Getting Old

I was jotting down some thoughts for my book, and a some interesting dividing lines by decade came to mind on how much interior firefighting I could do came to mind.

At eighteen or twenty, I could go through three air bottles, overhaul, clean and pack up the equipment, and go home and rest for forty five minutes, and be ready to go again.

At thirty, age and judgment limited me to two tanks, and it took a couple hours before I felt back to normal.

At forty, I could still do two bottles, but the recovery time was now extended to the next day.

Now on the leading edge of fifty, I try to limit myself to one tank. I can work after that, but it's limited to some light overhaul, definitely not the heavy stuff. Once home, I head for the bathroom; not to shower, which will come in a bit, but for the aspirin container, trying to head off the inevitable aches and pains. They arrive anyway, and stay to visit now for a good thirty six hours.

It's a bitch getting old.