'No crunchie for old men' - the horrors of getting fit in January

Paul Fitzpatrick

Christmas is coming, the saying goes, and the geese are getting fat. Well, now Christmas is over and I can confirm that the geese were not alone in that activity. Trust me.
Of late, I have been taking to the roads to try to run off some of the excesses. Forget what they tell you; each step is agonising. But after a while, it does get a little easier  - and that's when the danger of getting carried away creeps in.
Last week, I suggested to to a friend of mine that I could make one of those inspirational social media videos about my return to fitness, detailing my extreme sacrifices, early morning jogging, weight-lifting, turnip juice smoothies  for breakfast, twig salads for lunch... You know the type.
If I was lucky, it would go viral and I could catapult myself into the realm of the YouTube sensations, who stick up a tweet saying something like “Pain is weakness leaving the body” and sit back and watch the dollars rolling in.
But first, it needed a name. What would I call it, I asked him, stressing the need to tap into the zeitgeist, to make it catchy, capture the essence of my battle against age and crap food and general laziness.
“No Crunchie For Old Men?” he suggested innocently.
Stung, I retreated to the kitchen, undoing my good work of that morning. This was going to be even more difficult than I expected.
The next day, there was a frost, so I couldn't run. That was a Monday. Tuesday, I was too tired after a long deadline day in the office. Wednesday was foggy which, I quickly decided, was a health and safety issue and ruled out any sort of outdoor exercise. That niight, I took stock.
Tomorrow, I promised myself, would be the real day one in this transformation. I lifted the laptop and googled “get fit quick” but, true to form, it seemed to have been afflicted with some sort of virus.
I texted my man, who also happens to be an IT specialist as well, you may have gathered, as a budding life coach, again. “I'm trying to download a training plan but I kept getting some message saying I need to delete cookies,” I wrote.
“Was that not what got you into this mess?” he replied, quick as a flash. “Keep me posted.” I cursed his insolence.

Above: The offending confectionery

So, there I was, low on motivation and high on leftover Celebrations, trying to figure out my next move when the front door opened and in walked my better half.
“Are you not running this evening?” she asked as she observed me stretched out on the coach, feet on cushion, remote control in hand, tea in mug, Kit Kat on plate, laptop on blink.
Now, maybe it was the way she said it or perhaps it was the sugar rush, I can't say for certain, but I suddenly felt energised. I left two fingers of the chocolate where they were and leaped up, togged out, and hit the garage.
Why the garage,I hear you asking (no, I wasn't going to  scratch my head and stare at the boiler again). Well, read on.
When we moved house last year, I left one item behind, or two to be more precise - a set of dumbells (good as new and available free to a good home, in case you're interested).
A couple of months later, as I took my seat in the press box at Kingspan Breffni, I heard a shout from the stand. It was a local auctioneer – I won't name him, only to say that he scored a goal against Kerry in the 1997 All-Ireland semi-final.
“I have your dumbells, Fitzpatrick!” he cried. “You left them behind you.”
“Oh, right,” I said sheepishly, remembering that I did in fact own a pair.
“Shows how often you were lifting them!”
(He was right. When I got them back, they were as good as new.)
In the meantime, sans dumbells, I had charted a different course to physical wellbeing.
Being a boxing fan and having once gloved up for a fundraising event under the nom de guerre The Raging Bullock, I had purchased a punch bag.
I knew I was unlikely to return to the squared circle and I have long made my peace with the fact that my fistic record will forever read 0-1 (one fight, one loss) but I reckoned it would be handy for getting fit.
I had visions of myself going 10 rounds “on the bag” in the morning before work, maybe downing a protein shake and doing another half an hour that evening. 
But it's not that easy, as I discovered when I tried out the white collar boxing that time. The fight night was in the Imperial, which reminded me of the late Sean Hughes's joke: “I saw my brother fight in the National Stadium one time – it was at a UB40 gig”...
Anyway, you may recall that bout ended in glorious defeat. Once battered, twice shy, you would think, but no, here I was, in a dimly-lit, freezing shed in the dog days of January, cheap gloves on my hands and the Pogues on the radio. 
I had downloaded an app that rang a bell every three minutes, allowed one minute rest and started again. I programmed it for 12 rounds, with half a mind to go 15. No pain, no gain.
After one round, it started to hurt. After four, I was laid out panting on the floor. Above me, the bag was swinging gently, as if taunting me.
I decided to call it an evening and, prone on the cold floor, I fired off one final text to my spiritual advisor.
“I did four rounds on the bag,” I said, “I can hardly stand.”
“Good job it doesn't hit back,” he replied.
Good job is right, I thought, as I waddled my way back into the warmth.