A milestone birthday looms before me. While biking down a country road, Toby Keith’s classic, As Good As I Once Was, keeps echoing in my head. I ain’t as good as I once was; I got a few years on me now; But there was a time. . . 

There was a time whenthe clock struck midnight and my miniskirt still twirled; when high heels lined my closet instead of sensible Hokas; when I paraglided across the Gulf of Mexico, flying like a bird. 

There was a time when a friend and I jogged regularly, training for a half-marathon. Pounding the pavement is no longer an option for me, although the other day, when I was trying to beat a thunderstorm, I sprinted as fast as ever. 

There was a time I galloped my horse in open fields, trotted up steep hills, and fox-hunted, clearing two-foot fences. My horse and I wove up and down Montana switch backs and forded rushing streams. These days, I no longer own a horse and only occasionally get to trail ride at a walk or trot, but the thrill of being on the back of a horse is still there.

The older I get, the more I appreciate simple things: sitting by my water-garden, a rousing game of tennis or pickleball, the cool breeze through my car’s sunroof, my grandchildren’s enthusiasm, a quiet afternoon with a good book, traveling and seeing new places, a profound insight or sudden inspiration, a burst of creativity, deep understanding, and sharing moments with family and friends. 

There was a time when my life was consumed with career and raising children. These days, my work responsibilities are only newspaper deadlines. Looking back on my writing journey, I’ve printed out hundreds of pages of words, most of which are meaningless. Yet some have touched others, either lifting their spirits or allowing them to reflect on something new.

Don’t get me wrong. Getting older has its drawbacks. Family and friends are experiencing poor health and fear of the world’s future worries me. YetI’ve lived long enough to have witnessed miraculous survival stories and incredible minds finding solutions to crises.

I bike to the top of my favorite hill then pause to take in the boundless view: a white farmhouse, a freshly painted red barn, cornfields, and the start of orange and red leaves in the maple trees, hints that Wisconsin will soon burst into color. A steep stretch of highway dips into a valley then rises to meet a sapphire sky.

I ain’t as good as I once was; My how the years have flown: But there was a time, back in my prime; When I. . .  Hey wait a minute, Toby Keith. I can still hold my own. 

I push off, pedal to the crest of the hill, and then, whoosh! I fly down the hill, picking up speed. The wind whips back my hair and then it happens. I’m flying. Flying.