I had emailed and spoken to Mark and Faye a couple times before I arrived at their place outside Yuma, and was perplexed by one thing. They'd sent me pictures of their so-called "biker bungalow," which looked like a small but luxurious one-bedroom house, but mentioned that they lived in a motorhome next door. Where I'm from, people who own houses don't live in motorhomes. I struggled a bit to process that, but I learned long ago to just keep pedaling, accept hospitality when it comes along, and don't ask too many questions.

It turns out that their neighborhood, and much of Yuma for that matter, is comprised of semi-permanent residents living in a mixture of motorhomes and "park models" which are essentially stationary motor homes. These are communities of snowbirds who collectively quadruple the population of Yuma each winter as people flock to the warmest place in the United States. Almost all of these resorts are 55+ communities, which made things difficult for Mark and Faye (who are in their forties) when they were shopping around. Many were downright hostile, giving them a "we don't want your kind here" kind of attitude, until they found their current RV resort which bills itself as "adult only" but has no specific age limit.

Hearing this only raised more questions: why are these forty-somethings living the snowbird lifestyle? Their story is pretty amazing. Mark and Faye had good high-powered jobs (Mark as a sales manager for UPS, Faye as a private investigator and then a claims investigator for an insurance company), made a lot of money, and had, as they put it, "a beautiful house, lots of toys, and two of everything." They also lived a harried and hectic life and barely had time to enjoy any of it.

Then two of Mark's colleagues and friends at UPS died young, one in his 30s and the other in his 40s. The latter had planned work very hard and skimp on vacations or time with his family until he retired, which he planned to do at the age of 50. He never made it. One day Mark went to the doctor for an routine checkup. On his way out, the doctor said to him, "Next time, I'll see you downstairs." Mark asked what was downstairs, and the doctor said, "The morgue." He warned Mark was a walking time bomb with many of the major risk factors for a heart attack: he was grossly overweight at 367 lbs, had high blood pressure, and a sedentary lifestyle of driving to sales calls and wining and dining clients.

That was Mark's wakeup call. He went to GNC to find some diet pills, and ended up picking up a DVD workout program that featured people who all got fit in 3 months. He got Faye to do the program too. They were still at their jobs, with two kids at home, living their same hectic lifestyle, but got up at 5 in the morning to work out. In 3 months, Mark lost 140 lbs and Faye lost 70. I was amazed to hear this--not only because they got into shape so quickly, but I would never guess by looking at them now that they had ever been anything less than fit and athletic.

They still felt trapped by their jobs and all their possessions, so once their kids were out of the house they decided to sell everything they had and buy a motorhome. They spend the winters in Yuma and the summers living in various places, picking up odd jobs here and there, working as bike mechanics, waiting tables, and whatever other opportunities arise. They used to move out of the motorhome and into the park model each winter when they returned to Yuma, but eventually they realized that was too much hassle so now they just stay in the motohome and rent out the park model (mostly to cyclists, hence the "biker bungalow"). And they are two of the happiest and healthiest looking people I've met.

There are a number of advantages of staying with avid cyclists, and the first was that they knew exactly how to tend to my physical needs. Not only did they leave me a well-stocked fridge with sodas, cookies, and turkey and stuffing, but every so often Faye would knock on the door bearing more food. Between that and the resort hot tub, I felt quite pampered.

They were also well-equipped to help me replace my busted tire and reattach my fender. Mark called all the cycle shops in town, but found that nobody had quite the right tire I wanted in stock, so instead he sold me one of the brand new tires from their tandem bike which happened to be the exact model and size I needed. He then got all perfectionist on my broken fender, reattaching the rod and carefully aligning the wheel and fender so that it had exactly the same amount of clearance on all sides. In the end the fender looked better than when I first bought the bike.

Furthermore, they knew just the person to give me advice on my route to San Diego, a fellow cyclist in their club named Marty. So after taking me out for fish tacos and grocery shopping, we swung by Marty and his wife Lissa's place.

We spent some time looking over maps and discussing my route (the scenery, the mountains, the grades, the shoulder or lack thereof) but mostly we sat around drinking tea and trading stories. Some of my favorites from Mark and Marty involved some of the older cyclists in their club which proved that age does not necessarily need to be the limitation that everyone seems to think it is.

One of my favorites was about the time Mark and Faye hosted a triathlete who had come to Yuma during the winter months to train. Mark could tell the triathlete was all antsy about getting in the long rides he needed to to adhere to his regimen, so he decided to have a little fun at his expense. Mark said he'd set him up with "one of the old guys from the RV resort" to take him out for a century ride. The triathlete protested a bit, saying he was going to be going fast, he really needed to get a lot of miles in, etc. etc. but finally relented when Mark suggested he at least let the old guy show him the route past the mountains, then he could go on his own from there.

So the two set out on their ride. When the triathlete came back several hours later, totally exhausted and plastered with a thick coat of sweat and dust, he glared at Mark and said only, "You f***er." The "old guy" was a world champion in his age group at age 75. The "old guy" had had to stop and wait for the triathlete 5 or 6 times.

Another of my favorite stories was when Mark and some of the other older guys decided to bike up a notoriously difficult and treacherous mountain pass, one strewn with the remains of rolled over vehicles that had to be left since there was no way to tow them down. Mark reached the top and discovered a group of guys in their 50s celebrating because they'd just ridden their four-wheelers up there. They were shocked to see Mark on a bike. "How on earth did you get up here?" They thought perhaps someone had drivien him part of the way, but Mark assured them he'd ridden the whole thing. The ATV-ers started in on how you can't do such things anymore once you reach "their age." Just then, with perfect timing, a couple of the 70 and 80 year old guys popped up over the hill on their bikes.

It was inspiring to hear the stories and to be reminded that age does not necessarily have to be a limitation. I think the assumption that people must slow down with age often becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy rather than the result of any true physical limitation. I hope I'll be riding (and hiking, and snowboarding, and whatever else I feel like doing) long into old age.

But for now, it's been great to have a day off, and I'm looking forward to a longer break from riding when I reach my destination in just over a week. I've already decided on my workout of choice over the winter months when I get back to Boston. Yoga. Lots of yoga.