AGAINST THE ODDS: Before he heads to Croker, Vinny must visit the gym for the first of his fitness boot camp appointments

THE LAST convict in the line-up at the SportsKonnect fitness centre in Fairview, a portly chap with an protruding belly and baldy head, shuffled forward awkwardly to the edge of the pool.

He was wearing a pair of super-sized swim trunks and flip-flops. “I’m Vinny Fitzpatrick,” he said. “I’m 54 and I’m overweight.”

(He might have added “I drink too much, eat rubbish and love a gamble,” for that was also true, but he checked himself, conscious he had said too much already.)

With that, Vinny puffed his cheeks and took a step back level with the other inmates. He had a look along the line and felt at home. There were about a dozen of them, all extra-large in size, some XXL, who had signed up for the “September Road”, a four-week fitness boot camp for men aged over 50 which promised “a better you or your money back”.

Vinny had been lukewarm about the idea, but Angie talked him around. “You promised at the end of the summer you’d make a concerted effort to lose weight. This is your chance,” she said.

Vinny’s notion of shedding a few pounds was to walk briskly between shots at Deer Park, not to crawl out of bed at dawn to be thrown into a full-fronted physical assault. But he knew something had to be done after a summer of heavy grazing, which he put down to the surfeit of sport on the telly and long shifts behind the wheel of the 130.

For years, Vinny used to kid himself his fighting weight was 15 stone and a bit, but he was now firmly on the wrong side of the 16-stone marker – not ideal for someone with his medical history.

It explained his presence at the Boot Camp on a glorious Sunday morning at the nine o’clock.

The early tee time was a pain but Vinny was already looking ahead to the treat of a hearty Irish fry before hooking up with the lads in Gaffney’s en route to Croker for the Dubs. He’d made a mental note to have just the two sausages and rashers as a nod to his new fitness regime.

There were three disciplines involved; swimming, cycling and running. Marking himself in advance, Vinny gave himself a C minus in the first two and an F in the third.

There were a dozen Fatty Arbuckles lined up by the pool. Vinny noted the spread – not just the ones around the waist either – and reckoned he was about Mr Average in age and size although there was a stooped elder at the end who reminded Vinny of Private Godfrey from Dad’s Army.

The instructor was an unexpected bonus, a leggy, bouncy blonde, who introduced herself as Irma. Judging by her accent, Vinny reckoned she was from East of the Rhine. Irma went on the front foot from the first shrill peep of her whistle. “Is anyone here proud of how they look?” she shouted. “Don’t worry, you soon will be. In four weeks, you will see the difference, I promise.”

The first two lanes in the pool had been reserved for the flab fighters and Vinny found himself at the top of the line. “The first task is to swim eight lengths. You go up the right hand side of the lane and back the left. You may rest briefly at each end, no more than five seconds or I blow my whistle. Do I make myself clear?”

Vinny shuffled forward with some trepidation, not about the swim for he was an accomplished paddler, but whether the string in his togs was tied securely.

The last thing he wanted was to resurface from his dive, minus his shorts and his dignity.

“You are Vinny, yes? Please show the others the way.”

With that Irma peeped her pea and Vinny took the plunge.

Vinny found his stroke, and his shorts, as he scythed through the pool. The first 25 metres were a stroll, and he was glad to have open water in front of him. On the way back, he encountered some traffic as one or two of the other cadets strayed off centre.

He completed the eight lengths well clear of everyone else, even if he tied up slightly on the final stretch and finished with a snotty gasp as he swallowed some water.

“Out of the pool and into the gym, right away. We have no time for a rest,” barked Irma.

Within minutes, the roly-poly 11 – Private Godfrey had already had enough – were sitting on exercise bikes, sweat and water dripping off them.

Irma marched up and down in front of the chubby vets, her carriage not unlike a POW camp commander, thought Vinny.

“We will ride the bike for 15 minutes, non-stop. Choose the random option and key in level eight. Start right away,” she piped before issuing another shrill peep.

Initially, the bike ride was straightforward but when the resistance grew to allow for the gradient, Vinny struggled for puff. His fat calves lacked power and he imagined the broom wagon was at his back.

At 10 minutes, two of the lads had abandoned but Vinny grimly soldiered on, sweat rolling down all his cheeks. By the end, he felt he’d climbed Alpe d’Huez alongside Nico Roche when all he’d managed was four kilometres. He was so exhausted he didn’t even bother with the two-minute warm down, he just plopped face down on the handlebars.

The final act of Sunday morning penance was the treadmill, which Vinny was dreading, even more so when Irma announced that because everyone was going so well, she felt a 10-minute jog at a pace of 10 kilometres per hour would be sufficient.

“This will hurt but think of the rewards to come,” she said, without a trace of humour.

Right away, Vinny was in trouble. His chubby legs were unable to keep pace with the speed setting – it was simply too fast for him. All around, he could hear “Ah here, love” and “Ah Jaysus” as the lads struggled.

Vinny knew he had to change the setting. He reached forward and pressed a pudgy finger on the minus arrow, only to misjudge and press the plus one instead. Right away, the treadmill groaned as it cranked up the revs.

Despite his most frantic efforts, Vinny found himself going backwards on the treadmill.

Desperately, he tried to regain his balance but he was off kilter and only succeeded in tilting heavily to starboard. As he tried to grab the side rail with both arms, Vinny felt his legs collapse from under him. He let out a roar before crashing down in a heap on the poor unsuspecting chap on the next treadmill.

He went the same way as did the next one, and the next. Vinny had an image of 11 flabby 50-somethings collapsing on top of one another in a domino-like pile. As a pain shot up his left leg he was vaguely aware of the noisy shrill from Irma’s whistle.

Some five hours later, as he was wheeled into Croke Park by Fran, his left foot in plaster, Vinny noted that some good had come out of it all, even if he was lighter by €80.

His September Road boot camp was over, he was off work for a week and, better still, he had a front row view of the Dubs. Sure, what could go wrong?

Vinny's Bismarck

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