In the Old Days once them knees went or the arthritis set in permanent the only option would be a window seat, some sunlit bench where you’d tell and retell those precious war stories of youth.

None of them codgers would really be listening, and you’d lose track of the narrative once something half your age flounced by, but it’d be a way to retain some small contact with the sport that had played such a significant role throughout your formative years.

With the advent of Reaganomics and the generation of “Me Firsters” I resolved to be the fly fishing equivalent of Joan Rivers. Rather than face lifts, I’d blow all my cash on prosthetics allowing me to crawl or limp from parking lot to water’s edge.

With nanotechnology I figured I’d be a decade away from immortality, some snickering SOB in a lab coat would put a big needle in my arse and them little robots would replace muscle and worn ligaments, making me competition for the younger crowd …

… and when they invented Viagra, I was sure of it.

Like most technologies the promise was more than the delivery, and the Fountain of Youth remained fable, until now …

An all terrain, rubber soled, wading skateboard that puts us aging Californio’s back in the thick of the hatch.

We endured your giggling about our blonde-surfing-Dood culture knowing you were shoveling snow. We ignored your laughter when you discovered we were eating raw fish.  We were practicing for our dotage, where those crucial skateboard-balance skills would allow us to regain lost youth.

Dude.

… and while that brawny male nurse heaves you onto your stomach before exposing your wrinkled nether regions for the daily vitamin suppository, think of me – exploiting the pristine in a cacophony of petrol smoke and spraying dirt.

Like the rest of the Extremist’s I’ll be tearing through what remains of the Pristine without thought to environmental damage or whether the vernal forest can handle the debris field of smoldering cigarettes, spent tippet, and amyl nitrate left in my wake …

Borrowed time imbues a certain invulnerability allowing us to skid to a stop in your riffle, claiming “we caught an updraft, sorry-kinda” before roaring over your feet enroute to someplace better.