I noticed a couple of weeks ago that spring was just about here, and I knew that soon it was going to be body shirt time while riding the Harley – so I better get cracking on the exercise program to help restore my bod so I can flex tattooed muscles and impress the crowds of bike riders. My plan is to have everyone wonder how a man my age can look so good.
It’s hard to look at pictures taken forty years ago by cameras you can only find in antique stores and then look in the mirror. It’s a cruel joke played by Mother Nature and it makes my blood boil. I get fired up over it and head for the exercise room with fire in my eyes. I’ll show you (Mother Nature) who is still boss. The hell with forty years, I can still do the same workout…but even better than in old days!
This is where the pain comes in. I don’t have any pictures of me grimacing in pain, after all, that wouldn’t be manly. I do have the mental picture though, in fact, I see it as I write. I believe the mental image could almost compare to birthing. I know the physical part is real and having a picture of that would be priceless. I could do a selfie with my new fangled cell phone, but putting that on the Web would be admitting that Mother Nature has won.
You know something? Macho just isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. I think I will forget about the whole macho muscles idea and wear a long-sleeved shirt. After all, I need to worry about cancer on my leathered looking skin, beat all to hell by years of UV overdose. Nobody is looking anyway and if they are, it’s at the bike, not the old, grey haired dude riding it.
I’m just saying,