What’scaptaintom Moore’s secret for a long, happy life? Try to stay active and always believe that things are going to get better
Liz Connor speaks to the 100-year-old Second World War veteran about how his love for walking and eternal optimism keep his mind and spirit young
An end is in sight — not The End, that will take some time yet — but the beginning of an end; a loosening of restrictions, an increase in freedom.
We have looked forward to a return to some kind of normality for so long. But now, as it approaches, there’s a faint edge to the anticipation, a shimmer of anxiety: How do we do it, this normal life we miss so much? How did we used to manage so many interactions, demands, engagements? The sheer volume of stuff we dealt with?
I’ve heard plenty of people admit that they are dreading emerging into full-throttle socialising again. That the last weeks have gradually stripped them of the habit of easy interaction; they have taken to avoiding acquaintances on their daily walks or deliberately cutting the chat short, because of no longer knowing what to say or how to behave. We’re out of practise, and that is bothering us. The unfamiliar is always daunting.
I’ve been feeling distinctly iffy about re-adapting to a faster, busier pace. The thing is though, I know I can do it. I’ve been here before. Or somewhere very like here.
When I was treated for cancer, nearly five years ago now (yes, the five-year mark is blessedly near in sight...), the treatment period was almost exactly as long as this lockdown — eight gruelling weeks, followed by a couple more of bed-heavy convalescence.
By the end of wasn’t myself. was barely even a version of myself. Very thin, very sore, very feeble, badly burned and very anxious; traumatised by what had happened to me, with as yet no time to process it, and deeply uncertain about how I would ever navigate a world beyond hospital and home again.
All the simple things I had been used to doing effortlessly — getting buses, going to shops, doing the football run, meeting people, ordering coffee and having pleasant chit-chat with the person who made it — seemed like mountains to climb, full of effort and second-guessing.
I was physically intimidated by loud noises, too many people, too much urgency. In my 10-week sequestration from life, I had lost the habit of handling it.
I didn’t know how to ‘do’ life. I was used to people being gentle and patient with me, because I had been surrounded for so long by medical staff — the most astonishing professionals I have ever met — and it, I
I my closest family and friends, all of whom knew to speak carefully and quietly, and not scare the many nervy horses that made up my post-treatment self. I was no longer equipped for the raw hustle and bustle of ‘normal’ life.
I well remember the first time I went into town on my own. I was meeting a friend for lunch. By the time I had walked from the bus stop to the restaurant, I was ready to cry. I couldn’t handle the unaccustomed sharpness of everything.
The way the streets felt intimidatingly crowded, people rushing about their business, moving past me abruptly, treating me as no more than an impediment to their activity. I felt exposed and vulnerable and ill-equipped, like I was missing a vital layer of something between me and the world, the shock-absorbers that make societal interaction possible.
Then there was the first big social event I went to, maybe a month after re-engaging with normal life; a christening for a friend’s daughter. I managed about an hour, then had to leave, exhausted, head pounding from the stress of it all.
I went home wondering, ‘however did I do this? Stand around chatting to people in ever-shifting groups, about stuff that is interesting enough to not bore the pants off them, but not overly-intimate and intense?’ It took a while to build that muscle back up. I was sort of stuck with either The Weather or ‘isn’t life unbearably painful and sad sometimes?’ None of the in-between bits seemed accessible to me any more.
But, the good news is, I did build it back up. And fast. The adjustment period turned out to be swift. I relearned everything I had forgotten within a matter of weeks, and what was weird became normal again very quickly. Muscle memory kicked in, and I found my old self, waiting patiently for me to catch up with it. It’s the same muscle memory that will be activated now for all of us.
The same adaptability that lets us take on strange new world orders in the first place, is what will save us in the return to ‘normal’. At heart, we love normal. Familiarity is the comfort zone for most of us, and that’s where we will all head, at speed, as soon as we can. We will shed our odd lockdown behaviours — avoiding people, not knowing how to conduct a conversation shouted over two metres, wondering what form of eye-contact is correct when passing a neighbour on the other side of the road — and revert to our usual selves.
