A few days after turning 65, I was sitting beside a pool in Mallorca with a chilled glass of Spanish wine, which is apparently what people my age are supposed to do.
I had spent four days cycling more than 120 miles and climbing around 6,500 feet, so for once, sitting down felt like a sensible suggestion.
More importantly, my legs needed time to stop shouting at me.
After two years out of the saddle through injury, I was proud of what I had managed. Although the video of me gasping up one particularly steep hill suggests my lungs were considerably less impressed.
There is nothing elegant about a 65-year-old man hauling himself uphill while every part of his body asks the same perfectly reasonable question:
Why are we doing this when there is a pool, a sunbed and cold wine waiting at the hotel?
The honest answer is that I wasn’t trying to prove I was still young.
I was doing it because challenging myself, being uncomfortable and occasionally wondering whether I had made a terrible decision makes me feel very much alive.
When I was growing up in the 1960s and 70s, 65 was the magic number.
You worked hard, collected your golden watch and then finally got to enjoy yourself.
That made sense in my parents’ world. I’m not sure it makes the same sense in mine.
We don’t have to wait until retirement to start enjoying life. We can travel, laugh, create memories and surround ourselves with people we love. Some are genetically related to us and others have simply earned the right to be called family.
If we are fortunate, we can also find work that gives us something more than a wage.
So why should reaching a particular birthday mean automatically walking away from something that still gives us energy and purpose?
People my age, close to my age and quite a few younger than me keep talking about retirement. They ask when I’m going to retire and then look at me as though I have misunderstood either the question or my own date of birth when I say I’m not.
Then, on my birthday in Mallorca, a young man offered me his seat on the bus.
His intentions were lovely.
My family thought it was hilarious.
I was less convinced.
I briefly considered showing him the week’s cycling statistics, but that felt both unnecessary and slightly desperate. So I thanked him and tried not to look emotionally wounded.
Perhaps that is one of the stranger things about ageing.
Inside, you remain recognisably yourself. Then the outside world begins providing little updates about how it now sees you.
Your body joins in.
Recovery takes longer. Things ache for no apparent reason. Getting out of a chair occasionally requires planning, momentum and sound effects.
I’m not pretending I’m 25.
But I’m also not prepared to let a number decide what I should stop attempting.
And I’m certainly not alone.
A few days later, Stella and I climbed the 365 Calvari Steps to the El Calvari chapel in Pollença.
I was making my way up with what I considered a respectable level of determination when we were overtaken by several sprightly people in their 80s.
They appeared to float up the steps while I carried out another detailed negotiation with my lungs.
It was humbling, reassuring and mildly irritating.
Apparently, turning 65 hadn’t made me old. It had simply moved me into a much more competitive age category.
Getting back on the bike after two years away was about far more than mileage or fitness.
Every hill became a conversation with myself.
Can I keep going?
Is my body telling me to stop, or is my mind simply looking for an easier option?
Sometimes the sensible answer was not to start another ride.
After three days of cycling, I took a full rest day while the others completed another 40 miles.
Admittedly, I spent part of that day delivering a leadership session to senior leaders at a conference in Barcelona from my hotel room, so it wasn’t complete surrender.
But the rest mattered.
The following day, my legs came back, my confidence returned and I completed another 30-plus miles with around 2,000 feet of climbing. It was probably my best ride of the trip.
Challenging yourself doesn’t mean ignoring your body or refusing to rest. Sometimes the best way to overcome the next hill is to know when not to ride it.
What I am challenging is the assumption that life must automatically become smaller, safer and slower as the years pass.
For me, challenge creates energy.
It keeps me curious and engaged. It reminds me that I can still struggle, adapt and overcome, although the recovery now takes longer and involves more wine.
Challenge looks different for everyone. Mine happened to involve a bicycle, several Mallorcan hills and a very public demonstration of poor breathing technique.
It doesn’t have to impress anyone else.
It just has to matter to you.
This isn’t a criticism of retirement.
If stopping work gives you freedom, happiness and the life you want, enjoy every minute of it.
But I know that I need something that keeps me engaged, useful and curious. Without that, I would quickly become unbearable, particularly to Stella.
I do want to change how I work.
I want less unnecessary travel, more control over my time and more space for Stella, my family, my friends and the things we enjoy together.
I want to be more selective about where I put my energy.
But that isn’t retirement.
It is redesign.
Perhaps that is what getting older means for me.
Not pretending my body hasn’t changed. Not trying to prove I can still do everything I did when I was younger. Just deciding more carefully what matters and continuing to challenge myself where it does.
The hill will win eventually.
It just didn’t win that day.
And after more than 120 miles and 6,500 feet of climbing, I had earned the right to sit beside the pool and make sure a perfectly good glass of Spanish wine didn’t get warm.
