The Color of Youth
A view of Lake Bled, Slovenia from the running trail surrounding the lake.
Oh my God, please tell me they have sunscreen on.
These were my thoughts as I ran around Lake Bled while vacationing in Slovenia.
Hitting mile two of my 4-mile run, I ran past a sea of sunbathers. They were mostly young adults with their exposed flawless skin soaking up the sun—the same sun in Europe as in America that I adored many moons ago and miles away.
As a teenager in the 1980s, I loved the comfort of the warm sun as it kissed my body. These were years when I had yet to be introduced to sunscreen. Instead, my primary focus was to attain a rocking tan.
Aging was just something that would happen in the distant future. My teen years were all about living in the moment. The 80s sun gave me a feeling of immortality and a false sense of forever youth.
With my 57th birthday approaching, I fully understand my body's shelf life. Running around Lake Bled is a privilege. I am injury-free, which is not true for many of my same-age counterparts.
I am the lucky one. Although my dry, tanned arms have lost their youthful smoothness, I still enjoy the beach from my running vantage point.
Once sixteen and carefree, like the youth on Lake Bled today, my biggest worry revolved around my tan. My concern was how good I looked in my two-piece as I sought the attention of the bare-chested boys swarming in nearby huddles.
Summer of 1983 — Mom on the left with me wearing my summer tan to the right
. . .
Lake Okoboji, Iowa, was a popular summer vacation spot for families, including mine, and only an hour and a half drive from my small hometown.
In the summer of 1983, I made my first unchaperoned lake trip with friends. Neither my parents nor the parents of the pack of teenagers who flocked to the lake with me were aware of this lack of parental oversight.
Our maiden voyage into independence was the direct result of youthful creativity with a dose of reckless abandon. It involved forgery and has become a timeless tale among my high school classmates.
I was a member of my school’s cheerleading squad. Each summer, we commonly attended a camp away from home, chaperoned by an adult governing body. With this as leverage, I invented a weekend cheerleading camp at Lake Okoboji, a teenage boondoggle before I knew the word's meaning.
These were days before computers and scanners. Pulling this off required the use of a typewriter. I painstakingly typed each individual form, one at a time, to create the authorization sheets for this fictitious event. Each cheerleader then gathered their parental consent. My handiwork must have been good, as none of us got pushback. Instead, we received a signature and spending money.
Word spread about our shenanigans to other high school classmates. Teens came in droves to the lake. Some came for the day, and others faked overnighters at each other's homes. It was a huge party that lasted all weekend.
Clad in bikinis, we practiced our cheers on the beach to avoid feeling like complete frauds. While garnering the boys' attention, our young bodies browned under the sunny summer sky, giggling as we formed human pyramids on the sand.
After returning home exhausted, my mom asked me how cheer camp went. I mumbled an obligatory ‘great’ before going straight to bed for well-needed sleep. With pink-tinted skin still warm to the touch, I slipped into slumber without a thought of life past that summer.
A professional photo of me taken at ‘real’ cheer camp in 1982 and then with my cheer partners-in-crime in 1983, taken in the fall after our summer ‘fake’ camp.
. . .
Forty years later, I entered Lake Bled Beach wearing a protective visored cap and running clothes while covered in sunscreen. My pace has slowed into a swift shuffle.
I take in the youthful beauty on the beach as the wrinkle-free bodies vie for the sun’s attention. Time stands still for these idealistic beachgoers. But I know the truth. Unbeknownst to them, time is in constant motion as it slowly ticks away.
My steps slowed around the trail curve in sentimental wonder. There was a time when I, too, shared the commonality of sand, sun, and sexual tension.
I heard the younger generation of today doesn’t believe in sunscreen. Like them, my lakeside thoughts in the 80s didn’t include prevention. I focused on whether my body was bikini-worthy and how much baby oil to slather on my skin.
Entering adulthood, I observed my seemingly ageless mother and banked on inheriting her genetics. It wasn’t until my 40s that I recalled Mom’s lifelong avoidance of the sun with floppy hats, playing a role in her youthful skin. Only then did I start applying sunscreen daily.
Although this discovery was made late in the game, some liver spots and lines may have been avoided. Yes, youth is a beautiful color. However, preservation and the genetics lottery will together deal our final hand.
1978 — Mom in hat while sunbathing
. . .
Please tell me they have sunscreen on.
I savor my lakeside memories of summers past without the desire to return in time. It was a good run. Longings for youthful skin and hormone-filled beach attractions are now a distant memory.
Enjoying my new chapter in life, I am admittedly slower and more wrinkled. Bronzed skin is no longer a desire but an avoidance.
As I finished my morning run, my attention turned from the beach to the number of older cyclists passing me on the trail. Dressed in biking gear and likely sunscreen, I noted their age as close to mine. Perhaps their knees can’t run like they used to, but they passed me effortlessly on bikes in a quick flare.
Leaving behind the youthful sunbathers, I ran faster in the backwind of the aging cyclists, looking only ahead. Contemplating a bike rental for my next lake excursion, I continue to chase life’s seasons.
Photos taken while running Lake Bled.
