I always thought it was the pay-off for being athletically inept in my youth.
Not for me, I consoled myself, the gnawing anguish of the once-gifted sportsman who feels his grip loosen or his feet grow weary and realises that age has conquered in a way his opponents never could.
What you never had, you never miss. Only we all have something, to some extent.
To my dismay, I have noticed in recent weeks that the long-legged walker whose confident stride once left so many trailing in his wake, has now himself become the trailer.
Past me they all go now, zealous young turks with calves and appointment diaries that bulge in equal measure, while I, like some doddery trout, shuffle into the haven of a quieter backwater at the inside edge of the pavement.
On the bright side, I am at least spared an audience of 50,000 people telling each other I’ve lost it.