Middle-age Spokes of Death

I tend to hang out with Chinese.

Which explains a lot.

But I do have one white, middle-age Kiwi mate, who is also married to an Asian.

We occasionally get together to commiserate.

By which I mean drink.


My friend, who I shall call “David”, because that’s his name, is a very successful and notoriously tight businessman.

Money-wise, he is millions ahead of me.

But when it comes to growing old gracefully, I leave him for dead.

Sure, I complain about being fat and having no energy, but it’s not like I actually do anything about it.

David, on the other hand, is like a man on a mission.

A couple of years ago, he bought a Labrador retriever.

Not because he loves dogs, but because he wanted a running partner.

He planned to run every morning along the nearby beach and retain his studly manliness.

This fitness strategy was totally successful right up until SPROING.

That was the sound of his achilles tendons blowing out.

A brief amount of time passed, and David noticed he was adding several layers of manliness around his mid-section.

Which just would not do.

So he spent weeks on the internet, researching bicycles.

Then he bought a $3,000 bike from somewhere in Europe that weighs less than his iPhone.

And he raced off like Lance Armstrong.

The last time I saw him, he whipped out his iPhone and showed me his “training route”.

I pointed out that:

1) He was an idiot

2) Worse, he was a middle-aged idiot with an expensive and dangerous new toy

3) His idiotic bicycling path covered a stretch of road that has literally killed numerous bicyclists in the recent past.

“Pissshhhaw” he said, except, when it came out of his mouth, it sounded like “bullshit.”

Which brings us to the present.

I was getting cabin fever this morning, slaving away in my home office, so I texted David to see if he wanted to have lunch.

This is the text I got back, I swear:

“It’s Mike texting. Dad says you were right. He’s in hospital. Fell off his bike and broke his arm. He’s on morphine, waiting for an x-ray.”

Now, David is my mate, so I did not laugh or send follow-up texts filled with mocking.

Because you would have to be a round, late-middle-age curmudgeon to do such a thing.

Harrumph.

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