There's nothing like a village fete to separate the men from the boys. It is when large adult males who have clearly spent every night for the past 15 years slumped on the sofa watching TV roll their sleeves up and join the tug-o'-war.

They really throw themselves into it too - groaning and grimacing, pulling at the thick rope as if their lives depended on it. Children look on with both pride and amazement as they witness for the first time their dad immersed in physical activity. And dad believes he still has the pulling power he had at 18.

It's the same with the running races at these annual village events. Middle-aged men and women - such as me - who last ran 100 metres decades ago while still at school mentally picture themselves flying across the finishing line way ahead of the pack like they did at 13. They eagerly join the adult races thinking nothing will have changed, that it's still the same principle after all - one leg in front of the other. But they quickly discover that various parts of the body don't respond well to being jiggled about in all directions.

It is not a pretty sight - a dozen females all in dire need of at least six months at Weight Watchers bouncing along, huffing and puffing, their male counterparts thundering to the finish in their jeans and size 12 caterpillars, highly unlikely to break records.

It is at village fetes and carnivals when you attempt to relive your youth, sprinting, jumping, strapping your feet together for the three-legged race. It is here you can show your children that mummy isn't just a ball of fury who slams food on the table and daddy can throw things other than wobblers, and win coconuts into the bargain.

It is here you come down to earth with a bump, and have to face the fact you are no longer as fit and able as you once were. When once you could run hard and fast for up to 200 metres, now you're flagging after two strides.

Every village has a cluster of men and women who have, seemingly since birth, maintained a level of fitness equivalent to that of Arnold Schwarznegger and Jane Fonda, who spend hours at the gym and are rarely seen out of track suits. In what may be a show of modesty, or possibly a gesture to save others from embarrassing themselves, they tend to shun village fete sports which pit them against their neighbours, preferring to man the bottle stall or hook-a-duck. Although on a few occasions I've witnessed the late addition of the village Alpha Male striding out of the shadows to help the men in the closing stages of the men versus women tug-o'-war, emerging a hero.

But, while many sports may test your stamina as the years go by, there are always events which age does not blight. As a child I was always very proud when my parents won the egg-throwing contest at our village carnival. Taking a backward step each time they caught it, they would always end up half a mile apart, usually beating all comers hands down. At the weekend, after a gap of many years, they once again won the egg-throwing contest. Almost 70 and they haven't lost their touch. I was very proud, and so were their grandchildren.

Updated: 11:17 Tuesday, September 06, 2005