A raw, witty confession about relevance, resilience and refusing to be scrapped, even when the suspension’s a bit knackered and the engine is spluttering!
Gotta be honest. I’m starting to feel it. It’s my birthday today. I’m 57 years old. Five, seven. Fifty-seven. How did that happen? When? Surely that’s an admin error. A typo someone forgot to correct.
I used to think age was just a number. You add another digit to the paperwork, it clocks up, but so what? It’s an artificial construct, a marker in a calendar, a polite reminder that time is still passing whether you like it or not.
What really counts is what’s in your head. And in my head, I’m still thirty-something. And even that doesn’t matter while you have a head full of horsepower and heart revving on adrenaline.
Or rather it did, and it was.
Lately, the old gearbox has been grinding a little. A few squeaks here, a few rattles there. The clutch of confidence slips occasionally. And some mornings, even getting out of bed feels like trying to push-start an old Beetle on a frosty morning.
The mirror, that most unforgiving MOT inspector, has started issuing advisories. Hair wearing thin like the tread on a drift car after a smoky run. Eyes revealing mileage like hazy headlight covers. Back creaking like tired boot hinges on an old Cortina. Feet aching as if they’ve walked miles with a jerrycan in search of fuel.
I’ve gone from man on a mission to a bloke trying to keep up.
More Humility, Less Hubris
Was I wrong to defy the digits? People used to say, “Act your age,” and I’d stick my tongue out, raid the candy cabinet, and buy yet another toy car I definitely didn’t need but absolutely deserved.
But is the joke on me now? The body’s started issuing its own recall notices. Energy drains faster than a Hellcat’s tank after living life a quarter mile at a time. Too many times. The bravado that once swaggered into any room, the confidence that could hold court, the stamina that would spin stories till sunrise… often takes the day off without notice.
World’s Gone Mad
And as for the world around me – it’s not helping. It’s noisier, dafter, and somehow more self-assured than ever. Everyone’s an expert armed with a smartphone, Wi-Fi, and a PhD in bluster. Common sense took an EV to enlightenment and ran out of charge halfway up the A40. The internet promised wisdom; instead, it handed megaphones to maniacs.
I find my patience stretched like a cambelt about to snap. My tolerance tested by a world gone mad: spotty influencers with ring lights tell us what’s woke, politicians outsource their manifestos to chatbots, and tycoons treat the economy like a casino run by toddlers hopped up on Haribos.
Meanwhile, we’re knee-deep in wars no one asked for, genocides people pretend not to see, and starvation in a world drowning in abundance. Yet, we’re putting trillionaires on pedestals, mass producing munitions, penalising the poor for breathing, and treating the edge of space as the world’s most expensive tourist safari.
Okay, okay, I’m not entirely jaded. The boy’s not in the care home just yet. Somewhere under this crust of cynicism, I remain fascinated. Genuinely. The tech! The robotics! AI! Space travel! Blimey, what wonders!
We’re living through the future we dreamt of as kids, watching Tomorrow’s World. Except instead of flying cars, we’ve got killer drones, instead of mechanical maids we have robot dogs, and instead of colonies on Mars we have slums in the cities. It’s all marvellous and maddening in equal measure.
The Question: Still Relevant?
Amid all this shiny progress, I catch myself asking: What’s my place in it? Am I still relevant? Do I still matter?
Without the availability of an independent adjudicator, I’ve had to run my own internal audit. I’ve pondered, pontificated, and processed the data, drilled the numbers, and analysed the analytics. And the result is… yes. Absolutely yes. Even more so than ever. Perhaps.
Because relevance isn’t about chasing the next trend, it’s about the baggage we drag along. The suitcase stuffed with life experience, hard knocks, adventures, and lessons you only earn the long way round.
By this age, you’re no longer wide-eyed or green-horned. Somewhere in the wardrobe sits a T-shirt that reads: “Been there, done that, bought the record, it was rubbish.” Experience becomes its own superpower.
And there’s one area where my vision has actually improved over the years. I can see through the hype. Sift through the bullshit.
