I wrote a while back about my changing attitude toward attending what once was the highlight of my week during the fall: joining 110,000 of my best friends in the Big House to watch my Wolverines play football (1). This growing aversion is not yet absolute, as my wife and and I joined the Homecoming crowd Saturday to watch our boys take on Penn State, an excursion rewarded by a beautiful sunny fall day, a lively lunch at Dominick’s (2), and a Wolverine victory!
But that realization has spawned a reflection on the many things I’ve stopped doing after enjoying them for so many years. While with age and retirement comes the freedom to winnow down activities to those you really like to do, I was surprised to see how long the list was once I got down to specifics. So, here’s my list, in alphabetical order. If you happen to be a fellow boomer, you can compare it to yours.
Baseball. My dad was a sports nut and could tell you about sluggers he’d seen from Babe Ruth to Hank Greenburg to Rocky Colavito to Miguel Cabrera. Always a Tigers fan, as a Grand Rapids boy he also followed the Cubbies. He could recite the Tigers lineup that beat the Cubbies in the 1935 World Series, the Tigers’ first ever championship. Our 2 years in Pittsburgh were enough to make him a Pirates fan. Their team was just coming off their “Impossible Pirates” ’60 World Championship and featured the likes of Roberto Clemente, Willie Stargell, and Bill Mazeroski (who’d hit the home that won that WC). He got back from the War in time for the Tigers’ 45 championship. He could eventually claim Tigers’ World Series championships over 6 decades (’35, ’45, ’68, ’84). That ’68 series was special for us, coming on top of the ’67 riots. We went to an afternoon game the day the riots started. I still remember the smoke rising from the neighborhoods as we walked back to our car. Dad pulled me out of Ann Arbor to catch the ’71 All-Star game at Tiger Stadium with all those future Hall-of-Famers. We enjoyed seeing games during those last days at the Corner, sharing the experience with a handful of fans who appreciated how special it was. Dad died in ’03, 3 years short of the next Series, which didn’t turn out so well. Earlier, he’d nudged me from afar when my St. Louis Cards were heading for the WC. I was a frazzled intern and wasn’t paying attention to much of the outside world. I got him down to sit with me in Busch Stadium to watch Joaquín Andújar mow ‘em down.
I played a little, catching for a boys’ minor league team in Pittsburgh. But it was the stats that really caught me. I enjoyed figuring out those averages and percentages, even making up my own teams so I could have them play imaginary games and let me figure out the stats. This was well before sabermetrics, and I never picked up on those. I’m sure all that number-crunching helped build the math muscles in my little brain. I eventually passed all that on to my wife, whom I taught to keep score when we started to go to ballgames regularly. The Tigers faded after their ’06 series, and eventually the only player we knew on the team was Miguel Cabrera. My birth dad’s family helped maintain the pull to Comerica Park, staging outings which often included our Toronton sister coming to see her Blue Jays. We’ve had no outings since COVID, and Kathy and I have seen no games on our own. The game has lost many charms. Teams have decided fans must be continually stimulated, so time for quiet contemplation of the wonderful game on the field has been drowned out. Costs for tickets and concessions are through the roof. Ballplayers come from around the world, most speaking English as a second language. I remember that most of the ’68 team were boys from Michigan. Harder to warm up to this new crop. Interleague play used to be reserved for the World Series. It was an interesting novelty when introduced for the regular season, but now there’s nothing special about it, with interleague contests all through the schedule. As the Tigers are an A.L. team, I never minded the designated hitter rule, particularly since my Tigers had so many studs batting in that position. But I don’t like the more recent rules changes, particularly those meant to speed up the game, like clocks for the pitcher. In Ken Burns’ wonderful series on Baseball, he mentioned repeatedly that “baseball is the only sport with no clock”. Now we’ve blown that one. If George Carlin were alive to redo his routine on baseball vs. football (3), he’d have to make some changes. So, I don’t follow baseball anymore. I heard our Tigers had a great pitcher named Skubal, but they traded him away. I sort of have an attachment to another great Tiger pitcher who has rejoined his team for a victory lap. One of my last fellows married Kate Upton’s sister and thus is Justin Verlander’s brother-in-law. This hasn’t yet translated to an introduction. Please don’t take my shunning of current play to indicate I’ve lost my love of the game. Put on any of those great old baseball movies – Pride of the Yankees, It Happens Every Spring, Damn Yankees, Bull Durham, Mr. Baseball, Major League, Field of Dreams, The Natural, and, yes, For the Love of the Game – and I’ll watch ‘em with ya. My baseball glove still hangs high on my Memory Wall, so if circumstances arise, I can be like John Fogarty “put me in coach” (4). So, no, I’m not done with baseball, but I think it’s done with me, for the time being. Maybe if I just watch it in black & white (see 4).
