I thought I was getting too fat, and I wrestled with a bicycle all one
summer, taking long rides and plugging round a good deal. I did some
centuries, but continued eating like a horse--naturally because of the
outdoor exercise--and drank a good deal of beer. As will be seen, all
the fat I had was legitimate enough. I put it on myself. There was no
hereditary nonsense about it. I was responsible for every ounce of it.
The net result of that summer's bicycle campaign was a gain of five
pounds in weight. I was harder--but I was fatter, too.
When I was thirty-five I began to experiment. I then weighed two
hundred and twenty-five pounds. I went to the canned-exercise, the
physical-torture professor, the diet, the salts, and all the rest of
it, taking off a few pounds but putting it all back again--and more--as
soon as I stopped.
These attempts numbered about two a year. Between times I ate as I
wanted to and drank as I pleased. Things ran along until the first of
January, 1911. I knew I was getting fatter, for my tailor told me so
and my belts and old clothes all proved it.
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