Today I drove home from the Mission in my wonderful Honda Element. I was driving up Illinois Street toward the little bridge (the one that still so horribly has a skunk mashed into the octagonal holes of the grate) to Cargo Street. I saw an elderly gentleman, probably late sixties, riding a skateboard in the bike lane. He pushed like a 15-year-old boy, sinking his torso down to load up his push foot. He had a long white beard, white hair, jeans, a tie-dye shirt with a heart on his chest, and a backpack with what looked like a badminton racket sticking out. He was wearing huge hiking boots, and he rode a popsicle board with giant white soft wheels. I passed him and I thought PASSIONS FOR SKATEBOARDING, PASSIONS FOR ELDERLY SKATEBOARDERS!! I kept driving and I felt like it was wrong to not at least say hello so I turned around and drove up next to him. I said hi. He said hi. I said, “You’re a skateboarder.” He said, “Yeah kinda. I’m still trying to figure it out. I just got these wheels.” Who is this wonderful man who would decide to get on a fucking skateboard in his late fucking sixties? I DIDN’T ASK! I didn’t take his picture! I just lived a life and had him in it for a second! I salute anyone who is taking chances like this at points in their lives where most people wouldn’t even consider it. He was a celebrity to my soul in that moment. I don’t want to set arbitrary limits on what my life could be, and what my body can do, ever. I don’t want to succumb to the relentless psychic bulldozer shoving me to seek only comfort. I want to challenge my heart, mind, and cells daily to negotiate this living experience so if I make it to the end of the world I and I die it will be at the paws of angry bears and not because I couldn’t get my arms out of my Snuggie and my eyes off a holographic teddy bear.