Trying to avoid the world of sweaty gyms and hard jogs

Country Living with Francis Farragher

It’s quite amazing how an occasional bit of back trouble can focus the mind and make you appreciate greatly how it feels when all the simple and normal and physical activities we engage in, can be achieved, without an ache, a moan or a groan.

The walk up the fields . . . the hop up and down from the tractor . . . the cycle over the road with the dog on tow . . . or the hour in the swimming pool – where the resemblance is closer to a small elephant than a Michael Phelps or a Mark Spitz – are all little achievable treats for both body and mind.

I’m never been one for joining gyms and while they might have their merits, there is just something mildly depressing about seeing middle to older aged men and women, dripping of sweat, and smelling accordingly, in an enclosed area, armed with nothing other than a towel and a bottle of souped-up water.

A few years back, a doc in ‘The Bons’ who cleaned up a piece of loose cartilage in a dodgy knee, reinforced my scepticism about older humans trying to burn off excess calories by jogging for miles on lonely country roads or in spending half the night on treadmills.

His advice on exercise and diet was quite simple and especially so for anyone in the over-50 age bracket: “Walk, swim and cycle – eat only when you’re hungry and don’t drink too much,” was his mantra for a reasonably healthy existence and after that, like any gambler, all you need is a reasonable slice of luck.

Gone are all ambitions to run the six-minute mile; to attempt any marathons; to cycle the Ring of Kerry or to attempt any parachute drops involving descents into some bog in Offaly. Croagh Patrick – not done for a few years – remains an achievable goal, but even that holy mountain, during a far young stage of my life, always presented a doughty challenge too.

For more, read this week’s Connacht Tribune.