age showing

I'm sitting in my comfy chair enduring the brain-numbing velocity and fake drama of another Top Gear episode. Though I'm not a car fanatic and haven't owned a vehicle in more than five years, this show about the delights of fast cars entertains me just right when I'm too tired from work and play, when I'm in no state of mind to do things requiring a brain.

Tonight I could have slouched in front of the iPlayer watching Top Gear until falling asleep. I was dead tired when I was finally done with work tonight. The hours weren't brutal, even taking my early arrival to the lab into account. Supervising my recently acquired student wasn't so draining, either. There is an altogether different reason for complete exhaustion.

Early in the afternoon, I met up with a bunch of colleagues for an hour at Ethos, the Imperial College gym. We had rented the main court for a session of friendly footie. It's mostly staff that play with only a few students making rare appearances but even so I've recently come to feel that I'm getting too old for this pleasure. Even without hordes of young blood outrunning me mercilessly, I see my limits.

I'd be a shame if I had to retire from football because it's so much fun and such good exercise. Nothing gets my heart rate higher in a shorter time. But I've noticed that I'm not as quick anymore as I used to be. As lightning speed and deadly accelerations were my only asset on the pitch, I'm now left with aimlessly ambling about in the hope of receiving an errant ball, which I then promptly lose to a player on the opposing team. Today, the ball tumbled in front of my feet about a million times and I managed to whack it just past the goal on almost all the occasions that I hadn't been stripped off it by a defender. So much effort and so little to show for.

My glumness only manifests itself in the evening when my body and brain are worn down by the effort of the day, and the reaction is likely a slip. During the match I was elated and enjoyed running my lungs out. I might not be a Lotus to all the Ladas roving about anymore, but I still got legs, and they still move in ways unpredictable to the other players. The tackles I'm frequently awarded attest to that.

It is these tackles rather than my own physical deceleration that make me reconsider playing. My legs can't take the constant beating anymore, and my ankles are not as strong as they used to be. I haven't suffered any injury while chasing the bouncy yellow ball, but I have the hunch it's only a question of time. Even without serious hurt, my entire body is sore after football, and with an ailing body comes a sinking brain. At least that's how I have always experienced it. Instead of attacking the daunting mass of a rock of French literature that has recently appeared on my bedside table or writing something intelligent and edifying on my blog, I find myself watching Top Gear until my eyelids fall shut. Good night.