Right. Let’s get one thing straight from the get-go. I am not, nor have I ever been, a “highly-tuned athlete.” The most tuning my body has ever had is adjusting the grip on a 7-iron. But there comes a time in every man’s life when he can no longer ignore the facts.

And the fact is, time waits for no man.

This stark realisation hit me on the golf course a few months back. I found myself standing on a familiar tee box, but the fairway seemed to have… moved. It had mysteriously stretched itself further into the distance. I was suddenly further back from the green than I’d ever been, and it had nothing to do with the course superintendent and everything to do with the ageing engine in my chassis.

The old joints aren’t what they used to be. My backswing has gotten a bit shorter, thanks to a right shoulder that’s hanging on for dear life. The rotator cuff is a bit mullered, if you will—business in the front, party in the back, and absolutely no idea how to get itself round properly. And let’s not even talk about the mid-drift. Let’s just say I’m carrying a bit too much freight, and the middle spread isn’t looking too flash.

So, at the ripe old age of a half-century, I did something I’ve never done in my entire life: I joined a gym.

My motivation is simple: build a bit of strength in the legs and core, and try to outrun the niggles of an ageing body. The execution, however, is anything but.

I dread going. I hate it. I spend the entire week with a sense of impending doom, knowing that my session with my personal trainer, Sammy, is looming. And Sammy? Sammy is an absolute legend. He’s also a bastard. A good bastard, mind you.

I swear at him for probably 95% of the session, and he takes it remarkably well. He just smiles, tells me to do five more reps of some exercise that feels like it’s personally insulted my ancestors, and keeps me going with a steady stream of banter. We’ve got a good thing going: I provide the colourful commentary, and he provides the pain.

And I feel every second of it when I walk out of there. But slowly, ever so slowly, I am getting stronger. Don’t get me wrong, I’m never going to be one of those gym bunnies who gets a kick out of a new personal best on the deadlift. I don’t get a buzz from it; I get a whimper. But I am trying my best to get in slightly less-round shape.

It’s a far cry from the days when I could roll up to the first tee, no warm-up required, and pure one down the middle like a Rolls-Royce engine. Those days are gone. Now, it’s a whole production. I need to stretch. I need to take the old physio roller to my back and legs, groaning like a haunted house door just to loosen up before I even think about taking a club back. It ain’t great, but it’s the new reality.

So that’s been my week. It’s been mental at work, and my main achievement is surviving Sammy’s latest torture circuit. But, the goal remains: to hit the ball a little further, and hurt a little less.

I’ll keep you posted on the grand adventure. In the meantime, happy golfing. Go practice. Hit it hard.

And maybe do a few stretches while you’re at it. Trust me.

Cheers,

Tommy