speed demons on the highway, I knew right then and there I was officially a big, old, lame.
But I’m OK with that.
Uncool as it may be, the concern is not unjustified: The Sea to Sky highway was closed numerous times last summer due to incidents involving motorcycles.
According to a 10-year study by the BC Coroners Service, about 37 motorcycle riders die on B.C. highways every year. The ICBC five-year average is slightly higher, at 43.
More than half of the incidents happen in the summer, and the majority who die are men (and about 58 per cent between the ages of 30 to 59).
According to ICBC, the province averages about 2,100 motorcycle incidents every year, but that number doesn’t appear to be trending one way or another; in fact, the highest number of incidents in the past five years occurred in 2018 (2,288).
So it’s possible the newfound consternation is completely my own.
I was reminded once again how lame and old I am getting this weekend, driving down the sun-drenched Sea to Sky to the city, as motorcycle after motorcycle went speeding north, weaving in and out of traffic, racing each other under each digital highway message board practically begging them to slow down.
They ain’t gonna listen. Not to the digital message board, and not to this navel-gazing, old-man-lite editorial commentary.
But I sure do wish those damn kids would slow the hell down on their damn bikes.
