‘Pain is temporary, quitting lasts forever’ once uttered cyclist Lance Armstrong before his fall from grace. I too have always bemoaned ‘quitters’ as I urge my kids to try everything twice: Once for the experience and the second time just to make sure.

Alas however I did not take ‘age’ into consideration, and I have now, begrudgingly succumbed and quit two things I love, in quick succession, as the pain is now permanent.

The quickening commenced last year when I found the after work five-a-side kickabout too strenuous. That one hour of fun would culminate in a ramping up of the number of ‘oohs’ I would emit each time I rose from inert. A bath with ‘relaxing salt’ (does that stuff even work?) did nothing but make me smell better, as the previous recovery time of one day now became four or five or six.

Very similar to hangovers (but no, I’m not quitting that just yet), the realisation soon came that, despite having all the gear, I no longer had an idea as twenty something young bucks would outmuscle and outrun me as they took pleasure in humiliating the old chap sweating like Jocky Wilson on a treadmill. Solace was found by making use of the kit as I watched football in the summerhouse before the inevitable usage as a car cleaning cloth, as I found myself, instead, surfing the hush puppy online sale with more glee than I care to admit.

And so, having quit a sport that I had played for nigh on half a century, I immersed myself even further into the world of pedal power. Now with an impressive middle aged stable of four bikes, I have the options of sitting on the turbo trainer in the shed, or stepping out in lycra for a road or gravel bike ride as I kept my expensive rig: the full suspension downhill Mondraker for special trips away to Bikepark Wales and the like.

But this, sadly, is where my second, and most regrettable quit came to bear. Downhilling, the sport, is brutal, and it hurts. Ten years ago I would bounce up off the rocks or roots with little damage, but on recent trips down the Welsh mountains I have found myself clinging on for dear life as, soaking wet through the rain or sweat, I struggle to concentrate wearing full face crash helmet, knee and elbow pads and a spine protector as, again, those pesky millennials came whizzing past without seemingly a care in the world…

Having not crashed on the last few trips of the 80 or so days I reckon I have risked life and limb at BPW, the after effects are horrendous. As I write this I can barely stand or walk. My neck won’t turn fully left or right, my knee is swollen, and my back is as twisted as a sadist with a power tool.

Coupled with the preparation where everything must be on point, be it the accommodation, hydration, mechanicals, body armour and coordination of hauling my sorry derriere up the side of a Welsh mountain for a few hours’ fun, I have reluctantly decided that I am now retired from the game.

I should really be sad and crying into my cornflakes as I write this, but I am not. I am resigned to the situation and have already put my beloved bike up for sale as I look forward to traversing the canal paths and tracks of the shires in a more sedentary manner. Although it is like a bereavement, at least I have fond memories to look back on and not, as I saw yesterday, a leg snapped clean in two from a misjudged jump.

No, there is a lot to be said for quitting. If you do not find it enjoyable anymore, and the pain outweighs the pleasure then walk away and find something else to fill in the down time as we're here for a relaxing time, not a long time, aren’t we?

  • Brett Ellis is a teacher