My boyhood heroes were dynamic duos like Sherpa Tensing & Edmund Hillary and Batman & Robin. In my world of make-believe, I’d tie a piece of rope to a fence post and pretend I was pulling myself up the Everest or the outside of a Gotham City skyscraper. If I were in the role of Batman, I’d wear a bat cape, a large piece of plastic my father had spray-painted black. I had no costume for my simulated Everest ascent. I imagined Hillary climbed in a tweed jacket, complete with leather elbow patches.
As I grew older, I gave up on my Batman fantasies, but I continued my fixation with climbing Everest. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the time or, more significantly, the money to live out my fantasy. By the time I could have raided my pension fund to pay for my dream, I’d become too sensible. I had responsibilities. Besides, the top of Everest had become a crowded place during the ascent season. I didn’t see glory in freezing to death standing in a long line to have my photo taken atop the world.
So I set my sights lower, 10,000 feet lower. Everest base camp.
I was in my 50s. My fear of not making it to Basecamp motivated me to create a workout schedule. Even so, I kept wondering if going on this trek was a good idea. At 17,598 ft, the oxygen level in base camp is 50% of what it is at sea level. I’ve lived my entire life at sea level. My father was a coal miner. Arguably, I have the opposite genetic makeup to that of a Sherpa. I worried the lack of sweet, oxygen-rich air would mean I’d hit a wall and have to bail out of the trek. Or worse. It’d have to be carried back down on the back of a yak. So, I did what a relatively old, sensible person should do: I consulted my doctor. She recommended a cardiovascular stress test. I’m sure she was thinking, at least if we cause his heart attack in the hospital, we can fix it easier than halfway up a mountain.
A few days later, I stepped on a treadmill with a mask over my face and a cluster of wires stuck to my torso. A technician said, “We are going to increase the speed until you are breathless.”
“No sweat”, I said. A lame comeback she probably hears several times a day.
As the treadmill switched from slow walk to walking pace to jogging, the technician marked a rolling printout of the data with a pen and generally looked bored. I took this to be a good sign.
At the end of the test, the technician said, “The cardiologist will be in to talk with you shortly”. I resisted the temptation to say, ” My name isn’t Shortly. It’s been decades since I saw it, but the movie Airplane is still a big part of my personality. But, I’ve lived long enough to know I shouldn’t be a smart ass with the police, airport security, hairdressers, and medical staff.
The cardiologist breezed in, as if to impress me with his cardiovascular fitness. He scrutinized my chart. Looked at some numbers on the computer monitor and made some more marks on my chart with a red pen.
He inhaled deeply. “Your heart and lungs are in good shape. Your cardiovascular system is about 10 years younger than your chronological age.”
I left the medical center on a high note and was keen to get back to work to brag.
As I was driving along the freeway, I thought… ten years younger… ten years. But then, the math hit me:
58 – 10 = 48
Even with the best-case outcome, I still had the cardiovascular system of a 48-year-old.