A friend who claims to be a lot younger than me recently came to the conclusion that he was very unfit. Mickey’s a fine looking fellow who doesn’t look unfit, but while trudging up a gentle hill on his farm he recently became quite puffed and out of breath. He has resolved to take up cycling and fix up an old treadmill that’s dumped in his basement. I think I should be doing likewise.

I suggested he should become a member of a gym, not least because you could meet interesting and supple people who share a common desire to make their bodies leaner and fitter. This aspect would appeal to me, but I’d hardly get to spend the entire evening sharing stories with Trim’s fittest forty-somethings. I imagine pretty soon they’d have me sussed as having precious little genuine interest in the dumbbells or treadmills.

The increase in my midriff has not gone unnoticed by my wife. In truth, I’ve noticed it myself; my downward gaze for whatever reason is becoming gradually more obscured by excess flesh. But it’s not a beer belly, as goodness knows after a pint or two of stout, I’d be on my ear and a disgrace to the family.

No, the increase in my bodily mass is undoubtedly the result of a general slowing down and, yes, a lack of fitness.

I don’t run after cattle anymore and I walk slowly; in truth I’m becoming a slothful mess. Okay, I’m still a very long way off Operation Transformation, but it’d be better to get a grip now.

My brother has tackled this issue head on. While I’m sleeping, early of a summer morning, he could already be cycling up the Loughcrew hills in north Meath, which is all of 25 agonising pedal-powered miles from here. He’s taken to cycling like Lance Armstrong to steroids.

However, sadly for me, all my recreation revolves around engines; tractors (they’re recreational at the moment), a barge and topless motoring. I’m going to have to take up more physical hobbies, such as pentathlons or open water swimming.

But I have a theory on this sort of thing. Most of the fellows I know of around my age who take up this exercise lark rapidly become absolute fanatics.

Full marathons

They’re not content to run a couple of laps around the village. No, it has to be full marathons every other week. I know a dairy farmer who is running marathons all over the place, in between milking the cows.

Or even a gentle stroll has to be a heart-thumping, full-on power walk with 50 miles to be covered in 24 hours. Neither is there such a thing as a gentle cycle with your head held high as you whistle along the country lanes on a three-speed black bike. Instead, it’s a 120-mile lycra-clad high-speed dash from Meath to Galway, bent double on a carbon fibre bike with 50 gears.

And my local pharmacist, who is around my vintage, has cycled from Mizen to Malin in two or three days.

I am, unfortunately, arriving at a stark conclusion. While I certainly need to take more exercise, there appears to be a great danger that I could become a fanatical power walker, runner, cyclist or even all three. Not good. It seems to be one way or the other – either become fat or a fitness fanatic.

Nonetheless, in this month of Movember, I’ve resolved to take a more moderate approach to fitness.

At the very least, me and Mickey should join a gym, even if it’s only to chat to the forty-somethings in the post-exercise sauna.