MAY 8, 2025, was my Runway Day.
It was a big day for me, but while I had it marked on my calendar months in advance, I gave little thought to how I would observe the day when it arrived.
To understand the day’s significance, you must understand the term “runway,” at least in the way I’m using it. Runway is a shorthand term for the period between your current age and the age the relevant parent — your father if you are a man, your mother if you are a woman — was on the day that he or she passed.
The concept of a runway grew from discussions with a group of men friends who have met off and on over the years to discuss the big issues in life. We talked about parenting and being a father. About balancing work and family and community. About faith and about aging.
We talked about what we wanted to experience and accomplish before we died. Of course, none of us knew how much time we had on this mortal coil, but it influenced the discussion — obviously a person with 5 years to get through a bucket list had to move quicker than someone who could realistically hope for 20. So, we began to use the idea of a runway as a proxy for the unknowable length of our remaining earthly tenure.
We found the term modestly useful in our discussions, and it stuck with me over the years. As I got older, it took on greater meaning, enough so that I gave the day of its expiration a proper name: Runway Day.
For me that was May 8, 2025, the day on which I’d lived 26,898 days, the very number my father — Lawrence H. Dworetzky — had lived when he died in 1995.
An emotional flight
Putting a name to the day made sense. A 2023 study that looked at a dataset of 26 million people born between 1880 and 1920 found that “on average across cohorts, 47% of men and 57% of women lived longer than their parents.” In other words, less than half of men can expect to get to their Runway Day, so it is truly a day of significance for those who do. And for their parents? What parent would not be pleased and proud to know that their child outlived them?
But while I knew the day was significant, when the big day arrived, I realized I did not really know how I ought to feel about coming to the end of my runway.
Was it a day of celebration (Dude, you made it), a day of solemnity (from now on you are living on borrowed time), a day of tribute (Pops, I am thinking of you today, same as every day), a day of reflection (whew!), or even a day of intense anxiety (don’t count your chickens too soon, you still got to get to midnight)?
I reached out to my kids — four living on opposite coasts — and asked their thoughts on the meaning of Runway Day, and most importantly how it should be observed.
My oldest boy said that takeoff and flight are what comes at the end of a runway. That meant that Runway Day was a time to mark the start of a journey into new and undiscovered country. He thought it should be observed by doing something that my father did not or could not do.
My oldest daughter said the day “should involve some gratitude & reflection” and should “kick off some new intention/commitment. Like join the Chilly Dippers swimming club and plunge into the Pacific once a week.”
My youngest daughter was busy at work and blew me off.
My youngest boy said, “Let’s go with celebratory. I just went in your room to give you a hug before bed and told you ‘Happy Runway Day.’ It felt right.”
They all agreed I should make a cartoon.
A Hallmark moment?
I also reached out to close friends and asked their views.
Most — OK, all — were skeptical that Hallmark would soon add Runway Day cards to its portfolio but indulged me with thoughtful engagement.
Many answered with reflections on their fathers and what they most remembered.
Some were bemused.
One friend thought a day to commemorate outliving my father seemed creepy and way too absorbed with what comes after aging. It is fine to banter about the indignities of aging, but preoccupation with death was no joking business. He said, “My quote is from Robert Mahon: ‘If you listen for pain, you’ll find it. Stop listening for pain. Listen for joy.’”
One of my oldest friends said Runway Day was about realizing “it’s the end of your warranty, and now you’re on your own.” That seemed a good way to think about it.
Another friend with a quantitative bent advised that he understood that life expectancy at birth in 1800 for an American male was 37 years. By 1900 it was 57 and by 2000, 72. That suggested to him that my calculation of the length of the runway was misleading; the period should be adjusted for growth in life expectancy, just as a stock’s value is adjusted for stock splits.
Another said the day should kick off an annual celebration of gratitude. “Try to live/win every day as you do now and keep learning.”
One of my oldest friends said the day was to realize that “it’s the end of your warranty, and now you’re on your own.” That seemed a good way to think about it.
In the end, I came to the thought that Runway Day is a rest stop on the life journey, a place to sit briefly and wonder what is ahead. I was sorry my father couldn’t join me. He’d have had something to say, for sure.
What does a longer lifespan mean to you? Talented local columnists tag-team every Friday to tackle the challenges that inform your choices — whether you’re pushing 17 or 70. Recent Stanford Center on Longevity Visiting Scholar Susan Nash looks at life experiences through an acerbic personal lens, while other longtime writers take the macro view to examine how society will change as the aging population grows ever larger. Check in every Friday to expand your vision of living the long game and send us your feedback, column suggestions and ideas for future coverage to newsroom@baycitynews.com.