Bicycling. I’ve chronicled the sad departure of my 6 bicycles in 2020 (5,6). My accident in Chile December 2014 was the death knell for an activity I’d enjoyed immensely (7). The emergence of e-bikes offers another chance to get about on 2 wheels, but I’ve passed. Seems they offer all the hazards of bicycling – plus the occasional lithium battery fire – minus any exercise benefit. And the situation supports my old thought “If God had wanted us to ride around unprotected, he wouldn’t have given us cars”.
Camping. When my wife and I get around to it, the beautiful blue 4-man tent we’d pitched over Lake Superior, Lake Michigan and Utah’s White Rim will be headed to Play It Again Sports, along with as much of our other camping gear they’ll take. While we joyously reminisce about those times – the campfire smoke, the crash of the water, the struggle with the elements to start a fire and cook dinner, the reward of morning cowboy coffee – we realize we complain when the hotel has a lumpy bed. I doubt that if we find fault with the softness or contour of our Pictured Rocks bed surface that we can summon the Management. Two years ago, I caught a blurb about protected camping on Lake Superior (8). I ended up booking a week in September, and next September will finally take advantage. Since then, I’ve learned that this sort of thing has a name: “glamping”, from glamorous camping, I guess. Offers are popping up to me from all sorts of locales. I think we’ll check with L’Anse before committing to any future en-yurt-ment.
Car tinkering. You’d probably never want me near yours, but I used to get up close and greasy with all my old clunkers. Mostly the easy stuff – gaps/points, oil change, air filter change – that I doubt is even possible on today’s cars. I even did some body work, chasing rust and once bolting a replacement front quarterpanel on my ’79 Rabbit – first new car I bought with my own money – but I sold it to a patient’s mechanic brother before I got around to painting it. None of my beauties since then have been touched like that, not even an oil change. But I’ve been reading about these gizmos you can buy that’ll do the same plug in assessment they do at the service station…
Cee-gars! My dear late Uncle Bob was my idol (9) and loved his stogies. They say that scent is the strongest trigger of memory, and even now when someone lights up, I feel like little Bobby by his side. But the cigars of my youth got lit up in those testosterone-fueled drinking binges as we showed off what we could endure. Later, the celebratory role came into play. When my academic trips began to take me through duty free shops, cigars became my favored souvenir, Cubans whenever possible. Great smokes give great cred, and my degenerate buddies appreciated my finds. With such a stash at home, I occasionally took one out and smoked it for no particular reason. One day, as I sucked on a fat Cuban on my porch, the muscarinic effects kicked in big time and the spitting and nausea overwhelmed whatever pleasure that nicotine was trying to give. I thought to myself “what am I doing this for?”. I packed up my collection of Cubans and gave them to my favorite nurse to give to her cigar aficionado husband. When occasions arise when cigars are suggested, I just say no. My Uncle Bob inhaled his cigars and died of emphysema. Ya’d think I’d a learned that these things just aren’t good for you. My Little Brother in Florida doesn’t know that and occassional pressures me (10)
