Spirit's willing but the flesh says whoa

For Mom's 83rd birthday, we sent her to the Grand Canyon.

She hadn't seen much of the West and — though up in years — always seemed raring to go. Young at heart, that was Winnie. Fit of body, too.

Once, I asked Mom, who lived in Brooklyn, what she'd done on the weekend.

"Took a walk."

"Where?"

"Manhattan."

"How far?"

"Far enough — Battery to Times Square."

With her dear friend, "Aunt" Edna Barrett of Richmond Hill, Queens, Mom had hoofed it from South Ferry to 42nd Street, just over 4 miles — and in those little black heels she wore everywhere. Was this such a big deal, she asked?

Not for someone who avoided like plague the senior center at St. John's Lutheran on Prospect Avenue where, for nothing, you could get a lunch. Too many old people, Mom said. Not for me. If they need someone to make coffee, maybe.

So we called Aunt Edna, also in her 80s, and said we'd book both of them on a Grand Canyon tour with a company running trips for, ahem, seasoned travelers. Aside from a great itinerary, I assured Edna, there would be a nurse.

Mom and her pal, on their own since husbands Fred and Harry sadly departed, had hit the road before. Until retirement, Aunt Edna worked for a big airline that had routes around the world and provided fabulous employee flight privileges — companions included.

One Thursday in early autumn, Edna called Mom.

"Winnie, you doing anything this weekend?"

"Just around the house. Why?" "Want to go to Munich for Oktoberfest?"

"Why not?" Mom replied. "I can dust any time."

There were other adventures — a few days in Argentina to a place Mom called "Bonus Aireez" and another to Bangkok, where Mom and Aunt Edna, not taking chances on pad Thai noodles, managed to find cheeseburgers.

"Food was nice," Mom said upon return.

Compared to the overseas sprints, the Canyon would be a breeze. At least, that's what my wife and I thought.

Off they went from Kennedy Airport, Mom in her usual black pumps, Edna in loafers. The trip lasted a week. Mom called a couple times — this was way before cellphones — with tales of mountain lodges, roadside cafes and 6 a.m. bus rides.

All was good, she said. Beautiful country, America. She sounded fine, but I thought I heard something new in her voice: age.

See you when we get back, said Mom.

We picked Mom and Edna up at Kennedy. It's not quite accurate to say they staggered off the plane but dynamic duo, they weren't.

"Phew," said Mom. "Some trip."

Edna just looked at me as if to say, what's your next idea: Niagara Falls in a barrel?

Mom never complained but slept longer for the next couple of days — in bed before the 11 o'clock news and still snoozing past 5 a.m., when any decent person would be washing and ironing. Even when recalling the South Rim or spectacular Southwest sunsets at the Canyon, Mom lacked her usual zing.

We'd pushed her too far, is the truth. Mom, who lived to 91, might not have thought she was "old." Pretty clear, though, she was pooped.

All these years later, I feel sort of like a mini-Mom.

I think I have about the same energy as always.

When our beloved Doc Chernaik, an older guy, himself, and in great shape, asks "How's your pep?" at my annual physical, I honestly reply, "Good, can't complain, working hard, no problems." To prove it, I hoist myself onto the examining table without a grunt. If Doc C. asked, I'd do a round of sit-ups or jog around the office. See? Still alive and kicking.

Maybe this is youth culture turned topsy-turvy.

People my age — and a lot older — do remarkable things, even if a little daffy.

There was the World War II vet in Massachusetts who celebrated his 90th birthday by sky diving for the first time — an extreme elder sport made popular by former President George H.W. Bush. One old fellow won a headstand contest, and another was playing softball in Pittsburgh at the age of 90 (note to Mets: Worth a look?). Somebody else showed up at a discus competition, and we had a moving man deep into his 70s who outmuscled the heavy-breathing hunks on the truck.

The question is, when do you stop? Do you ever?

Lately, my 40-something son and I have been having catches.

I spent hours as a parent in the front yard and local ballfield teaching the kids — two boys, two girls — how to wing it, straight and true. Those were dreamy days, and I welcome the chance for a replay.

"How you doing, Dad?" my son asks after maybe 15 minutes. "Tired?"

"Couple more," I say. "Keep 'em coming."

Someday, for sure, I won't have the pep. Someday, my son will say to himself, "enough," as we did when Mom wobbled back from the Canyon. Most likely, though, I'll hold up the glove and tell my boy to fire another. Doesn't everyone want just a couple more?