Turning 60 felt like reaching the summit of Mount Middle Age. There’s no more hiding. You can no longer pretend you’re still ‘just the wrong side of 40’. You can’t even say you’re just ‘getting on a bit’.

We remember our Grandma and Granddad being 60 when we were kids. We remember the smell of TCP and mothballs, knitted toilet seat covers, boiled ham salads and hard boiled eggs. Well, that was then, and this is now. I never quite believed I would ever be 60. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I am – the alternative would be horrific (particularly for me).

However, I can’t help feeling disappointed too. Disappointed to have left behind all that youthful energy, that strength, that confidence filled with fresh hopes of what might be, always looking forwards rather than behind.

I catch myself in the mirror quite often this days and it shocks me when I see that belly of an old man. A proper granddad belly is captured raw, in that split moment before I get a chance to suck everything in and pretend otherwise. And even when I do, it’s pointless. In your 40s and 50s breathing in can hide a multitude of sins, but not in your 60s. The elasticity is gone, like a pair of old knickers. Your belly just sags dolefully. It’s given up and there’s just no point pretending any more.

Last week I went for a haircut. For the first time ever, the barber asked me if I wanted my eyebrows trimming. I declined. My hair is thinning on top, although I’m not losing hair per-se, it’s just heading south – to ears, nostrils, my chest, my back, and, soon, my eyebrows. I struggle to see what possible evolutionary advantage that affords me, but it seems to be a common scenario amongst the elderly. That’s what I am – I’m not middle aged any more – I’m elderly.

And maybe that is why I restarted running. Running is something I have always enjoyed ever since I was a child when it came so easily to me. I have run on and off for the past 40 years. However, I never quite achieved the consistency I always yearned for.

We are fortunate enough to have grandchildren now. Our three children are all now well into adulthood, but they’re still terribly young, frustratingly fit, and disgustingly healthy. And that’s when a moment of clarity struck. I realized my grandchildren will soon outrun me. Maybe it was the mirror reflecting a version of me I barely recognized. Whatever it was, I decided I needed to give running another shot.

Embarking on this journey, I was acutely aware of the risks. Injury loomed large in my mind. I envisioned twisted ankles and sore joints. The ignominy of being overtaken by power-walkers also haunted me. To mitigate these fears, I adopted a cautious approach. I started with walking, gradually introducing short bursts of jogging. This method, often recommended for beginners, allows the body to adapt without undue stress. I also appreciated (nay, accepted) that it’s not about speed any more; it’s about consistency.

As weeks turned into months, something quite remarkable happened. The initial soreness has given way to a newfound vitality. My strides have become more confident, my breathing more controlled. I am no longer a hesitant novice, I am a runner once again.

And this transformation isn’t just physical. Running has instilled a sense of accomplishment, a reminder that age is not a barrier, rather a benchmark. Each run is a testament to resilience, proving that it’s never too late to reclaim one’s health and happiness.

And the most unexpected joy has come from running with my kids. Sharing this activity bridges generational gaps, which is no mean feat, and it turns solitary runs into shared adventures. We laugh, we compete, and we bond in ways that only shared endeavour and mutual encouragement can foster. Running together has taught us all patience and understanding – they adjust their pace; I push my limits. It isn’t about who is faster but about being together, step by step.

Rediscovering running at 60 continues to be a journey of self-discovery, resilience, and joy. It’s taught me that age is not a limitation but an invitation to explore new horizons and new ways of doing things. To anyone standing at the crossroads of doubt and desire, I say: take that first step, whatever it may be. The road ahead for us sixty-somethings is challenging, yes, but it’s also filled with unparalleled rewards if we take the time to search them out.

Turning 60 felt like reaching the summit of Mount Middle Age. There’s no more hiding. You can no longer pretend you’re still ‘just the wrong side of 40’. You can’t even say you’re just ‘getting on a bit’.

We remember our Grandma and Granddad being 60 when we were kids. We remember the smell of TCP and mothballs, knitted toilet seat covers, boiled ham salads and hard boiled eggs. Well, that was then, and this is now. I never quite believed I would ever be 60. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I am – the alternative would be horrific (particularly for me).

However, I can’t help feeling disappointed too. Disappointed to have left behind all that youthful energy, that strength, that confidence filled with fresh hopes of what might be, always looking forwards rather than behind.

