Not the man I used to be

Now that I'm older, in severe danger of becoming a MAMIL.
That's a Middle Aged Man In Lycra.

We're quite a tragic sight, really. You'll spot us on any road side, red faced, unattractively sweaty, wheezing with lungs that still aren't quite sure how to function without the beneficial kick-start of 20 Marlboro Lights...

But its either that indignity, or worse; the grudging acceptance that life has passed us by, we're no longer in our prime and we're really not healthy young lads any more.

You see, to admit that, would be to admit the biggie: the very idea that our flirting days are behind us, and that we've not still "got it" after all...

Of course, I'm not saying that all men think that way. And I'll quite happily include myself in the list of men who would actually run a mile if the genuine prospect of a RUB (Random Unexpected Bonk) actually occurred, but that's not the point at all. The point is that, as long as we can entertain the slightest possibility that such a fantasy encounter might one day actually take place, we can still face world every day.

As British comedian, Lenny Henry put it- "I'm an optimist. I'm 50 years old, I live on my own, and I still wake up every morning with a stiffy."

So recently, as you know, I've fallen victim to the self same need for approval and self justification that drives all middle aged men to take up sports and activities which (to be honest) we were never really much good at even 20 years ago, back when we at least had the decency to look the part.

So, yet again, after vowing that I'd never run another step after leaving the army, I find myself pounding Tarmac again.

All well and good, you might think. But, as with so many things in life- it's a bit more complicated than that.

I don't know why, but I'm driven to overdo it. I'm sure it's a man thing. But what ever it is, it's as if I'm suffering from a compulsive disorder that's making me ignore sound medical advice, and my own common sense.

There's a way of getting back into running properly, and there's a way of injuring yourself... Guess which I'm working on? That's right- the one that starts with a 12 mile jog on Peak District trails in hiking boots and jeans.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Of course, I got away with it the first time. And the second. I made a big fuss because my time had dropped 10 whole minutes... But by the time I was ready for my mid week run (a conservative 4 miles) my right calf was more than ready to remind me that even if I have lost more than 40lb, it's been twenty one years since I was twenty one.

You see, I love the feeling of running. I adore that pseudo Highlander Quickening you get when your heart's pounding at your chest and your lungs feel like they're on fire... But my legs just aren't up to it. They need nurture. They need a gradual build up, and a 10% weekly increase. They need proper physio, or at least some decent stretching...

You see, I know all that. But it doesn't stop me trying to tear about like I used to when I actually could.

I don't know. Maybe I really am just daft. Maybe its muscle memory. All I know is that tonight was a perfect night for running. Deserted country roads, a mild night. Crystal clear star-peppered sky with a thin crescent moon, and from the top of the hill- sixty miles of view to the north and east over Barnsley and York.

But I'd gone less than a mile before I realised something was wrong. And within twenty minutes I was walking back the way I'd come. I had tried to take it slowly, just a walk-jog-walk... But since I didn't manage to stick to that great plan I had to settle for walk-limp-swear.

Anyway, I'll rest up another week or so, and then I'll try again. No doubt I'll have good intentions of gradually building up to distances I used to do before breakfast, but I'm pretty sure I'll be getting through plenty more ice and ibruprofen before the year's out.