Fathletic Prowess

Stop panicking, man

I've been banging on about this health assessment for some time. The results were far from expected. Turns out I have a heart rate that would make Hannibal Lecter look like he's suffering from an anxiety disorder. A stress-recovery response that puts me, hilariously, into the 'elite athlete' category. And a spine that could not score higher for regularity and flexibility.

Daisies before balls

Admittedly, I am hiding these Olympian gifts under a considerable and shameful blanket of blubber, but nonetheless they are there. And this is a revelation to me, and my sense of identity. I am the offspring of a fat father, and an asthmatic mother, and the currency in our house was words and music. So I trawled through the all the grades on piano and bassoon, and won awards for public speaking. I was fat, but so were all my family - and I accepted this as the natural order, picking daisies on the hockey field and staring blankly at any ball that came my way. It was almost a matter of pride that I was last choice for team selection.

With adulthood came the recognition that exercise was probably a good idea. So I started taking some, in a dutiful fashion. Never enthusiastically.

But now my feelings have changed. Who knew that I'd been hiding an engine like that under my shitty bonnet? Now I just want to know how fast I can go. This is better than a Viking hoard turning up on Antiques Roadshow.

We are not always who we think we are*.

(*Though would still ignore a ball if it headed in my direction.  So don't pick me for your team.)