I catch myself in the mirror quite often this days and it shocks me when I see that belly of an old man. A proper granddad belly is captured raw, in that split moment before I get a chance to suck everything in and pretend otherwise. And even when I do, it’s pointless. In your 40s and 50s breathing in can hide a multitude of sins, but not in your 60s. The elasticity is gone, like a pair of old knickers. Your belly just sags dolefully. It’s given up and there’s just no point pretending any more.

Last week I went for a haircut. For the first time ever, the barber asked me if I wanted my eyebrows trimming. I declined. My hair is thinning on top, although I’m not losing hair per-se, it’s just heading south – to ears, nostrils, my chest, my back, and, soon, my eyebrows. I struggle to see what possible evolutionary advantage that affords me, but it seems to be a common scenario amongst the elderly. That’s what I am – I’m not middle aged any more – I’m elderly.

And maybe that is why I restarted running. Running is something I have always enjoyed ever since I was a child when it came so easily to me. I have run on and off for the past 40 years. However, I never quite achieved the consistency I always yearned for.

We are fortunate enough to have grandchildren now. Our three children are all now well into adulthood, but they’re still terribly young, frustratingly fit, and disgustingly healthy. And that’s when a moment of clarity struck. I realized my grandchildren will soon outrun me. Maybe it was the mirror reflecting a version of me I barely recognized. Whatever it was, I decided I needed to give running another shot.

Embarking on this journey, I was acutely aware of the risks. Injury loomed large in my mind. I envisioned twisted ankles and sore joints. The ignominy of being overtaken by power-walkers also haunted me. To mitigate these fears, I adopted a cautious approach. I started with walking, gradually introducing short bursts of jogging. This method, often recommended for beginners, allows the body to adapt without undue stress. I also appreciated (nay, accepted) that it’s not about speed any more; it’s about consistency.

As weeks turned into months, something quite remarkable happened. The initial soreness has given way to a newfound vitality. My strides have become more confident, my breathing more controlled. I am no longer a hesitant novice, I am a runner once again.

And this transformation isn’t just physical. Running has instilled a sense of accomplishment, a reminder that age is not a barrier, rather a benchmark. Each run is a testament to resilience, proving that it’s never too late to reclaim one’s health and happiness.

And the most unexpected joy has come from running with my kids. Sharing this activity bridges generational gaps, which is no mean feat, and it turns solitary runs into shared adventures. We laugh, we compete, and we bond in ways that only shared endeavour and mutual encouragement can foster. Running together has taught us all patience and understanding – they adjust their pace; I push my limits. It isn’t about who is faster but about being together, step by step.

Rediscovering running at 60 continues to be a journey of self-discovery, resilience, and joy. It’s taught me that age is not a limitation but an invitation to explore new horizons and new ways of doing things. To anyone standing at the crossroads of doubt and desire, I say: take that first step, whatever it may be. The road ahead for us sixty-somethings is challenging, yes, but it’s also filled with unparalleled rewards if we take the time to search them out.

The FIFA Club World Cup is an utter waste of time – an overfed, unwanted, bloated parasite clinging to the dying host of modern football.

Nobody cares. Players don’t want it, fans don’t ask for it, clubs resent it, and yet FIFA’s expanded it to 32 teams? It goes on forever and it’s utter bilge.

Give players a rest, give fans a rest! We might not ask for it but we all need it!

It’s not about competition. It’s about revenue. A soulless cash-grab disguised as “global growth,” flogging tired players through another needless tournament while domestic leagues buckle under the strain.

The Champions League is already the world (European) championship. This ‘thing’ is just noise, plastic prestige with an air-conditioned VIP tent.

Scrap it. Football doesn’t need more fixtures. It needs its soul back. It’s making already big clubs bigger and smaller clubs smaller. Addicted football fans are paying for this out of fixated desperation in the absence of anything else. The divide just gets bigger.

We already have Euros and World Cups, give us at least some break so we can become bored once again and learn how to live outside of the prefabricated world of elite football.

Bring back jumpers for goalposts.

The FIFA Club World Cup is an utter waste of time – an overfed, unwanted, bloated parasite clinging to the dying host of modern football.

