No matter! This was not about prizes. We huddled with
dozens of other men and women in the August morning chill
along Lake Granby’s shore, awaiting the start and embracing
our chance to prove that we were the iron-calved paragons of
ageless virility we still imagined ourselves to be.DATA SUPPORT THIS DELUSION. When scientists from the Uni-
versity of Washington’s Institute for Health Metrics and
Evaluation studied life expectancies in the United States,
they found that the longest-living people reside in three adja-
cent Colorado counties: Summit, Eagle, and Pitkin. Summit
County residents, who rank at the top, live an average of
86.83 years, making them the Galápagos tortoises of the
human species. Grand County, where I live, came in at a
relatively sluggish 31st out of 3,142 counties and regions,
averaging a mere 82.73 years—still four more than the
national average. Overall, Colorado accounted for 10 of the
country’s top 50 counties and regions, twice as many as Cali-
fornia, the closest contender.
The reality is that in Colorado, you’re constantly sur-
rounded by people—of all ages—who are hiking, biking,
skiing, and otherwise recreating like a playground full of kids
amped on Mocha Frappuccinos. And you think: Why not me?
I fell into that trap. Starting an adventure-racing career
at age 60 requires championship-level self-deception. But
I’m vulnerable to flattery, which was definitely a factor the
day I met Boulder’s Katie Ferrington. I usually try to work
a meal into my exercise regimen—balance is so important—
and I’d interrupted a spring 2016 bike ride for a sandwich.
I shared a picnic table with Ferrington and her husband,The Immortalit y Delusion
Adventure-racing toward a late-life lesson in humility. BY MARTIN J. SMITH
very human body has an expiration date. This
shouldn’t surprise anyone, especially those of us for
whom the mirror suggests clear evidence of decline.
But ego is a remarkable thing, and well into my later
years—with just the right amount of squinting and
Advil—I’d managed to cling to the idea that endless
youth was within reach.
Which, in part, explains how a guy who had
devolved into a white-haired, slightly paunched
sexagenarian found himself at the starting line of Grand
County’s first Never Summer Adventure Race, three years
ago this month. Along with two nephews, also hoary at
50 and 56, I had signed up for the multidisciplinary event,
which required our team to mountain bike about 15 miles of
backcountry, navigate by compass deep into brushy wilder-
ness, answer one confounding riddle, solve a sloppy logistics
problem, and canoe around a set of islands in Lake Granby.
Each team would have six hours to complete a circuit of
checkpoints, punching a passport at each one to verify they’d
finished that portion of the race. The more checkpoints you
reached, the more points you’d get. All the while, the clock
would be ticking; you could be penalized for things such as
having noncompetitors assist you or arriving at the end of the
course after the designated 4 p.m. finish time.
We paid the $100 (per person) entry fee and agreed to
participate in the ordeal for the chance to pedal, paddle, and
orienteer our way to geriatric glory. We’d also have a chance
to win prizes that, arrayed on a table at the finish line, looked
as though they’d come from some random drawers the orga-
nizers had just cleaned out at home.E
BarryBlittFIRST PERSON
70 |^5280 |^ AUGUST^2019