A long-married, elderly couple were sitting companionably watching Judge Judy when, during a commercial break, the woman turned to her husband and asked, “When did we stop holding hands?”

He thought for a moment and then gently took her spotted, bony hand in his and held it tenderly through the rest of the show.

The next day they were washing the dishes together and she turned to him and asked, “Remember when you used to come up behind me and kiss my neck while I was doing the dishes?”

Taking the hint, he wrapped his withered arms lovingly around her ample torso and planted a chaste kiss on her wrinkled neck.

That evening, after donning their flannel pajamas, the great-grandmother said, “I used to love it so when we used to cuddle together and you would nibble on my…”

The old gentleman fairly leapt out of bed, scrambling for the bathroom. “What are you doing, pet?” she asked in dismay.

“Wait just a moment while I put my dentures in!” he croaked.

We were several miles into a relentless climb and my legs were complaining so shamelessly that Colleen, my super-fit riding companion could see the agony on my face. She fell in beside me and launched into this rather long joke. At the slightly weak punchline, she apologized for the bad joke but pointed out that I’d completely forgotten my suffering and we were now at the summit. There’s a reason I seldom ride with Colleen, the reason being that I don’t know many women who can keep up with her, myself included; but I was reminded today of how much fun she is, in spite of the pain she inflicts on us mortals.

Starting the new year with a group ride is almost a tradition and so, I was foolish enough to accept an invitation to ride with a group of monster climbers. The only other woman at my fitness level (still ten years my junior) was riding an electric motorized bicycle. This left me gasping at the back of the pack, pushing the biggest gear I could to keep them in sight. Nonetheless, it was a spectacular day and the company was good, or at least it sounded like it from the snatches of laughter and conversation I could hear from my distance and over my labored breathing.

I’m a firm believer that age and treachery are formidable tools against youth and strength. So, I felt no shame at all, when the young folks steered their bikes down the gentle, pure vanilla trail, I pointed my my own steed down an overgrown, outlaw trail that plunged steeply down the hill and intersected with the domesticated route they had chosen a couple of hundred feet below. At the intersection, I waited smugly, knowing that for the rest of the ride (all downhill) I would no longer be at the back of the pack and I had regained my trail cred. Ha ha, I showed those young whippersnappers!