Play Hooky for Good Health
In this transient age, the seasonal turn from one sport to another provides me an oddly affirming sense of community.
A couple of weeks back, I took down my windsurfing gear and headed up the Columbia River. The true-blue boardheads had been there for a month or so, ripping daily across the river.
What took me so long? Dust falls slowly from the shoulders of bears just out of hibernation.
The odd thing is, I wasn't alone. Paddy, the Irish immigrant who now remodels houses in Portland, was out for the first time. Bone-tired after our first session, we compared notes.
He had "the glow." Staring out from the beach at Stevenson, Wash., at the beauty of the whitecaps, he reflected on what it would have cost him not to be here. "Consumerism," he said, and nodded toward Portland.
Not that we weren't consumers ourselves. It would be hard to find a more gear-intensive sport, with a higher price tag. Frankly, I'm sure that's the draw for some windsurfers.
But Paddy was talking about the urban mind-set that turns shopping into a sport.
The boardheads, bicyclists, surfers or skiers have found pursuits that help them to escape the malls. They work, yes, but they play, too. Many of us talk about balance. These people live it.
Take Ty. Each day, he checks his investments, then heads to the river. Ben and Lisa were living out of their motor home, sailing until they had to retreat for the call of the paycheck, hers as a flight attendant, his as a university instructor. John was up from Albuquerque for the summer, dialed in to the office in the mornings, dialed in to the wind in the afternoons. Lynn had arranged to take her vacation time four hours a day for the summer so she could sail.
In their way, they all had achieved an easy peace with this time of weird values. For far too many these days, more of less is best.
Stress? Not a problem: The tighter the wrap, the hipper you are. Too busy? No such thing. The busier, the better the bragging rights.
Our media and corporate cultures don't say much about taking a break. Instead, they extol the holy grail of congested schedules, frenzied commutes and Palm Pilot synchronicity. These are the measures of success, they say. Heroes do not play hooky.
Mine do. One of them is Jake. Covered in neoprene and dripping wet, Jake wore a huge grin when he pulled out of the river. He is 74.
"I hope I'm doing as well as you are when I'm your age," I said. "How old are you?" he asked. I told him. He smiled.
"I've got a daughter your age."
I didn't say it, but I wondered to myself if she also was a windsurfer. I hoped so.
A couple of weeks back, I took down my windsurfing gear and headed up the Columbia River. The true-blue boardheads had been there for a month or so, ripping daily across the river.
What took me so long? Dust falls slowly from the shoulders of bears just out of hibernation.
The odd thing is, I wasn't alone. Paddy, the Irish immigrant who now remodels houses in Portland, was out for the first time. Bone-tired after our first session, we compared notes.
He had "the glow." Staring out from the beach at Stevenson, Wash., at the beauty of the whitecaps, he reflected on what it would have cost him not to be here. "Consumerism," he said, and nodded toward Portland.
Not that we weren't consumers ourselves. It would be hard to find a more gear-intensive sport, with a higher price tag. Frankly, I'm sure that's the draw for some windsurfers.
But Paddy was talking about the urban mind-set that turns shopping into a sport.
The boardheads, bicyclists, surfers or skiers have found pursuits that help them to escape the malls. They work, yes, but they play, too. Many of us talk about balance. These people live it.
Take Ty. Each day, he checks his investments, then heads to the river. Ben and Lisa were living out of their motor home, sailing until they had to retreat for the call of the paycheck, hers as a flight attendant, his as a university instructor. John was up from Albuquerque for the summer, dialed in to the office in the mornings, dialed in to the wind in the afternoons. Lynn had arranged to take her vacation time four hours a day for the summer so she could sail.
In their way, they all had achieved an easy peace with this time of weird values. For far too many these days, more of less is best.
Stress? Not a problem: The tighter the wrap, the hipper you are. Too busy? No such thing. The busier, the better the bragging rights.
Our media and corporate cultures don't say much about taking a break. Instead, they extol the holy grail of congested schedules, frenzied commutes and Palm Pilot synchronicity. These are the measures of success, they say. Heroes do not play hooky.
Mine do. One of them is Jake. Covered in neoprene and dripping wet, Jake wore a huge grin when he pulled out of the river. He is 74.
"I hope I'm doing as well as you are when I'm your age," I said. "How old are you?" he asked. I told him. He smiled.
"I've got a daughter your age."
I didn't say it, but I wondered to myself if she also was a windsurfer. I hoped so.