Concerts (just the big ones). I’ve been going to rock concerts since I joined half a million of my best friends at Goose Lake in August 1970. Over time, I’ve added everything from jazz to classical and in between. Fortunately, Kathy shares my enthusiasm, and we remain great supporters of live music. We’ve even had a small financial stake in a local jazz club. In 2014, I decided to make a more concerted effort to see the favorites from our youth that were still touring. Thus beget the “fogey rock tour”. “See ‘em before they die” said my friend Forrest. I’ve kept track of all those concerts, if you’re interested (11). We caught performers at everything from house concerts to arenas and big outdoor amphitheaters. It was the latter that began to get to us. The big crowds make for a struggle from the jammed traffic en route to the venue, the crowded parking lots, the squooshed bodies once inside, and return/repeat when the show is over. Even with the closest seats, that show can be hard to see, and the amplification necessary to boost the tunes over the crowds doesn’t do much for the sound quality. We still take a dip occasionally, but when we saw Little Feat at Meijer Gardens last June, it was the first time in over 4 years we’ve attended a large outdoor venue. We consider our 400 seat Ark as perfection. Jazz clubs are great, too. But my days of perusing the schedules of Pine Knob, Meadowbrook, and Freedom Hill are passed. For the right artist, we’d make an exception, say if Bob Seger decides to come out of retirement. Till then, you can have my patch on the Knob.
Golf. The only sport in which I lettered, I really never played much after going away to college. I finally tossed my clubs 15 or so years ago when Play It Again Sports had no use for my 60s-era set of Arnold Palmer irons and Wilson woods. I do wish I’d kept my putter, a Horton Smith model with a simulated wood shaft. My golf nut brother-in-law took his sister and me out on his fancy Santa Fe course, and boy was I hittin’ ‘em with the new clubs he rented for me. But not enough for a rekindle. I’d always found the game full of frustrations with rare moments of joy. I figured if I wanted that, I could just go to work.
Khakis. Dockers were part of my work uniform, just like for Jimmy Harbaugh. Getting dressed was easy-peasy: button down white shirt, khakis, black socks, shoes, and belt. Only the tie changed. Jimmy’s sideline look above waist was a little different, but his devotion to Dockers was legendary. While still on the West Coast, he cut an amusing commercial for the pants (12). Dockers looked sharp out of the dryer but wrinkled rapidly. After Jimmy got a few raises as Michigan’s coach, he upgraded to Lulemon’s, which he still favors. Not yet for me. At nearly 4 times the price of Docker’s, they’re not quite the “people’s pant”. With retirement went the need to wear Dockers much, and that Covid diet plan eased my expanding waist into sweats and scrubs – I guess they call them ”soft pants” these days – which I wear exclusively now. A lot of my “nice” clothes have gone to my very tall nephews, but not the Dockers yet. I’ve learned the boys probably wouldn’t like them anyway, as they have a pleated front, which I’ve heard a fashion consultant say “screams 90s”. Should I ever get back my pre-COVID waist, maybe I’ll slip into a pair of khakis again. There’s a Lulemon store across town, so we’ll see if I want to go full Harbaugh.