We will also find the energy and strength to confront the next phase of this hard time. These past weeks, although dreary, have been a cocoon for nearly all of us, an enforced period of sequestration and idleness in which we had no choice but to watch, passive, while decisions were taken for us.
Once that ends, we will have to confront the reality of what the Covid-19 crisis has done to our economy and society; the wreck — for many — of finances, businesses, plans, hopes, ways of life. Yes, that too is out there, waiting for us. And right now, it may well feel insurmountable. But experience tells me it isn’t.
There will a natural advantage this time — because we know what we all need. We will be gentle and considerate with each other, because we will all be coming from the same traumatised place. And, even though we will revert to our former selves, we will not be unchanged.
Trauma leaves a residue, a shifted perception. If we’re lucky, it’s one that leads to slightly greater compassion and kindness.
When Captain Tom Moore embarked on a personal challenge to complete 100 laps of the garden in his Bedfordshire home before his 100th birthday, he was hoping he might garner enough local support to raise a modest £1,000 for the NHS. What happened next, his daughter Hannah recalls, was ‘unimaginable’.
Clutching his walking frame for support and proudly wearing his Second World War medals, the war veteran’s steely determination to keep lapping his garden, come rain or shine, quickly captured the hearts of well-wishers worldwide.
Donations, tributes and national news interviews poured in. By the time his 100th birthday (marked with a Spitfire flyover and more than 120,000 cards from fans around the globe) came around, Captain Moore’s status as a national hero was cemented.
His Justgiving page has raised an incredible £32m in donations, while the charity single he released with Michael Ball made him the oldest artist to claim a UK No 1.
“I had no idea it would be that popular,” says Captain Moore of his fundraising effort. “It was just (an idea) within the family initially — walking up and down for exercise — but then it just grew and grew.”
“We’re just an ordinary family really. We knew we had a lovely story to share, and we shared it with the world willingly,” says
Hannah, who initially put together a short press release about her father’s charity walk, which was in tribute to the NHS nurses who cared for him after he fractured his hip two years ago.
“We thought that maybe local radio would be interested and that it would be great to raise a thousand pounds. The extraordinary journey we’ve gone through the last five or six weeks could never have been imagined.”
Despite being 100, and having battled various health issues over the years, Captain Moore says there was “no real hardship” in reaching his extended goal of 200 laps. In fact, he very much enjoyed the challenge.
“The first lap was the hardest, but after that I just got used to it,” he says, with his trademark good humour.
“As I walk, I often think about the lyrics to the song Michael Ball and I released, ‘walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart’. As the kind people kept donating and donating, not just locally, but throughout the world, I kept going. It was the reason why I go on walking and enjoy every step.”
When it comes to living a long and happy life, he says it’s all about having the right mindset. “I think you’ve got to be optimistic; to think that things will get better.”
“I don’t think anyone really thinks about (getting to 100),” he adds. “When I was 50, I never would have imagined that I was half way through my life. Now that I’m 100 though, it doesn’t feel any different from 99. I’m very pleased that I’ve got to this age though and it’s just a case of seeing how much longer I can hang on.” Staying fit and healthy seemingly comes naturally to him too, as his unflappable zest for life has kept both his mind and body young.
“I’ve never been someone that’s sat around. All my life, from being a boy, I’ve always been active. Before I had trouble with my leg, I spent so much time in the garden. I weigh the same now as I did when I was 21.”
Captain Moore, who was born in 1920 in Keighley, Yorkshire, embarked on an apprenticeship as a civil engineer as a young man, but paused his studying at the age of 20, when he was conscripted to fight in the Second World War. Joining the 8th Battalion of The Duke of Wellington’s Regiment, he was stationed in Cornwall, where he helped to defend the coast from the threat of German invasion.
Later, he was enlisted to India, taking a treacherous six week journey by sea, and he also served and fought on the Arakan in Burma, where he bat