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Exercise and I have a tumultuous relationship. At best, it’s sunshine, roses, and defined triceps; at worst, it’s, in the wise words of Miss Britney Jean Spears, toxic. Here’s how it usually goes: I get really into working out, I go too hard, get burnt out, and then stop exercising for months (or years). Here’s an example: After playing sports my entire life, I got recruited to play soccer in college, which obviously meant working out constantly. At the start of my sophomore year, I decided that, for the sake of my mental health, I was going to quit. For the first time in 19 years, there was no coach yelling at me to do another lap—no real need to exercise at all. I was completely over the idea of physical exertion, so I just…stopped. Unsurprisingly, I gained weight and was completely unhappy, so I embarked on another intense bout of fitness, which eventually led to another break.

In the year since the cycle has continued. A few months ago, as I’m wont to do, I decided that enough was enough and it was time to get back into some sort of workout routine. Not only was I not happy with my body, but I felt down, mentally.

So I set out to do some sort of physical activity every day for two weeks to see if it would make me a happier person and—spoiler alert—it did.

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Traveling in a kayak feels like you’re tricking the universe. The boat has the impression of being vulnerable because it’s so small—an ocean-going boat that you can pick up with one hand. But once you gain some skills in it, the kayak is the safest, most seaworthy boat in the world. The universe thinks that you’re out there doing something dangerous, but really you’re in total control.

I’ve traveled the world in a kayak, thousands of miles on many expeditions. I’ve gone around Cape Horn near Antarctica, through the gnarliest piece of the ocean on the planet, even for big ships. I’ve paddled from Japan to Alaska, retracing the steps of Stone Age mariners. In 2012, I circumnavigated Ellesmere Island in the Arctic Circle on a 1,500-mile trip.

The thing about the kayak is it puts you in direct, intimate contact with nature. Yachts are great, but a kayak requires personal, tactile skill and interaction with your surroundings. When you’re in a kayak, your butt is below the level of the water and waves are washing over your boat, your chest, maybe even over your head. I’ve paddled past grizzly bears feeding on clams and come eye-to-eye with a gray whale. I’ve sat on top of a 60-foot wave, then surfed down it in a 65-pound boat.

But that’s not where you’ll start. You might start on a lake or a stream behind your house. And it’s just as fun.

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Richard Zamboni walks around the first ice-surfacing machine his father built seven decades ago. The 88-year-old is taking his time to remember.

“We’re using the same framework today, basically, that [my dad] came up with,” he says, his hands on the wood-paneled machine.

It’s late February 2020. Fifteen miles south of downtown Los Angeles, in Paramount, California, Zamboni is giving a tour of the family’s factory as well as one of the oldest operating ice skating rinks in the country, Iceland. In a corner of Iceland is the Model A. First built in 1949, it’s the original Zamboni machine, a name that’s become indistinguishable from the thing itself, like Xerox, Kleenex, or Google.

From an amateur’s eye, this large, wooden, double-decked Rube Goldberg–type contraption looks a whole lot different from the smooth, slick, boxy modern Zamboni that’s resurfacing ice rinks today. Yes, the engine is much more powerful now, Zamboni explains. Components have shifted, and the water tank is much larger.

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It was recently my birthday. It wasn’t a “big” birthday — one of those round-numbered ones that feels like a milestone — but nevertheless, it got me thinking about aging.

When I was a kid, growing older felt like an achievement. Each year that passed marked one step closer to adulthood, which for me meant independence and freedom. I remember going to the city with my dad to see plays or go to the Met and seeing a group of women having lunch in a café. It seemed glamorous and exciting to be an adult. I couldn’t wait.

Likewise, I never quite understood the popular antipathy toward old age. At Spencer’s, a novelty store at the Galleria Mall in White Plains where my friends and I would find gag gifts, I was always perplexed by the section of “Over the Hill” merchandise. I mean, my grandparents didn’t listen to my music or play Nintendo with me, but they were cool in their own way — not crusty and out of touch like the caricatures suggested. The geezer jokes and “lying about your age” punchlines that adorned the mugs and t-shirts there seemed to come from another world, one that didn’t make sense to me.

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