Running. Running wasn’t a thing yet in the 60s. But it was for me. As I strived to be a Vicksburg Bulldog champion on the gridiron and hardwood, getting in shape was important and running was a good way to get there. The country block by my house formed by Portage Road, Barton Lake Drive, and connectors was about 1 mile, making those laps easy to quantify. My junior year I joined the cross-country team and racked up many more miles. Come basketball season, I was keeping up with the whole team in early season sprints, shocking coach Horn, even though he’d been my cross-country coach, directing my runs there. I slacked off in college, but when the call went out for my dorm’s intramural cross-country team, I volunteered. I learned at the meet that cross country isn’t a sport you can do from memory. I returned to my slob hippie ways, my exercise consisting of walking campus and the occasional pickup basketball game. Come med school, my apartment by Lake Michigan sat by a foot bridge over Lake Shore Drive connected to the magnificent lakefront trail that ran from The Point in Hyde Park all the way up to Evanston, 20 miles north. Except for the necessary down-and-back, you couldn’t ask for a better trail. 7- and 10-mile runs were the usual, with very few days off. My young knees had no complaints, and I was rewarded with stamina and a sleek body. The habit was so addictive, I kept it up in my two months in London, enjoying many a run around Hyde Park, near where I was staying. The match placed me in St. Louis, where I found an apartment right on Forest Park – site of the 1904 World’s Fair – which I began to encircle. At 7 miles around, it was the perfect run for me. By then (1979), everybody was running. For one hospital rotation, I was among the 3 residents assigned, and we were all runners. We worked out a system where we could cover for each other so we could each get a run in while on call. Organized runs were becoming a thing then, mainly 10Ks, and I signed up for a bunch. My long legs could never muster better than a 7-minute mile, so I never left the middle of the pack. But I accumulated a lot of t-shirts! Ann Arbor was next, with my apartment by the river at the base of Cedar Bend, a dirt road that led to the top of Broadway hill, a couple blocks from where I live now. Many great paths started there, but starting at the bottom of Cedar Bend meant the first half mile was nearly straight up. One of Kathy’s Kinesiology friends would treat that hill like a wind sprint, running up and down it repeatedly. I was never that dedicated. I still signed up for organized runs, even a marathon in Traverse City (I didn’t finish). As I got more into bicycling, I ran less. Once in my 50s, I began to get a little feedback in my knees. I got down to about one run a week, but it was a dandy. I’d rise early on a Friday morning, pack my backpack with my work clothes, then head out through a path that stretched though 5 parks and the Arboretum. 5 miles later I’d be in the showers in the basement of Taubman. I’d get dressed and take the elevator 4 floors up to my office, stopping by the cafeteria to get oatmeal and milk for breakfast to finish at my desk. After my Division got relocated from Taubman to North Ingalls Building, 4 blocks west, that run routing became much harder to pull off and I eventually stopped trying. I emerged unscathed from all those years of running. I never had to worry about how much I ate or drank, and my heart rate is still low! I have a little bit of osteoarthritis on my knee x-rays, but my only knee trouble came with the left one after a surfing attempt (13). Yes, that runner’s high is a sublime feeling I’ll likely never again experience, but I can’t say I miss the activity. Sure, if someone could get me the youthful body back that could withstand running, I’d accept the offer. But I’m happy with what I have here in the real world. I can still walk.
Supplements. I once took a daily vitamin and ramped up the supplements big time when the “Natural Healing” craze first hit, and every ailment could be cured or prevented by the right supplement. I added even more when I started taking the “muscle cocktail” told to me by a neurologist who used it to treat a number of chronic muscle disorders. I thought they might amplify the effects of my iron-pumping. I described my supplement cocktail to a nephrologist colleague, who was aghast and told me, “Bob, you’ll burn out your kidneys with all that (ascorbic) acid (vitamin C)”. I was getting tired of the routine anyway, so I dialed back and eventually stopped entirely. If there was a disease those pills were suppressing or preventing, it hasn’t emerged yet. I recently came across a study describing the positive effects of creatine supplementation on muscle mass in elderly men (14). I found the big tub of creatine powder in the downstairs bathroom and may give it a try. Oh, and then there’s Arthrozene and Zenther, but that’s another story. I’ve been fortunate to keep my prescription drugs to the two I’ve been taking to keep my overheated brain on track for the past 2 decades. I’ve learned that the key to good health is to stay as far away from doctors as possible, and if you can’t, minimize their pills.
