I’m 36 and still as skinny as in my teens (BMI 20). Why is that, I have wondered. I have a desk job, I eat every three waking hours, I drink sweet tea and snack on cookies, I do no sports outside the marital bedroom, I scoff at gyms and jogging. Contributing factors to my skinny-assedness are skinny ancestors, no snacking between 3-hour meals and no alcohol. But I recently realised what’s probably the capping factor depriving me of the beginning paunch that my contemporaries sport.
I cycle to work.
From my home to my dad’s house where me and my books occupy one of the guest rooms, it’s 2.6 kilometers as the crow flies. I cycle that trip at least eight times a week, until recently often with a growing little girl on the kid seat. Including rides to the train and the kids’ friends, I clock about 25 kilometres a week as the crow flies. With the other parameters being as they are, apparently that’s all I need to counterbalance my sweet tooth and remain adequately palatable to the exacting tastes of my stunning wife.