Their early forties are when men typically turn their minds to a mid-life crisis. Rather than any of the ordinary and less well-advised ones I decided to get into the pool and swim. As I turned 41 in March last year, I was dragging myself out of a very unpleasant 2 month bout of walking pneumonia, while feeling fatter and less fit than at any time before. I am not exaggerating here, 115 kgs (18 stone in old money), and out of breath at the top of the stairs. I had a couple of very tentative sessions in the gym at work, concerned about whether my lungs were going to play nicely at all, before starting swimming, and occasionally cycling the 17 undulating miles to work.
I had to admit to myself pretty early on that the 115 kgs were never going to be much of a help while cycling, unless a ride completely free of gradients could be found, so started to concentrate on the swimming instead.
I have a background in swimming from school days, but hadn’t actually done any in the intervening 22 years or so. But the muscle memory was still there. Unfortunately, memory was the key word, as I soon discovered. After knocking out 30 lengths or so in my first session, using a mixture of strokes (breaststroke and backstroke thrown in to give myself a break from tiring front crawl), I emerged from the pool and tried to get changed. I was as weak as a baby, and could barely do my shoelaces up!
Anyway, one of my boys has got up now, and today I am not at work or swimming, so I will post some more later. Kettle on!