The Old New Mexican

My Story
aka: How a Middle-Aged Guy on a Mountain Bike Became a Healthspan Hacker

I’m a 60-year-old executive with a lifelong love affair with mountain biking. Somewhere along the trail, that passion transitioned into a mission—one that now has me training, racing, and researching how to extend not just my lifespan, but my healthspan.

My journey starts in the hills of Marin County, California—yes, that Marin, the birthplace of mountain biking. I began riding on Mt. Tam in the early 1980s, back when bikes had very few gears and suspension was your knees. In 1986, fresh out of engineering school and eager to start my career, I moved to New Mexico. The terrain was different, but equally epic: big mountains, high desert, and close proximity to world-class trails in Utah, Colorado, and Arizona.

In 1989, I entered my first mountain bike race—the Pajarito Punishment in Los Alamos. The name was accurate. It hurt. It was amazing. I was hooked. For the next decade, I raced cross-country events throughout the western U.S. as an amateur. Racing brought out the best in me. It also brought out plenty of suffering, which—if you’ve raced mountain bikes—you’ll know is part of the fun.

By the early 2000s, life had shifted. I still rode, but mostly for exercise and enjoyment. That changed when my friend Ken convinced me to join a team for a 12-hour race. It was grueling. It was chaotic. It was one of the most fun days I’d had in years. That one event rekindled my competitive fire. Before long, Ken and I were racing 12-hour and 24-hour events around the region as part of a team we jokingly called The Old New Mexicans. We weren’t young, but we were sometimes competitive—and we had all the gear we thought would make us faster.

In 2016, while Ken and I were out on a long training ride, he suffered a massive heart attack. He was incredibly fit. None of it made sense. A few days later, he passed away in his sleep. Losing Ken was a profound shock. It drove home how fragile life can be—even for the exceptionally fit. Ken was my friend, my teammate, and the guy who had unknowingly rerouted my life back toward something I loved. This blog exists, in part, to honor that spark he reignited.

After Ken’s passing, I leaned more into solo racing. Cross-country, marathon—anything to keep pushing myself. In 2020, as the pandemic shut down much of the world, my then 12-year-old son Michael picked up mountain biking because it was one of the few sports still open. At first, I led the way. That lasted about six months. Then he started beating me. Repeatedly. In public.

By 2022, we entered the USA National Championship race in Winter Park, Colorado. It was a whim. For Michael, it became a breakout: he won the national championship for his age group, then took second in short track the next day. His path was clear. Mine? Less so. But I figured if I was already traveling across the country to support him, I might as well race too. You know—”for fun.”

My early races were humbling. I finished toward the back. Occasionally at the back. Michael suggested that maybe—just maybe—some structured training would help. He offered to coach me. That’s right: my teenage son became my coach. I was his first athlete. He was patient. I was sore. But gradually, it started to work.

These days, I’m competitive in the masters categories. I train hard, recover harder, and try to keep up with athletes half my age (or in Michael’s case, one-third). But more importantly, I feel sharper, healthier, and genuinely happier. My sleep is better. My energy is higher. I find myself more focused at work and more present at home. It turns out the same things that improve athletic performance—movement, nutrition, rest, mindset—also improve life.

This blog is where I document my journey. Not just the races, but the experiments, the setbacks, the research, and the small wins that keep me going. If you’re an aging athlete, a weekend warrior, or just someone who wants to feel better in your 60s than you did in your 40s, maybe you’ll find something here that helps.

Or at least gives you a laugh—probably at my expense. I’m okay with that.