Two days ago I was at a Memorial Weekend lunch in Millbrook. The 1830s house belonged to a nice couple from good families. Their kids and those of the guests were playing in the pool. Our host and I drank vodka and lemonade. My good friend Camp congratulated me on my upcoming birthday.

“How old are you?” my host asked restiffening our drinks.

“59, but on Tuesday, I’ll be 60.” I felt reasonable alive, mostly because my ribs had been staved in while playing basketball at the deKalb Park. Pain is a great reminder of life, unless it’s constant pain, which has the opposite effect.

“60 is closer to 100 than 20.” Camp was quick to add. He had turned 50 earlier in the month.

“That may be so, but I’ll challenge you to a footrace right now to see who’s really old.” The British decorator and I had drank until 12 the previous evening. His daughter and newly born son had woken him at 7. I had slept until 9 and had an hour nap before coming to the lunch. My advantage was enormous.

“No way.” He recognized my age, but my host’s 15 year-old daughter accepted the challenge.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” Camp’s wife was worried about my condition, but she hadn’t napped this morning.

“It’s not whether you win or lose, but whether I can still run.”

I directed our host’s mate to set up a video position at the finish line and a minute later I shook hands with the young girl. Her name was Gi-Gi.

“Best luck.”

“You’re going down, old man.” This was not a joke to her.

“Ready set go.” The shout came from the other end of the lawn and Gi-Gi got an easy lead, when my feet slipped from under me. I almost lost my balance, but soon my stride made up the lost ground and I finished a half-step ahead of Gi-Gi.

“Thanks.” I congratulated my competitor.

“Best of three?” She was ready for another.

“No, thanks, I concede those.” I returned to the porch and my glass of vodka.

It tasted like victory and not much does when 100 is closer to your age than 20.