Boomerland: Hero steps in to save shrinking boomer

Petersen

Buh-buh-buh baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet, the Bachman-Turner Overdrive song goes.

This may be the perfect anthem for baby boomers. For men, hair is thinning, except on the ears, where during sleep the Miracle-Gro fairy sprinkles magic dust.

Muscles are growing weaker. That’s true even for old hay bale tossers and track and field shot-putters like me. I once could throw a hay bale over a truck stacked five bales high, a skill that sadly never landed on my resume.

In high school track, I threw the 12-pound iron ball to a city championship (admittedly a small city). In junior college track, I threw a 16-pound iron ball. Spectators said I should go into journalism.

Even so, I was a strong man.

Then I turned 40. Each decade since, as an average man, I have lost 8% of my muscle. Now, entering the upper 60s, I am about 20% weaker than at age 40. As a teen, I used to help other boys move Volkswagen bugs into locations that stunned their drivers. Now I need help lifting a ladybug.

This “weakness” comes despite lifting light barbells daily.

Perhaps you, too, have noticed a loss of strength when it comes to outwitting jar tops or moving heavy objects.

This all came to a head when, returning from a hike in the Blue Mountains, the new-to-me Jeep had a flat rear driver’s-side tire. I found the tire iron and jack. With difficulty, as if wrestling a steer, I removed the spare tire from the “trunk.”

I was about ready to jack up the car when a state trooper arrived.

“Ever changed a flat tire before?” he asked, eyeing me as I thumbed through the car manual on the driver’s seat.

“Yes, more times than I want to remember. But not this rig,” I said. “I want to do it right and not damage the car.”

Cars now are about expensive as houses were 50 years ago. My car needs to last at least 15 years and hundreds of thousands of miles.

The state trooper pulled a low-profile car jack from his trunk, which speeded up the job.

After jacking up the car, I began removing bolts from the tire. Turning red with effort, I got the first one loose. The others, however, were stuck fast.

The trooper, whom I estimated to be 39, at his strength peak, jumped in. With effort, he finished removing the bolts.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” I said.

Then I pulled the tire off and put on the replacement.

Lifting the punctured tire into the car, I could feel my back screaming. In the old days, when I had actual biceps, I could have lifted the tire over my head. Maybe even shot-putted it 20 feet down the road.

Now I was lucky to not drop it and pin myself to the tarmac.

Younger folks might laugh at us, the incredibly withering baby boomer generation. Their shrinkage will come, faster than they think.

Thanking the state trooper one last time, I drove to town, flashers on, at 45 mph, occasionally pulling over so a fleet of recreational vehicles could roar past.

I may be slow but I’m old. And baby, even I know, I ain’t seen the worst of this aging business yet.

To reach Jeff Petersen, send an email to [email protected].

Petersen

Log in

Keep it Clean. Please avoid obscene, vulgar, lewd,racist or sexually-oriented language.PLEASE TURN OFF YOUR CAPS LOCK.Don't Threaten. Threats of harming anotherperson will not be tolerated.Be Truthful. Don't knowingly lie about anyoneor anything.Be Nice. No racism, sexism or any sort of -ismthat is degrading to another person.Be Proactive. Use the 'Report' link oneach comment to let us know of abusive posts.Share with Us. We'd love to hear eyewitnessaccounts, the history behind an article.