For three quarters of my life, there was nothing to suggest I would ever get into shape. Then, bit by bit, I began to change. Here is how it happened
There’s no getting away from it: I come across as smug. In March, kicking off what I hope will be a very long series of articles, I wrote that I was in “great shape” for a 60-year-old, with plans to make it to 100. I ran 30-40km every week, I added, on top of yoga and high-intensity interval training. In April I celebrated my “freakishly strong” core; in May my “remarkably youthful” brain. And that’s just what I put in writing. At home, I can barely pass a mirror without pulling up my shirt to admire the faint beginnings of a six-pack. When I’m running and I overtake someone decades younger, I get such a bounce in my step that even I think I deserve a slap.
But here’s the thing: what’s mostly going through my mind is not: “I’m amazing!” but: “I’m amazed!” For three-quarters of my life there was nothing to suggest I might ever get into shape. I don’t come from a sporty family, and as for school (with its rugby, cricket, football, gymnastics, swimming, etc) I remember precisely one game that I played rather than endured: a hockey match at 14 or 15, when I was in goal and, for once, found myself blocking shot after shot instead of watching them whiz into the net. This was the only time any of my teammates looked at me with something other than sympathy or scorn.
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