Sunday, 20 February 2011
I had a special, private, "boy" experience yesterday afternoon which, whilst underlining what I thoroughly sad individual I have become in my middle years, will still make me the secret envy of many other boys I know.
Picture the scene.
I'm in a gym on my own - one I'd never previously been to - and bored (as I always am when I'm in any gym).
There is only about half an hour to go until the gym closes, so it's unlikely that anyone else will join me.
I look around to see if there's anything which might make my visit a little more fun.
And there, in a dark corner, hanging from the roof, I spot it.
A punch bag. A proper one, like you see on the telly. My mind begins to race.
I wander over for a closer look. I give it a little push. It swings back.
I then notice a big wooden box a few feet away, full of boxing equipment. There were full body guards, punching pads, head guards - and big, brand new 12oz gloves with Velcro fastenings (meaning I could put them on myself).
I have my iPod on and know the Best of Rocky soundtrack is on there (shut up!)
I stand for another few seconds, before concluding - why not!
And a couple of minutes later, well, you can guess the rest.
I have my gloves on, the Rocky theme blasting in my ears, and I'm snarling away as I pound the punchbag. (I would've slipped on a head guard, and perhaps even nipped home for my old rugby gum shield if I could be sure no-one would come in).
The Rocky theme ends, and Eye Of The Tiger comes on.
I quicken the pace, sweat blinding me.
Next up is the tune from Rocky II when Adrian wakes up and Rocky catches the chicken (I'm sure it has a name). And on I go.
However, by the time There's No Easy Way Out comes on, I decide there is, and go out - through the front door of the gym and home.
But what fun!
And what did I learn?
Only that I don't think I'm a very good boxer
But, for a quarter of an hour, a "boxer" I was.
The question is, what similarly pitiful experiences can I squeeze in before I reach 40?