He did not feel old. Sore and stiff, yes, but not old. The stiffness, he knew, would work its way out as soon as he got moving. It wasn’t his age. He’d seen younger men complain about how they ached after doing half the work he had done that week. It was the natural reaction of any body at any age to such labor.
He didn’t doubt he needed a day or two of rest, time to let his joints and muscles recuperate. But at present, a good night’s sleep was all he could offer, and that was scarce. He worried though, that if his life went on like this—and it seemed it would—that he would be crippled as an old man, confined to a chair or bed.
But then, too, he thought, it could be just the thing to carry him beyond a hundred years.
A hundred years. Imagine.
He did not feel old at all.