Caution replaces recklessness. Patience replaces panic. A careful approach replaces uncorked optimism. The pitfalls are as obvious as the potholes, and the decision becomes whether to tiptoe around them or deliberately drive through them… because sometimes the latter is the wiser choice.
But Is The Hunger Still There?
Hunger? Oh yes, I could murder a burger right now. But you know what I mean. Crack open a door, light up a path to new opportunities, hand me the keys to a Lotus Elise and a route map to a twisty road, and I’m there, one hundred per cent.
Part of it stems from the knowledge, belief and niggling certainty that I’m not quite done yet. There’s more to prove; there are still hillclimbs to race up.
The hunger to create, to tell stories, to produce stuff… it’s still there, rumbling like an idling V8, even if the exhaust occasionally splutters.
Of course, in an age where SUVs with electric motors sprint to 60mph quicker than supercars of yesteryear, the world doesn’t always have patience for older engines. Ageism is the new emissions test. Fart much? Careful, they’ll scrap you for parts.
I’ve been a rebel, a storyteller, a content creator (I still am). But honestly, some weeks I just feel like a cherished classic left in the garage. Rust, creeping into places you don’t want to look. Bearings seizing up – a little more patina, a little less polish.
The Battle With Self
Depression occasionally drops by, uninvited, to share a quiet cuppa and remind me of all the things I still haven’t achieved – ultimately insinuating that I’m a failure. The what-ifs, the missed turns, the dreams that stalled with a dead battery.
Mr Melancholy also reminds me that the rock stars and movie idols of my youth are all either dead, decrepit or disgraced. The soundtrack of my life now plays on classic FM. The icons I once aspired to emulate are now cautionary tales or waxworks in museums.
The old torchbearers have dropped the torch, and all of today’s heroes are like boisterous bunnies bouncing around a TikTok feed doing weird dances. It’s both dispiriting and fascinating. Frankly, it leaves you questioning everything. Everyday.
Now and then, though, I manage to dig deep. I rage. I fight. I wrestle with shadows and sanity. I push back against apathy, exhaustion, and that sly, slippery whisper that says, “Maybe you’ve peaked, my old friend.” Mate Misery is a sadistic, motivation-sapping companion – it never even brings any biscuits for the chai. But, hang on. Motivation. That’s the key, isn’t it?
A cry echoes within, stubborn and defiant. “Peaked? Me? No bloody way, buddy!” And Depression is shown the door. I realise I need a new project, a new challenge, I need new motivation.
See, here’s the thing. For all the aches and doubts, I ain’t ready to quit. There’s still petrol in the tank, it ain’t 99 RON no more, but it’ll burn just the same, baby. A few extra turns on the starter motor and we’re good to go.
It Ain’t About How Hard You Can Hit
This isn’t the twilight, it’s the golden hour. That magical time of day when the light’s softer, the shadows longer, and the world looks spectacular.
The bones groan, and the mirror mocks, but imagination still sparks, inspiration still fires. There are still memories to be made. There’s stuff I gotta do. There’s meaning to be mined out of all this madness – if only to guide those that follow.
The future may be finite, but that does not make it finished. I have no intention of staying on the canvas. Rocky said it right. It’s not about how hard you can hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.
And I’ve taken my share of punches, some landed by life, some self-inflicted. But as the bruises fade, one truth becomes apparent: resilience is the most underrated muscle of all.
As long as there’s curiosity, courage, and caffeine – I’ll keep going. There are stories I have not told yet. Roads I have not driven. Dreams that still pull at the edges of my mind. And this is what I need to keep reminding myself.
And maybe feeling my age isn’t a sign of decline. Perhaps it’s just a reminder that I’ve lived. That I’ve earned every ache, every scar, every wrinkle. And don’t forget, an old engine, well-maintained and well-loved, can still make beautiful noise.
So here’s to the miles ahead. They may be fewer, but may they be richer – in every sense. Advisories aren’t fails. Let’s head back out there. Fifty-seven? Pah, that’s just a number.
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