Andy Richardson: Recapturing the marathon man...Or at least a bit of him

Mine came in peculiar circumstances. We were about to take a helicopter flight – as you do – to look at a glacier. Hey, we all get a little holiday time and some of us save hard to make the most of it. Before flying over, we had to step on the scales so the captain knew how much ballast he’d be carrying.

Damn. I’d studiously avoiding weighing scales for a year, acutely aware that elements of my ever-decreasing wardrobe were getting harder and harder to fit into. Even the large trousers had begun to feel tight.

I knew I’d been too heavy for too long – but when the scales begun to play the theme tune to Nelly The Elephant as the dial span round like cherries in a fruit machine – it was time to change.

It was a moment of: ‘Man, really?’ A point of no return. An instant where levity intruded and the need for action became pressing. I did the only thing a man can do in such circumstances – went straight to the boot of the car, took out a packed lunch and comfort ate until I felt better. Ah. Isn’t life sweet. And who can resist a good cheese cob?

But the need to return to something near my fighting weight gnawed at me. I was the woman who was too ashamed to wear a bikini at the beach, the guy who’d got more muffin top than Gregg’s, the future Slimmer of the Year whose ‘remember when I looked that bad’ image was being taken right here, right now.

I considered the options. Veganism? Two of my best friends live that lifestyle and though my respect and admiration for them is complete, it’s not for me. After one meat-free day, my stomach wailed for animal-based protein. Give me a slice of lamb or a I will walk into a field and do something unmentionable to that woolly creature with the innocent smile.

In a past life, I used to run marathons. I’d go home from the office and run six miles rather than idly waste time on computer games.

I’d swan around in 30” waist jeans and tell people how much I’d enjoyed my 14-mile long run that Sunday. And now, as my trainers languish near to the back door and my fingers are too fat to penetrate the opening of a packet of crisps, it’s time to discover whether I am man or mouse. Eeek eeek eeek.

I have a treadmill at home. I bought it back in the days of semi-fitness, of not-running-marathons-anymore-but-still-staying-trim. It was installed at a time when gammon was just something in the fridge, rather than a self-describing adjective.

I cranked it up to the slowest possible setting; to a speed so slow that I used to walk at that pace following a work out. I huffed, I puffed, I managed – well, let’s not get into the detail, eh – a slow jog.

My old coach would have killed me with a look. I climbed on again the next day and managed – hey, numbers are for the classroom not for columns – a little bit more. And so it goes.

I realise I’m too old and too slow to recapture the personal bests of yore, to skip around a marathon in the morning then do something even more energetic throughout the afternoon. And I’ve no regrets at that.

But it’s too early to throw in the towel, to sign up now to the local fat-to-fit classes, to put my name down for a mobility scooter, so invest in a Stannah stairlift so I can buy at 2020 prices and invest in my dotage.

I have a target. And it’s that picture to the left that looks nothing like me. I have only one chin, no jowls and the face of a man who hasn’t eaten his own bodyweight in sausage.

Nah. Can’t be me. My target is to return to that, humble though the ambition is, so that I am once again recognised at the deli counter of Tesco by the lady who reads each Saturday.

Fame, boy oh boy, it’s a drag.

And so slow walks on the treadmill will gradually become brisk runs; a packet of McCoy’s at lunchtime will be replaced with an apple. The benefits will be tangible. The effortlessly cool trousers that hang in my wardrobe will again see the light of day.

And I won’t face a moment of horror when I step onto the scales.