Getting back in shape after ‘wintering’ well
IT’S THAT time of year again when the woollen layers are replaced with lycra, fitness gear usurps the fleece, and toe-capped winter boots are thrown in the precipice under the stairs and trainers are dragged out to take their place.
I’ve awoken from the sullen slumber of survival mode and am energetically embracing the summer months that lie ahead like a bright butterfly emerging from a cavernous cocoon.
It definitely could be said that I’ve ‘wintered’ well, or not so well as the case may be. As is often the situation in spring, when the daffodils rise like a phoenix from the ashes and cherry blossoms illuminate country boreens, I’m left manfully trying to rid myself of the excesses of another winter of feeding like a ravenous bullock from a trough.
Each year I tiptoe into the winter months promising myself that it will be different this time around - I’ll keep up the exercise, cut out the gluttony and keep myself as trim as a primly pruned pencil pine tree.
However, I somehow end up glued to the same revolving hamster wheel, with long evenings forcing me into some sort of terrible trance, staring at a screen with a remote control in one hand and a packet of crisps or alcoholic beverage in the other.
Snow and other weather events stranger than a circus freak show have meant the annual leap from hibernation to fully-fledged all-action fitness fanatic has been put on the back burner for a few weeks longer this year.
The fear of profuse sweating in public and cheeks redder than a well-slapped backside dictate that all of my training will be done indoors for the first few weeks, which probably begs the question: why the hell couldn’t I have got started a month ago if I’m not planning on heading into the glare of the public eye for the foreseeable future?
Anyway, no more excuses - the clocks have gleefully sprung forward and the added hour of daylight should provide me with the extra bit of get up and go I need to get up off the arse-shaped indentation in the sofa and put in the miles, so I’ll be able to squeeze into the Speedos when family holiday time comes around.
At the wrong side of 40, my best days are but a distant memory and are as far behind me as a lapped runner in the Olympic 5,000 metres, but making the effort to get somewhat fit gives you an extra appreciation of the sacrifices that sportsmen and women make to perform at the highest level.
I’m not talking about the likes of Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi, because they get well rewarded for keeping in shape and it’s part of their job, although I’m sure the Real Madrid maestro would spend hours tightening his six-pack and the rest of his waking hours looking in the mirror if his glittering career came to a premature end.
League of Ireland footballers and inter-county G.A.A. players also have to keep themselves in peak condition, with the rewards being far more modest, and they’re chiefly in it for pride in the jersey and the love of the game.
Of course, elite G.A.A. players have their own perks that come with being instantly recognisable, but anything they get they deserve for the hours they put in, and it’s heart warming to see stars like Joe Canning gladly take time out to sign autographs for excited children and mingle with the paying public after a big game, when they could be forgiven for disappearing quickly down the tunnel.
Speaking of a sharp exit, I’m off for a run and in 15 minutes or less I’m be panting like a Crufts entrant in the Mediterranean sun.
I’m not expecting to end up with a Ronaldo-esque six-pack at the end of my efforts, but it will definitely be an improvement on the keg I’m carrying at present.
Next winter I won’t let it slip, I’ll continue the fitness regime through the dark and dreary months and keep the biscuits and beer to a minimum.
Or maybe I’ll just do an Arsene Wenger on it, and repeat the same mistakes over and over again.