Such was the case yesterday evening when, in sultry conditions in tropical Chesham during a Touch Rugby match against the Tight Head Pops, I stepped inside one would-be tackler, swerved inside another and then threw a dummy to burst (well, kind of) through the gap.
For one brief and exhilarating moment anything was possible and all that was required was for the after-burners to kick-in to carry me the 20 metres or so to the tryline. And the response from my legs? Nada, zilch, nothing whatsoever. One overly ambitious and desperate attempt at an overhead pass later, the chance was lost.
Fortunately my humiliation had no bearing on the result as other, younger, fitter members of the team ran in a number of tries to see 'Billy Who?' record our 3rd win out of 4 matches. I even contributed a late try myself when all I had to do was catch the ball and stroll over from 2 metres – which I clearly need to understand is more my kind of distance these days.
Here's the thing - when I think rationally I know full well that that the days of me outsprinting anyone are so far behind me it’s just not funny anymore. In the heat of the moment, however, something inexplicable happens and more often than not instinct will kick in and the right side of my brain will drag up memories from 30 years ago and delude itself into thinking that there’s still some pace left in the old legs.
I really must introduce my legs to my brain.
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