At a stretch: An Irish Diary on the benefits of flexibility

I cannot touch my toes. I don’t even come close, just about making it to my knees. This is not a major affliction. I’ve managed to go through life without it impacting too much on my day-to-day life.

But it is there. And while not an impediment of any kind, it is a nagging source of embarrassment.

During warm-ups before tennis lessons, we do stretches which involve pushing your arms up and out and moving from side to side and then the instruction to make contact with those extremities at the end of your feet is made.

I suppose it wouldn’t be too bad if it was just a quick down and up and oops, maybe nobody noticed. But our coach, from the outset, was keen for us to display all kinds of variations on the theme. So part of the routine is to twist one foot behind the other and go again and then twist those feet the opposite way and navigate downwards once more.

‘Worst morning of my life’ – Alison Healy on tricky tourists

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Custer’s Last Tune – Frank McNally on the dubious history of the ballad Garryowen

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Drama and spirituality – Desmond O’Neill on Rossini’s Petite messe solennelle

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Dutch gold – Frank McNally on a weekend in idyllic Amsterdam

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But going down the traditional or non-traditional route is irrelevant to me. My toes can rest easy either way. Nothing and nobody is going to bother them.

Of course, there are always people in groups like this who make a point of doing that little bit more. It’s not good enough that they can get all the way down without breaking a sweat. They need to display the full extent of their bendiness by placing the palms of their hands on the ground, beside their feet, lingering for an instant and then slowly and deliberately coming back to the upright.

It would be ever so satisfying to say that in my own case, I take note of who they are and make sure to wallop a groundstroke by them when they’re up at the net.

But unsurprisingly these individuals are the very ones who are able to stretch for the ball no matter where it’s placed and I’m generally – make that always – the one who’s left flat-footed.

I work as a teacher in a primary school and children can be incredibly flexible. Recently, at the pick-up time of the day, a child to my left launched herself into the most perfect, care-free cartwheel, just to kill the time. It took my breath away.

And then, a few weeks ago I had another gymnastic incident when organising a standardised reading test. These tests, which are preformed towards the end of the school year, can be a tiring enough endeavour and there’s always a break scheduled mid-way through.

While supervising a young class during one of those breaks, I, in my middle-aged way, began modelling a little activity – shaking any stiffness out of the hand and arm and foot and leg, all the while extolling the virtue of exercise and movement.

One of the children took me at my word and calmly and resolutely raised her leg up to her face and wrapped her hands around her ankle. I’m not sure how I reacted but I clearly reacted audibly enough for a number of her classmates to get in on the act by performing impromptu splits on the spot.

This is, of course, a generational issue. As a child, I remember being able to curl myself around the bars outside my convent school and pop up the other side. And I thought I was the bee’s knees. But the splits or bringing your leg up 90 degrees? These were things Russian gymnasts did on the telly.

A bunch of the younger girls in the school are of a completely different level, however. They talk about the clubs they go to and occasionally have competitions during yard time as to who can perform the best crab or backward flip or who can stretch their legs the longest or the highest.

Maybe the gendered nature of this will change, in time. During a school tour to the high-performance athletic centre in Blanchardstown, the children got to witness Rhys McClenaghan training on the pommel horse. He was over in another part of the gym while they were familiarising themselves with equipment that was a lot less taxing.

The guide explained who he was but advised that he be left alone to get on with his work. A few waved a sneaky wave, however, and he was good enough to wave back. And the whole encounter was, of course, the talk of the bus on the return trip.

A world champion! They’d seen a world champion!

The splits may be beyond me now. As are the crab and the cartwheel and any effort at the backward flip.

And quite probably touching my toes as well.

But as long as I can make it to my knees, I’ll take it.