COURAGE IN MOTION

by Patty Clark

At 73, I am often mistaken as an adult. Society collectively decides that I’m elderly based on the wrinkles, the sensible shoes, and the multiple tissue packs I carry around in my purse as if they’re quietly breeding. From this evidence alone, people assume I possess wisdom and a refined sense of responsibility.

There’s no denying I now hold menus at arm’s length, then closer, then farther away again like I’m trying to establish radio contact with shrimp scampi. And I call everyone under fifty “kids.” I should have accepted skin defeat years ago and just committed fully to moisturizing with bacon grease. Apparently, I am expected to spend afternoons in a recliner activating solemn endings – trading ambition for orthopedic comfort while soothing myself with apple cider foot baths.

But that’s not me.

I’m more like Tarzan’s nomadic aunt, powered almost entirely by feral energy that was confirmed the day I went Zip Lining with my two grandgirls. I did have concerns whether I still possessed the core strength necessary to survive the decision to suspend my carcass over the world and soar through woody lumber. Yet I proceeded with the confidence of someone whose pride refused to die before her spine did. I only alarmed one forestry personnel, a youthful instructor named Zack, who gave me the once-over while squeezing my harness and said, “Wow. You too?”

While being cinched into safety gear, I worried about my chest. The tightened harness bore a passing resemblance to a mammography machine. Something Zack appeared blissfully unfamiliar with. When he asked if he could tighten the straps, I briefly mistook professionalism for flirtation, trusting his touch would be far more pleasant than medical equipment. During that last tug, he compressed several internal organs into cooperation, approaching the task with the assurance of a NASCAR pit crew member securing cargo before launch. I hadn’t been that tightly contained since pantyhose ruled civilization.

Naturally, I wore bike shorts to further confuse the public about my age, making me feel like a vacuum-sealed athlete in spandex. A mature aerodynamic force wrapped in elastic dignity that compressed my cellulite into temporary submission. Brave? Hardly. Brave is raising children. Brave is eating gas station egg salad. Brave is clicking “accept all cookies” without fully understanding the consequences.

I lost my narrative momentum the minute I reached the platform, but gained it back in flight.

Once commuting through foliage, I performed a version of primal forest karaoke, screaming words that were technically English but spiritually closer to farm animal distress signals. Sounds usually heard when someone drops a rotisserie chicken in a parking lot. Yet somewhere between aerial panic and banshee impersonations, I transformed into a jungle prophet - a wind-slapped woodland mystic issuing sacred declarations about freedom. I descended like an enthusiastic patio umbrella, remarkably without uttering prayers that dissolved into profanity, then gave myself a landing ovation for surviving re-entry from space.

Cheers to all others out there who are skipping elderly crisis scenarios and are going straight to being fearless visionaries who embrace adventures. I may not bolt out of bed quickly in the morning. But I do perform a thorough systems check before liftoff - restoring circulation by stretching and checking my mental dashboard, maintaining a reasonably optimistic state of mind before going about my day. Also, allowing myself a brief moment of gratitude for standing up without being boosted by a crane. Zack did, however, provide hydraulic assist using grace and restraint. Very NASA adjacent. Which should be classified as a “team-based mobility solution” rather than “personal weakness.”