From a much younger girlfriend to a souped-up motorcycle, here's how to tell. Photo / 123rf
Former Olympic rowing champion James Cracknell, 47, is currently appearing to tick all the boxes of a spectacular midlife crisis.
From a much younger girlfriend to a souped-up motorcycle Cracknell, who was recently revealed to be joining the line-up of the latest series of Strictly Come Dancing, couldn't be much more of a cliché if he tried. And he really is trying.
So how to tell if a man close to you is in the throes of a classic midlife meltdown? Here are the six telltale signs…
Known in scientific circles as "the Gregg Wallace effect" (currently married to his third wife Anne-Marie Sterpini, a mere 21 years his junior) or "Paul Hollywood syndrome" (the 53-year-old baker has just split from Summer Monteys-Fullham, 24, who he got together with following his ex-wife citing adultery as the reason for their divorce).
In a condition which normally affects judges on TV cookery contests, Cracknell has traded in his wife of 17 years, 45-year-old TV presenter Beverley Turner, for a younger model.
He's now dating blonde American finance student Jordan Connell, 33, who he is said to have met at Cambridge University, where he is currently studying for a master's in human evolution.
They've been spotted, in tabloid-speak, "canoodling" in a "passionate display" on a "romantic stroll". A "steamy tryst" in a "cosy love-nest" is, at time of going to press, unconfirmed.
If Cracknell follows the Wallace/Hollywood pattern of divorcé behaviour, he will now hop between rebound relationships on a romantic rollercoaster, with the lucky lady's age magically decreasing each time. By this metric, it won't be long until one of them is dating the twinkle in the milkman's eye.
Aka "the male meno-Porsche". Immutable male law dictates that those of a certain age must decide that now is the time to purchase the vehicle of his boyhood dreams, "before it's too late". This instinct, of course, fails to consider the cruel fact that the phallic supercar, vintage convertible or Harley Davidson "hog" that appealed during adolescence looks downright daft when steered by a slightly frightened father with crippling insurance premiums and a dodgy back.
Only this week, Cracknell attended the Strictly launch party in full leathers and zoomed off once proceedings were over astride a Honda VRF800. In his head, he resembled Marlon Brando in The Wild One. In reality, he looked like a courier delivering a parcel several decades late.
Whether it's redundancy, boredom or looming mortality, midlife men are adept at head-spinning swerves of career direction.
See those delusional foodies who think they can translate their proficiency with a bowl of pasta at home into running a restaurant, or accountants who suddenly decide they're a neglected novel-writing talent, and insist the shed becomes a bloke-only workspace where their "creative juices have the freedom to truly flow".
To pluck another random example from the air, there is of course the double gold medallist's postgraduate studies, which are definitely motivated by his interest in the planet and not a ruse for breaking Boat Race records by becoming both the oldest competitor and oldest winner in the competition's 165-year history as he did earlier this year. Not at all.
Just like a newly single woman might emerge from the salon with "revenge hair", tradition dictates that a midlife crisis man demonstrates it tonsorially.
In the previous millennium, this invariably involved a ponytail, often accompanied by goatee beard or "soul-patch" to stroke thoughtfully while trying to impress embarrassed youngsters.
Nowadays it might mean hipster whiskers, an unsubtle dye-job or youth-recapturing quiff. And Cracknell has a fair bit to work with in this area, yet to go grey and still sporting a fairly lustrous crop (potentially thanks to employing the haircare tactics of his ex-wife, who previously admitted to washing her own in urine).
What variety of follicular experiment he'll choose remains to be seen (he's partial to frosted tips and wet-look gel), but with the grooming department at Strictly on hand, our money's on balayage and a metre-wide blow dry.
Blame that burgeoning beer-gut or creaky knees meaning five-a-side football is no longer an option, but there's nothing a midlife male loves more than embracing a new sport slightly too enthusiastically. Then taking the gym selfies to prove it.
It might involve white-knuckle watersports, Iron Man triathlons or those "ultra-marathons", because running one 26-miler simply isn't insane enough – Cracknell ran the famed Marathon des Sables in 2010, becoming its fastest ever British entrant when he finished in 12th place.
He went on to come second in the Yukon Arctic Ultra – a quick 430-mile jaunt across the Alaskan countryside – and was the third-fastest celebrity to finish the 2012 London Marathon in just under three hours.
All of which is to say, if there's some extreme sporting feat to be conquered, Crackers is likely at the front of the queue. This means he can obsessively splash his cash on kit and gadgetry – as well as the added bonus of escaping his family for long stretches of time while he indulges his every sporting whim.
Not that he's given up rowing, of course: even after hanging up his oars professionally, Cracknell raced to the South Pole and rowed the Atlantic – which his ex Turner said left her behind for seven weeks "with a two-year-old he barely knew". It was no coincidence their split was announced around the same time as his record-breaking Boat Race win.
Most male midlife crisis behaviour begs "look at me" because I've "still got it" (whatever "it" is). See strutting through a busy office in Lycra cycling gear, convinced any attention he attracts are admiring looks, not horrified ones. Especially when he starts doing ostentatious stretching exercises by the lifts. I'll take the stairs, actually, Keith.
In Cracknell's case, such needy attention-seeking will unfold on primetime telly as he takes to the Strictly ballroom floor. Cue mahogany spray tans, slashed shirts, eye-wateringly tight trousers and unseemly pelvic thrusting, while his three traumatised children – who he described as "mortified" by his signing up – curl up into cringing balls on the sofa at home.
And where better to ramp up their desire for the ground to swallow them whole than through social media, where Cracknell in his rowing skivvies is already a familiar sight – a repertoire sure to be expanded upon once wardrobe and their penchant for sequins by the thousand get involved.
Keeeeeep dad-dancing, James. In turbulent times, your unfolding midlife crisis could prove a most entertaining sideshow. Come to think of it, a ponytail might suit you…
She never told them the five-course meal was vegan. So a cousin decided to act.