Learning not to die at Bryan Johnson’s anti-aging ‘amusement park’

On a brilliantly sunny Sunday, about a thousand people filled a mostly windowless, drafty warehouse on Pier 35 along San Francisco’s Embarcadero to eat watery lentils and explore a topic of shared interest: how not to die.

The Don’t Die Summit aimed to bring together scientists working at the frontier of medicine, merchants selling anti-aging elixirs, the health-obsessed already intensely tracking their vitals, and the health-curious looking to start. 

The movement’s messiah is Bryan Johnson, a wealthy former tech executive who says he spends $2 million yearly on his body in an effort to reverse the aging process. Since unveiling his efforts publically two years ago, Johnson has essentially functioned as a one-man influencer for his lifestyle, complete with slightly absurd photo shoots. 

For normals seeking to mimic his efforts at cheating death, he has launched a business, Blueprint, that sells “longevity mix” powder with vitamins and adaptogens such as ashwagandha; packets of pureed macadamia nuts for on-the-go consumption; and, in a sign that he’s in on the joke, Snake Oil-branded olive oil. 

Johnson’s explosion in popularity — or at least notoriety — has inspired an array of businesses aimed at capitalizing on the fear of aging; for example, Blueprint competitors hawk their own versions of his signature “nutty pudding.” Blueprint’s mixture of berries, nuts, pomegranate juice, sunflower seeds, and cocoa — offered to conference attendees — tasted like a watered-down, grainy acai bowl.

Then there are the companies hoping for a boost by association: like those offering bloodwork and genetic testing, skincare promising to smooth wrinkles, an AI-powered exercise bike meant to optimize workouts, and a smart mattress that measures sleep quality. (Eight Sleep, the mattress-maker, said its latest product saw 700% more demand than the prior version, and that Johnson’s support had drawn attention.)

Throughout the Don’t Die Summit, diverse huddles of attendees converged around Johnson, who was flanked by a bodyguard, to speak with him briefly or snap a photo.

Johnson’s preferred meals and snacks were available throughout the day, along with little cups of quick-cook lentils in various (dubious) flavors. Johnson’s devout followers could be seen munching on the watery, bland treats and sipping on a juice called the Patrick Bateman (named for the lead character in “American Psycho”), consisting of cucumber, lime, mint, and coconut water.

With the $179 general admission ticket, attendees heard speakers discuss best practices in sleep, techniques in muscle growth and fat loss, microdosing psychedelics, cryopreservation, and the role of microplastics in health. A $399 VIP pass provided access to a lounge with bay views, where the conference lunch — chicken skewers, lentils, and steamed broccoli and cauliflower — was served on  trays rather than in boxes. 

The top $999 tier, which the event’s website noted was sold out, allowed the biggest stans to have dinner with Johnson. 

The interest around Johnson has started to shift how other businesses serve customers. Mat Pond, owner of San Francisco specialty foods retailer the Epicurean Trader, has started devoting more shelf space to adaptogens, nonalcoholic beverages, and plant-based foods over the last 18 months. His stores have also added prepared foods aligned with so-called Blue Zones — parts of the world where people have the longest life expectancies — which were influential to Johnson’s Blueprint diet. 

“It’s definitely a bigger movement,” Pond said.

The Don’t Die Summit offered an “amusement park” of longevity-focused booths where attendees could stretch, swab their cheeks for DNA testing, or learn how their skin is aging. Those who took part in Generation Lab’s testing of the health and aging of various organs and bodily functions were easy to spot because of the small blood-draw devices stuck into their biceps. 

Wen Cheuk, who runs a wellness consulting business called Well Played SF, paid $300 to get blood drawn for the Generation Lab tests. She called Johnson a “pioneer” for his hyperfocus on men’s health. 

“Bryan Johnson has made it more OK for men to be concerned about their health and their looks, inside and out, and that spending more resources on your health is not necessarily selfish,” Cheuk said.

A booth for San Francisco company OneSkin had long lines throughout the day for its facial scanner that determines the biological age of skin based on factors like spots, wrinkles, and redness. CEO Carolina Reis Oliveira said the company got involved with the summit after Johnson mentioned its products in a podcast. Oliveira said Johnson’s endorsement didn’t translate into a huge boost in sales, but she credited him for bringing anti-aging practices to the masses.

“Honestly, he takes it to an extreme, but in general, bringing this education that we can take action is a very valid point,” she said. 

Jossue Morales and Emma Lam drove from Fremont for the event, which functioned as a weekend date for the married physical therapists. Curious about Johnson’s practices, Morales recently decided to change his breakfast routine and opted for Johnson’s regimen: supplements and his nutty pudding. 

Morales pays about $350 a month for his Blueprint breakfast subscription and olive oil. And he has seen the results first-hand in the bathroom.

“I feel pretty great. My bowel movements have improved drastically,” Morales said. “His message aligned with what I wanted. He made it super easy and practical to use.”

The conference was meant to kick off with a 7 a.m. rave. Attendees were told that registration would open at 6:30 a.m.

A crowd of 200 gathered outside the pier as early as 6, but organizers were running late, and some stood shivering in fishnet tanks and bootie shorts. Once the doors opened at 7:40 am, the lines were redirected multiple times, and organizers ran out of glow sticks. 

During the rave, a shirtless Johnson and his son jumped in the middle of the crowd, chanting, “Don’t die.”

To some attendees, the disorganization was apparent. Patricia Marriott, who came from Marin County, was frustrated that most talks and workshops were seemingly focused on marketing companies’ wares. She said the conference topics weren’t as in-depth as she hoped; she has been testing her biomarkers for years and knows her V02 max, the maximum amount of oxygen she can use during exercise. 

“I’m an experienced biohacker, and I don’t think this is run very well,” she said. “Every talk is just to sell something.”

The companies involved were betting that an association with Johnson would widen their appeal beyond Silicon Valley’s niche longevity movement.

Ulrich Dempfle brought his Carol exercise bikes to the conference. The product, which has appeared in the background of Johnson’s videos, uses AI to personalize resistance levels for a more efficient workout. Dempfle has yet to see a sales boost from Johnson’s passive endorsement but said he’s hopeful it’ll eventually translate. 

Nearby on the convention floor, genetic testing startup Nucleus was waiving the usual $39 annual subscription fee for its $400 kits, which offer a range of health screenings. 

Nucleus CEO Kian Sadeghi said he mentioned offhand to his parents that he was co-sponsoring Johnson’s summit and was surprised they knew who he was talking about.

“They both said, ‘Oh, that guy who wants to live forever?’” Sadeghi said. “This movement is going well beyond the San Francisco tech scene.”