Success is relative – by Tony Talbot

I’ve always been involved in some kind of sporting activity. In my school days I was a sprinter, in part due to my dad’s influence, and later turned to football. As a defender I excelled in the Great British Footballing Art of the “raised two-footed and totally illegal slide tackle” made famous by Chelsea’s Chopper Harris and his best buddies at Leeds United FC, Norman “Bites Yer Legs” Hunter and King Billy Bremner. I was not a naturally gifted player but I worked hard and learned new skills, resulting in a celebrated move to midfield. The teams that I played for rarely won silverware but my success in being captain of a few of those clubs I represented, along with the camaraderie and respect I received from my teammates, was like gold dust; it was very, very special.

My 30s and 40s saw a reduction in sporting activity due to married life, babies, and the pressure that trying to earn a decent living brings to all of us. Continued wear and tear to the body meant that by the time I had hit 56 my right knee hurt to such an extent that I could hardly put weight on it. I knew the problem but the message from my GP still came as a shock when he said that I should cease running and any other impact sports immediately. God, I felt so old and washed up at that point. In retrospect I should have given myself a good hard slap as I was soon to discover that when one thing comes to a grinding halt another opportunity presents itself – if of course you are prepared to put the time and effort in.

My surgeon was a cyclist and advised me to get involved. I soon became possessed, throwing myself into all manner of events. Living and training in the Yorkshire Dales, the cycling land of gods, a place where there is no such thing as downhill, was and continues to be an absolute joy. Regardless of technique, I became faster and faster, fitter and fitter, dropping weight like never before. Forming friendships, regularly riding out with a different set of buddies, and being able to keep up with guys younger than me was incredible. My Strava times as I approached the milestone age of 60 were still good. It was harder, yes, and recovery took longer, but I was still there, still in the race, still averaging 19 mph, and still able to get into my 34 inch waist jeans.

I am proud to say that at 66 I can still get into those 34 inch waist jeans, but that is the only thing that has stayed the same. I’ve got slower over the past two years or so, and that has been hard to take from a psychological perspective, but there is still a huge upside. When I manage to push emotions firmly under my mind’s bedroom carpet and think about it logically, I know that cycling up and down undulating hills, interspersed with two or three 20% climbs over 30 miles, at an average of 15 mph, at the age of 66, a couple of days a week, still means I’m in better physical shape than many other people. I accept that there will come a day, and it is not too far around the corner, when cocking the leg over the crossbar and placing my backside on that blade of leather that they laughingly call a saddle will become impossible. Until then I will keep going.

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