It was just another day at my old hometown mountain in western New York, back when the resort used to get enough snow to ski every weekend. My friend Gidget and I were in the locker room booting up for endless laps on the Bristol Mountain white strip of death, otherwise known as Rocket Run.
A bald guy with a stubbly, gray goatee who hardly looked ready to rocket approached my friend with a twinkle in his eye.
“Hey cutie, would you like to join the Old Fogeys Club?” A social group of mostly retired skiers, an invitation to join the Old Fogeys was not quite the compliment my 50-year-old friend wanted or needed. In the words of Groucho Marx, Gidget wouldn’t want to join any Old Fogeys Club that would have her as a member.
However, there was one “old fogey” we would have joined on the slopes in a heartbeat. I remember seeing him for the first time when I was in high school ski club. He was tall, fit, Hollywood handsome and perennially bronze in a way that would’ve inspired George Hamilton to do better. His piercing, ice-blue eyes gave “blue steel” long before that was even a thing. Practically no one wore helmets back then, but this guy didn’t even bother with a hat. Nothing to cover his perfectly blow-dried, snow-white hair. My friends and I called him Tan Man, and it made no difference that he was older than all of our fathers.
As Derek Zoolander said, “I’m pretty sure there’s more to life than being really, really, ridiculously good-looking.”
And there definitely was more to Tan Man than male-model good looks. The guy ripped.
Years later, when I was in my 40s, I’d still get a little adrenaline rush with every Tan Man sighting. He had to have been in his 80s. Still as handsome as ever. And still making the smoothest moves on the mountain. Athletic cool and grace have no expiration date.
The other day, I rode up Thaynes lift with an older guy kitted out in Goretex Stio. I’d noticed him earlier from the chairlift, sending up clouds of white smoke in his wake. We compared notes on secret stashes and I told him he should check out Keystone trees.
He said, “Oh, I never go in the trees by myself. At my age, it’s just not worth the risk.”
“Wait. How old are you?” I asked, figuring he was no more than 60.
“I’m 78!” he laughed. Apparently skiing doesn’t just keep you in shape. It might even be the fountain of youth.
Most local skiers have heard of Junior Bounous, the 97-year-old Alta legend who’s still lapping people a fraction his age. And The New York Times just published a piece about Alta’s Wild old Bunch, about 100 powder chasers who started skiing together in the ’70s — and who still regularly meet up to swap stories, drink coffee and rip turns.
Alta’s Wild old Bunch purposefully makes the “o” in their name lowercase to play down the age factor. Age is just a number. A social construct. And even more than that, it’s a state of mind.
Just ask Sydney Reed, who’s been skiing for 65 years, mostly here in Park City. Just don’t call her or any of the other women she regular skis and mountain bikes with “seniors.” She much prefers “Rad Mountain Bettys,” a name she says was coined for the group by Park Record columnist Tom Clyde. The group has been shredding together for years.
“We do all of the things we’ve always done living in the mountains,” Sydney says. “Now we just do them on e-bikes or on the groomers.”
Sydney is also part of a gang of Deer Valley skiers who met while they were ski instructors in the 1970s. Now, in their 70s, 80s and 90s, they’re still meeting up.
“We’re a tight group and we take care of each other,” Sydney says. When her late husband, one of the OG members of the group, was sick with cancer, they made sure he still got outside. Since he passed away, the group continues to be a lifeline for Sydney.
“You don’t get over what happened. You incorporate it into your life,” she says. “You have to face really hard things as you age. But when you get a text saying, ‘We’re skiing at 9:30,’ you put on your ski clothes and get out there. It helps you heal.”
“I remember when I was younger, thinking, Why would anyone want to be old and on a bike? You’re going to hurt yourself,” she says. “But now I say, What are you talking about?! I can still ride, I can still ski. I can still get out and do the things I’ve always loved doing.”
Sydney says she and her friends are no different than younger people except “maybe we’re a little more grateful for our friendships. We’ve all gone through hard times, but we still want to have fun with our friends. It’s good to have buddies you can call up and say, ‘Hey, let’s do something,’ and they’re ready to go.”
“This life goes on,” she says. “You think it’s over, but it’s really just beginning.”