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There was no getting away from it, this was an old dog and these were indeed new tricks. And as yours truly glanced around the exercise class at a state-of-the-art sports centre, everyone else looked at least 30, possibly 35, years younger.

Middle-aged British men generally have the flexibility and mobility of an old MFI wardrobe, and just like those heaps of junk I only defy gravity thanks to the rusty screws and assorted bits of old wire that hold my mangled frame together.

You kid yourself on that, after a year or so of pretty intensive training (three spin classes a week) you’re reasonably fit and look OK for your age.

Then you try something a little different, such as Pilates or yoga, and find yourself in a studio full of superfit young people and you realise that you most certainly are not.

After a spinning class things weren't quite like they should have been

Once you hit that age (40) exercise is a lot like drinking. Great fun at the time but you pay for it with your life the day after.

My “Oh God” moment came a couple of weeks ago during what I thought was a pretty good impression of a pretzel while making the noise we all do when getting up off the floor, somewhere between dying and the end of a week-long bout of constipation.

We’re all backs in our house. Well, backs, knees, hips, elbows and wrists. Anything that’s designed to bend or twist really. A year ago it turned out that my hips had been out of whack for years and a course of acupuncture, massage and deep stretches did the trick.

So when my lower back and right hip started screaming a couple of days after the class, I figured all was not well. So I did what every stupid, stubborn man with a point to prove does, said nothing and carried on.

And there we were, spinning away one morning, overlooking a basketball court filled with healthy young adults who were sprinting, stopping, starting and twisting like nothing hurts.

And then it properly went. Like how the hell am I going to fold myself in the car to drive home went. Of course, instead of waving at the instructor and warning of my distress, I just lowered the resistance and gamely (stupidly) finished the class, said nothing and crawled home.

It may be ruinously expensive (just over £41,000) but the thought crossed my mind of filling a bath with Voltarol, climbing in and only getting out once the last drop had been absorbed.

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Who's The Daddy: ​Spinning my way into old age and aching joints

Who's The Daddy: Spinning my way into old age and aching joints