If you believe the science, you’re officially ‘old’ when you reach this age

A vaccine against a horror disease? Shoot me up! Global warming a man-made disaster? Of course it is! And as for Flat Earthers? Get in the bin! In almost all things, I am happy to follow the science.

However, I was disturbed this week by research from a team at Stanford University in the US, which found that humans do not, after all, age gracefully. We’re not talking about a Mickey Rourke-style scenario here – each to their own when it comes to cosmetic procedures, I say. Rather, the boffins found that the ageing process isn’t a gradual one, but instead happens in two dramatic surges – the first in our mid-forties, the second as we hit 60.

Apparently, the study found, we undergo significant molecular changes at those times in our lives, which can impact on our health and wellbeing. So, while at 42 you can still cut it with the youngsters on the football pitch, then knock back eight pints in the pub afterwards, by 46 you might as well head down to the local bowls club, before returning home for Countdown and porridge.

What particularly worried me about the research was that it may explain my own experiences over the last 18 months, since I hit 44.

My hair, which hitherto had been thick and dark, has suddenly begun to thin and has developed large, grey streaks above both ears (sadly, it’s less silver fox and more wannabe badger.) As for those ears, they have started to sprout hair where once there was none.

Then there are my joint issues. I’ve had a duff knee for years, but pains in my hip and my toes are relatively new. The GP ordered an X-ray, but it showed nothing particularly untoward, so she said it was probably just a touch of arthritis.

Certainly, I no longer bounce out of bed in the morning, but instead stagger, as I try to straighten out my seemingly decrepit body. Not that getting out of bed is something to do only in the morning – there are the regular trips to the loo in the middle of the night now, and my insomnia regularly brings me downstairs at 3am.

In short, I appear to be a case study for Stanford’s men in white coats, if ever there was one. I reached my mid-forties and immediately crashed.

And yet, despite the overwhelming evidence, I refuse to accept that I’ve hit my first great decline.

As if to prove that I’m still in the prime of life, I’ve recently taken up a daily exercise routine for the first time ever, and set a target to walk at least 20 kilometres a week. And when my son suggests a game of tennis/badminton/pickleball at the local sports centre, I now (metaphorically) jump at the chance, rather than rolling my weary eyes.

Recently, I realised that a paved path in our garden needed to be completely re-pointed and partially re-laid. Five years ago, I’d have probably gotten someone in to sort it out. But now, what with me still being so hale and hearty, I’ve decided to do it myself.

Obviously, more exercise is all to the good, and probably just the kind of intervention the scientists would recommend for a man of my advancing age. In this respect, I should perhaps welcome the Stanford study as a kind of reassurance that what my body is experiencing is nothing out of the ordinary; and I should feel positive that I’m already doing something in response to those changes.

Really though, my objection to the Stanford study isn’t so much fear of my body ageing, as it is that I just don’t think of myself differently to how I did when I was 35, or in my twenties, or even earlier. Physical fluctuations there may be, but I’ve always been pretty relaxed about them because my general outlook on life – and my self-perception – hasn’t really shifted. I don’t want a molecular scientist to shatter my illusions that ageing (or not) is simply a matter of willpower, thank you very much.

So, no, this is science I will not follow. It can try to follow me if it likes, but it will have to catch me first – and I reckon I can outrun it, even with my creaky hip.