AGAINST THE ODDS:Our hero has seconds thoughts following an embarassing start to his fitness crusade, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE.

AS HE pedalled his rusty Raleigh into the forecourt of the Sportslink Sports Centre in Santry, a battered Gola bag across his shoulders, Vinny Fitzpatrick was already panting hard.

“I can’t see myself sticking to Lance Armstrong’s wheel in the Pyrenees this year,” he chuckled to himself as he parked his bike, unglued himself from the saddle and waddled across to the reception.

It was a glorious morning in the capital and Vinny was about to embark on a fitness crusade that would turn heads, certainly in Foley’s, and influence people, mostly Angie he hoped.

With fatherhood impending – on the double, mind – Vinny had arrived at the inescapable conclusion that it was finally time to get his porcine body into a shape that didn’t resemble blancmange.

Bearing 17st on the hoof was alright if you were a man- mountain like Paul O’Connell, but Vinny was almost a foot shorter and several inches wider of girth; not to mention 20 years older than Limerick’s lionheart.

He was also about to become a first-time parent, and had accepted that, given his considerable alcohol consumption and addiction to junk food, the odds against him being around for the December 14th arrivals were, like his arteries, tightening.

The previous night, ahead of his customary Sunday evening appearance in Foley’s, he had mapped out a new fitness regime, conveniently ignoring the two packets of Tayto cheese and onion he consumed while doing so.

He would visit Sportslink twice a week, every week, for the next six months. Not only that, he would make the seven-mile round trip by bike.

Just as he tracked his bets – this week’s flutters were a score each on Yeats (9 to 4) in the Ascot Gold Cup, Roger Federer (6 to 5) to win Wimbledon, Tiger Woods (15 to 8) to win the US Open and the Springboks (12 to 5) to beat the Lions 2-1 – Vinny would log every gym visit.

He would also record his weight once a week, and monitor the various exercises he was doing, with a view to upping the ante as his fitness levels improved. Crucially – and this was the hard bit – he would endeavour to stay off the jar for two days out of every seven.

Vinny had identified Mondays and Thursdays as the drink-free zones on the basis they were his work-out days and he felt he’d be too exhausted to raise a gargle gallop. The scheme looked manageable, thought Vinny, and he was targeting the loss of a stone-and-a-half by the time the stork came knocking for Angie in December.

At the reception, Vinny paid his €6 for the “swim and gym” deal that was available off-peak and ambled into the men’s lockerroom, where he changed into a loose-fitting pair of shorts and a Dublin Gaelic football jersey that had seen better days.

He would do half an hour in the exercise room, 20 minutes in the pool and 10 minutes in the sauna. Allowing for a shower, he should be home before noon, in time for a light lunch before an afternoon shift on the 104.

The unisex aerobic studio was almost deserted save for two middle-aged ladies who were walking at what seemed a sedate pace on the treadmill.

With a towel draped over his shoulders and a bottle of water to hand, for that professional touch, Vinny nodded casually in their direction as he made his way to the rowing machines with a confident air; this would be a cinch, he thought.

It was then a chain of events began which would lead to a tale of pain and acute embarrassment for one of Dublin Bus’ finest.

On the rower he set too fast a pace and finished doubled up in a heap, his lungs on fire. Worse, he was unable to free his feet from the stirrups and had to appeal for help. A smiling, bird-like woman duly came to the rescue and suggested Vinny might like to take things easy on the treadmill.

There, things went even further downhill. Observing that his liberator was ambling along at a speed of 10 kilometres per hour on an adjacent machine, Vinny placed the start button to 10.5km and began to trot.

Soon, the trot became a gallop, then a full-blown sprint. Too late, he realised the setting was far too swift for him.

As he reached forward to try to adjust the speed, his little legs went from under him and he dipped over the edge of the treadmill and collapsed on the floor in an undignified sprawl.

Stunned and red-faced, he was helped to his feet and guided to a chair by his sympathetic saviour, who asked was he alright, and was there anything she could do to help. His self-esteem now fully evaporated, Vinny thanked her, insisted he was fine and shuffled off for the final leg of his triathlon trial – the pool.

Vinny was an accomplished swimmer from his time in the Dollymount Sea Scouts and was sure nothing more could go wrong. “It’s like riding a bike, you never forget,” he said to himself as he slipped into the cooling waters and struck out boldly.

The first few lengths went fine. Vinny’s breaststroke action was assured and he felt more like himself. He had decided to do an extra five minutes to make up for the treadmill mishap when, without warning, the cramp struck.

Suddenly, the base of his foot seized up in pain. He pulled up right away and screamed out loud in agony. Thrashing about in the deep end, Vinny tried to grab his foot and felt himself slipping under the water.

Panic was setting in when strong arms seized him around his shoulders. Instantly, he was turned on his back and hauled over to the side of the pool, feeling the cramp release as he got there.

Not for the first time that day Vinny was asked if he was okay. The lifeguard was a blonde, blue-eyed beauty, who would have won any wet T-shirt competition, had there been one.

“I’m fine, thanks, just fine,” he muttered as he dragged his corpulent mass out of the pool, aware all eyes from the wrinkly brigade in the aqua aerobics club were trained on him.

It was later, in the company of Macker in Foley’s, that Vinny finally began to feel human again. His body ached, particularly the cheeks of his backside and the joints of his shoulders, while he was barely able to walk.

“So your grand plan all went belly-up then?” said Macker, trying his damnedest to conceal a smirk.

“Belly-up, in every sense,” replied Vinny. “You know, this fitness lark is more dangerous than I thought. I think I may have to stick to what I know best,” he added, reaching out for a pint of Uncle Arthur’s finest.

Bets of the Week

1pt each-way -Graeme McDowell to be leading British and Irish player in US Open (16/1, Stan James)

2pt win -Maria Sharapova to win Wimbledon (8/1, Betfair)

Vinny's Bismarck

2pt Lay -Lions to win Test series against Springboks (9/4, William Hill, liability 4/5pts)