I have long valued and appreciated the encouragement my parents were so willing to give when I was a leggy youngster. They made it possible for me to try various sports activities and were ardent supporters as sideline sentinels in all weathers -- watching their little darling dribble a field hockey ball across a bumpy paddock, whack a tennis ball, or scamper down an athletics track.

Now that I am into reminiscing mode, over the preceding years I have had great pleasure from my sporting pursuits. "Variety is the spice of life" could well have been my motto: a little bit of this, a little bit of that and a dash here and there. My dilemma was that I couldn't decide which one to pursue with single-minded dedication, with the result that I dabbled at several.

I was delighted when I discovered the wonderful variety available in track and field athletics. What fun! What choice! You could run in a straight line or around a curve; you could sprint or keep a steady pace for longer; throw various implements; and leap over things or into a sand-pit. I could dabble at Pentathlon!

Blessed with a sporty physique and loads of natural ability, as a fit, motivated teenager I enjoyed a degree of success in athletics and field hockey. As I grew older my attitude changed: I lacked "killer instinct" and a mentality for training. But I still enjoyed the physical aspect of putting my body to the test. Squash, triathlons, mountain-biking and indoor rowing were added to my list of "dabbles".

Many sportspeople work assiduously at their chosen disciplines, training their minds and bodies to strive, endure and achieve; to overcome physical discomfort to the point of real pain. They are focused determinedly on being the best they can be, with the ultimate aim of demolishing their opponents.

Not me. The pleasure/pain principle governed my sporting life. As soon as the pain level started to intrude on the pleasure, my racing instinct deserted. Early on, I learnt how very handy it was to have a camera in my bumbag when mountain-biking. As I gasped my way laboriously upward on hill climbs, I always found many stops for photo opportunities. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but the scenery became more and more photogenic as I got more and more tired!

I was definitely a "gravity rider" when cycling -- I loved the downhills. But that lovin' feeling could very quickly turn to utter frustration in the event of a puncture or mechanical breakdown. I remember a situation during a cross-country race when the air turned "blue" with the fury of my disappointment. Spectators turned away politely as I verbally abused my punctured, traitorous steed. Finishing an event was my main focus, and to get a DNF [Did Not Finish] after my name on a race result sheet was a major ignominy.

Playing a sport with the least chance of falling victim to equipment failure seemed like a good idea. Running fitted that bill, but for me it held only marginal appeal as I considered it an exercise in tedious monotony. Running through interesting countryside would help, but then, I'd rather be hiking, so I could really enjoy it. That's why in triathlons I could sometimes be seen strolling along, not running -- the pleasure of admiring the scenery winning over the pain of striving for a higher placing.

Which brings me to that intriguing quality: "The Killer Instinct". For me, it was never an obsession to be better than everyone else. The involvement in the event, the interaction with other contestants, and the appreciation of the environment in which the event was taking place seemed to be satisfaction enough. As long as I didn't come last! Obviously, I did have a competitive streak or I would not have competed in activities requiring winners and losers -- I could have been off cycle-touring or hiking.

Acquaintances would assume that I was super-fit because of all the events I entered, but I harboured an underlying embarrassment that it wasn't so. Basically, I walked during triathlons because I was stuffed! And I can't altogether blame a poor result on lack of killer instinct when better fitness and preparedness would have helped me out.

In an attempt to put this to rights, I bought some gym equipment one year (before it was the standard thing to have a gym membership). The gleaming edifice was installed in a newly-designated "workout room" at my home. Word of my purchase got around, and many of my friends' husbands wanted to give it a go. I became worried that I would lower the respectability of the street, should a procession of men be seen entering my house and departing later in a lather of sweat!

Fortunately, the tone of the neighbourhood was not lowered, but unfortunately, the tone of my muscles was not raised either. My lack of discipline and "stickability" let me down again. But I did discover a wonderful thing: the equipment made an ideal clothes-horse for drying my washing! Every home should have one! I also had the fittest cat in the district -- she was spread out on the equipment much more often than I was, enjoying the warmth of the black vinyl bench in the morning sun. She had the right idea: relaxation rather than regimentation.