Nobody cares. Players don’t want it, fans don’t ask for it, clubs resent it, and yet FIFA’s expanded it to 32 teams? It goes on forever and it’s utter bilge.

Give players a rest, give fans a rest! We might not ask for it but we all need it!

It’s not about competition. It’s about revenue. A soulless cash-grab disguised as “global growth,” flogging tired players through another needless tournament while domestic leagues buckle under the strain.

The Champions League is already the world (European) championship. This ‘thing’ is just noise, plastic prestige with an air-conditioned VIP tent.

Scrap it. Football doesn’t need more fixtures. It needs its soul back. It’s making already big clubs bigger and smaller clubs smaller. Addicted football fans are paying for this out of fixated desperation in the absence of anything else. The divide just gets bigger.

We already have Euros and World Cups, give us at least some break so we can become bored once again and learn how to live outside of the prefabricated world of elite football.

Bring back jumpers for goalposts.

Eighteen years ago today, my dad died. He was just 64. Not old, not ready, not done.

There’s rarely a day that passes where he’s not, in some quiet way, still with me. But on anniversaries like this, the loss surfaces more sharply, not just because I miss him, but because I know how much he would have loved the great-grandchildren he never got to meet. He would’ve adored them and they would have adored him too.

He was a northerner from a very working-class background, and he wore that heritage with silent pride. No pretence. No shortcuts.

He never missed a day’s work in his life as far as I recall. Work wasn’t just something he did, it was a duty, it was who he was – a provider, a grafter, a man who showed up, no matter what.

We used to joke that he was tight with money. Looking back, it was never about stinginess. He was careful. Meticulously, intentionally careful. It turns out that thanks to him, when he passed, Mum had savings that gave her comfort and security. He gave her that whilst bearing the slings and arrows we hurled his way for being a ‘tight wad’. But he received it all with grace and never, ever made a fuss, he just got on with it.

Dad wasn’t flashy and he didn’t chase recognition, but he lived an honourable life and he worked hard for modest comforts. He never expected anything to be handed to him. He didn’t grumble or cut corners. He just got on with life, the way that generation often did.

And I suppose what strikes me today is that we live in a world full of noise, social media outpourings and performances of success, declarations of virtue, curated lives. But my dad? He just was – reliable, kind and steady, in his own undemonstrative way.

I think he’d be proud of what’s grown in his absence. The extended family, the laughter, the lives continued. But I also think he’d shake his head at all the silliness and the fuss. I know he’d tell me to stop being daft and to get on with things.

I miss him but I’m very grateful and very proud of the quiet, honest way he lived his life. He was dignified, yes, that’s the best way to describe Dad.

Eighteen years ago today, my dad died. He was just 64. Not old, not ready, not done.

There’s rarely a day that passes where he’s not, in some quiet way, still with me. But on anniversaries like this, the loss surfaces more sharply, not just because I miss him, but because I know how much he would have loved the great-grandchildren he never got to meet. He would’ve adored them and they would have adored him too.

He was a northerner from a very working-class background, and he wore that heritage with silent pride. No pretence. No shortcuts.

He never missed a day’s work in his life as far as I recall. Work wasn’t just something he did, it was a duty, it was who he was – a provider, a grafter, a man who showed up, no matter what.

We used to joke that he was tight with money. Looking back, it was never about stinginess. He was careful. Meticulously, intentionally careful. It turns out that thanks to him, when he passed, Mum had savings that gave her comfort and security. He gave her that whilst bearing the slings and arrows we hurled his way for being a ‘tight wad’. But he received it all with grace and never, ever made a fuss, he just got on with it.

Dad wasn’t flashy and he didn’t chase recognition, but he lived an honourable life and he worked hard for modest comforts. He never expected anything to be handed to him. He didn’t grumble or cut corners. He just got on with life, the way that generation often did.

And I suppose what strikes me today is that we live in a world full of noise, social media outpourings and performances of success, declarations of virtue, curated lives. But my dad? He just was – reliable, kind and steady, in his own undemonstrative way.

I think he’d be proud of what’s grown in his absence. The extended family, the laughter, the lives continued. But I also think he’d shake his head at all the silliness and the fuss. I know he’d tell me to stop being daft and to get on with things.

I miss him but I’m very grateful and very proud of the quiet, honest way he lived his life. He was dignified, yes, that’s the best way to describe Dad.