The Last Run

Two life events happened in the past couple of months. First, I resigned my membership to Soho House and second, I went on a ski trip to Aspen. I know what you’re thinking, in the midst of all the famine, pestilence and drought, Gross is struggling with the service in the first class lounge. Stay with me.

The context isn’t that inclusive but I have a point to make and this will dovetail at the end like one of the better Seinfeld episodes. Let’s start with Soho House. If you are not familiar with it, Soho House started in London as a small network of social/work/stay clubs built for the creative class with a decent amount of exclusivity. New members had to be sponsored by established members and the vetting process separated the amateur posers from the professional posers.

They opened a Toronto location over ten years ago down at Adelaide and Simcoe in a preserved building dating back to the 19th century. It was built primarily for the two weeks TIFF is in business to accommodate the film industry types from out of town. Even with my sterling experience in the media it took two tries to get in. Thank you cousin David, the big Hollywood producer.

I joined with an international membership which gave me privileges in ‘Houses’ around the world. I have stayed and/or taken great meetings in Chicago, LA, New York, Berlin, Rome, London and, most notably, Miami Beach. Soho Beach House just south of the Fontainebleau made my Covid winter of 2021 so much better than yours. While the Canadian spirit withered in a four month lockdown, Soho was open for business with a few compromises. I worked out in the gym but braved the cold Gilligan’s Island-style shower by the pool. How I suffered. Of course I’ve had Covid about a half dozen times but it’s a small price to pay when you can smoke a Cohiba at the beach bar with a stiff Piquante in hand. I wrote about this in the old blog if you are interested.

But that changed last year when smoking was banned at the beach bar and the club took a turn away from what precisely makes a club a club. I am not ready to give up cigars against a lot of advice.

This setback was a trigger, however, to reconsidering my whole membership. I had sold my business so it wasn’t making sense on that level, the membership was looking more like Coney Island than Indian Creek Island (look it up) and, finally, I am just too old for a place that counts millennials as 25% of their membership. I am now double the average age of the people there and invisible (or too visible!) to the hipsters who don’t want to strike up a chat with a guy reading brochures for 55+ communities. I might have even aged out of those at this point but not as badly as Soho for I should have better things to do than ogling 25 year-old girls wearing “less than bikinis” to quote the great late twentieth century poet Vanilla Ice. My daughter, a stalwart Soho member, has pointed that out to me mid-ogle. Several times.

I didn’t feel this way five years ago. Something just changed since I hit 70 akin to the revelatory final scene in the Brat Pack classic St. Elmo’s Fire, when the gang walks by the old bar with the intention of going in before Judd Nelson urges them to move on to someplace quieter and a little more mature. In my case I’m looking for a deli where the eggs are loose and the waitresses are uptight. 

Such is the recession that comes with age. Elements of a life that wasn’t that old are ebbing, familiar haunts are being replaced by outings to the dermatologist, the podiatrist, the periodontist and the orthopedic surgeon. I think there should be a senior medi-social club where you can spend the day by the pool with a designer blood pressure cuff on while waiting for results from your bloodwork, biopsy, MRI or colonoscopy. Smoothie?

So that part of my journey is over. Maybe it opens a new door. Certainly not to do more skiing.

I’ve been going to Aspen, Colorado, itinerantly for over 50 years since I won a console stereo on the old Canadian game show Definition back in ‘74. My father bought it from me and it was enough to spend a college reading week there with my old pal Tom who was a competitive skier at one point. The trip was incredible in a town that was mostly ski bums and bunnies (can I date myself any worse?) way back when. You could sit at a place called Annie’s on the hill and wait for Jack Nicholson to come in for a nosh. It was cool. Now its just pricey.

My daughter Madeleine and I had been on the Aspen hills semi-regularly over the past twenty-plus years. Last month we took our first trip back in seven years – thank you Covid – and I thought we would start where we left off. But that was then and this is now and the now just doesn’t resemble anything I remember. All the old joints are long gone, the apres ski beer is now Veuve Clicquot. Couture stores have replaced most everything that made it a town. We skied for three consecutive days until about lunch but when it was time to go back on the hill I realized my legs were gone. I had done some ‘training’ prior to the trip including some work on my quads. (Let me know if I’m starting to sound too much like ski-freak Bob Lefsetz.) This makes for some very expensive half days.. But let’s put that aside.

I’m not seeing the point of it any more. Nice to be outside but you can take a walk on a golf course with a lot less risk to your infrastructure both physical and financial. My friend Tom walked away skiing years ago. Now he’s happy on the bunny hill with his grandkids. I wish. I don’t have more than a couple of friends who still schuss, one of which lives in Aspen so he’s kind of committed. Doesn’t mean there weren’t people my age, and older, on the hill having a great time, many of whom were women, some with visible knee braces. These people help keep the median age of the American skier at 35. Yes, I could have been in better shape but my left knee is sketchy as is my left shoulder. I couldn’t hold an edge on some of the crusty surfaces and it was a little scary, even though I managed to stay upright.

No, as I round the corner to 72, I have little interest in going back on the slopes through an airport and even less interest in updating my slopeside look. Just as I did when I hung up the hockey equipment for the last time many years ago. The only scenario that would work for me would be if I retired to Collingwood, Ontario, bought a cheap weekday pass, stored my skis by the hill and drove in for a few runs a couple of times a week with a latte at the Starbucks as a reward. Maybe a little splash from my flask for excitement. Just a thought.

I had some great times at resorts all over the world, with many special runs still replaying in my head turn by turn. Incredible times with my kids too. I was even part of a celebrity ski event in Whistler Mountain decades ago, partying and racing against the likes of Rebecca DeMornay, Anthony Edwards and Richard Masur. Yes I am name dropping. Name the movie in which both Masur and DeMornay had great roles. Some great apres skiing memories too!

For extreme thrills I still have some scuba diving to do and if I have the guts I might go for the shoulder surgery so I can hit some tennis balls again. Going to be a tough call. Maybe I’ll just do more chair yoga.  

I remember the late great Markie Post talking about her life getting smaller on a sitcom maybe twenty years ago. I didn’t get it then. I do now but the better visual metaphor is one of those NatGeo shows on global warming where we see the inevitable ice shelf shedding a couple of acres of ocean front real estate that will never return.

However, it’s best to never say never. Anybody need goggles?