TV. As my old friend Rajiv likes to say, “I have a wife and a television, and they both work.” Me, too. Kathy stopped getting a UofM paycheck 6 years ago, but when she’s hot and heavy writing and selling her books, it sure looks like she’s still “working”. As for the TV, that nice, curved screen with surround sound downstairs hasn’t been switched on since Michigan beat Alabama in the Rose Bowl en route to the National Championship. For you non-sports fans, that was New Years Day 2024. We may have flipped it on this March to see one of Michigan’s NCAA tournament games, but that’s it. Just having the TV downstairs helps to stem the boob tube habit, and it seems we’ve shed it altogether. We finally canceled our cable service and neither of us could tell you how to “stream”. We got an Apple TV with our last phones, but don’t yet know how to use it. Now neither of us has shunned screens, as both of us spend plenty of time with our noses in our phones and laptops. Kathy even watches movies and TV shows on her’s, tho’ that’s never appealed to me. The TV’s not going anywhere. After all, we have all those VHS tapes we recorded we might want to watch again someday.
Yard work. The last time I recall getting a kick out of yard work was when it was my duty to put the electric trimmer to the 7’ hedge in front of our house on Barton Lake. It was also up to me to mow our swampy back yard, which was no picnic. College then the apartment life that followed freed me from such obligations for a good 15 years. Then I bought my house. The postage-stamp lawn on our 0.4-acre lot still needed attention. Trying to still the noise and exhaust that tended to ruin that otherwise nice purposeful walk outside, I turned to an extension cord powered electric mower, but both the ones I tried proved not worth the fuss, mainly from battery issues. I bought a Fiskar push mower and Kathy took right to it, liking the exercise she got using it. But Kathy liked yard work, something she and her late dad enjoyed doing together. But I looked it as something the powers-that-be devised to keep the masses occupied, thus turned away from revolution. As we looked over our new front yard, I suggested we could pave it and paint it green. She was not amused. I’ll tend to little yard chores now and then as she asks me but I’m fine staying inside as she happily gets her hands dirty. I guess that means I’m ready for the revolution.
References
1. Ike B. we didn’t go. WordPress 9/5/26. https://theviewfromharbal.com/2026/09/05/we-didnt-go/
2. Dominick’s. https://www.facebook.com/pages/Dominicks/117498354935062
3. Beacon Athletics. A George Carlin classic: baseball vs football. YouTube https://youtu.be/zeCtFkHQtEo?si=pkqwaPCqeQGMPbkw
4. John Fogerty – Centerfield. YouTube. https://youtu.be/Xq3hEMUeBGQ?si=4wzh9UY7h9nNZuP_
5. Ike B. gone, gone, gone. WordPress 7/2/20. https://theviewfromharbal.com/2020/07/02/gone-gone-gone/
6. Ike B. Bye bye bikes WordPress 3/16/20. https://theviewfromharbal.com/2020/03/16/bye-bye-bikes/
7. Ike B. Reflections on a cycling excursion in Chile. Rheuminations Spring 2015
8. Four Winds Lodge. https://fourwindslodge.net/about-us/
9. Ike B. Bowenus. WordPress 7/2/23. https://theviewfromharbal.com/2023/07/02/bowenus/
10. Ike B. Tobacco road. WordPress 1/21/23. https://theviewfromharbal.com/2023/01/21/tobacco-road/
11. Ike B. Concerts. WordPress 11/16/20 (updated 10/17/26) https://theviewfromharbal.com/2020/11/16/concerts/
12. Sears Canada. Dockers® Partners with Jim and Sarah Harbaugh to #StopDadPants. YouTube. https://youtu.be/92tN4sfOlAw?si=f4qFxWhaCIsrHsFl
13. Ike B. cowabunga! WordPress 2/28/26. https://theviewfromharbal.com/2026/02/28/cowabunga/
14. Yao L, Yang D, Gao J. Effects of resistance training combined with creatine supplementation on muscle strength, physical function, and muscle mass in older adults: a systematic review and three-level meta-analysis. Front Nutr. 2026 Aug 25;13:1919884. https://www.frontiersin.org/journals/nutrition/articles/10.3389/fnut.2026.1919884/full
