Rushing's Ramblings

When you're in your 'golden years' and living alone, there's a distinct possibility that no one will know you've died until the odor of a decaying body becomes too much to ignore.  I didn't worry about that scene until I thought about Paddy suffering alongside my cold, dead body.  I recently mentioned my concern to some friends, who suggested I ask Marcy to contact me daily. Marcy has her hands full with a demanding career, two young children, and a husband.  She doesn't need one more task added to an already overwhelming day, so I asked her to text me daily.   After two days of receiving a text with the question, "Are you alive?" simultaneously, I realized that she had programmed the message.  I began to humor myself by responding with pictures of various distressed women. She was working close by yesterday when I received the daily message.   Me: "No."   Marcy:  "I guess I'll send the coroner."

I hadn’t thought about my brief bicycle racing years until I watched a steady stream of old folks riding bikes on the beach from my perch, far from the maddening crowd. I applaud them for their efforts with the realization that there’s no way this old woman will ever ride a bike again. After two hip replacements, followed by dislocating a hip, I figure a tumble off a bike might have serious consequences. I was fearlessly competitive in the early 80s but won only one or two races. Elite young female athletes were the regular winners. They trained many hours and miles daily, while I usually trained by commuting 35 miles round trip to work. Plus, I had a young child, a husband, and a job that needed my attention. Besides, at age 35, I was much older than the young women vying for a place on the Olympic team. Vitas, a French bicycle maker, was my sponsor. They awarded me with one of their lightweight aluminum bike frames that were highly prized during the 80s. We added expensive titaniu...