Sitting in front of the computer, at my desk in the spare room, I watch a jogger sprinting up the road. In his sunglasses, bright orange t-shirt and cycling shorts, it would be hard to miss him. Perhaps in the coming months, people will be sitting listlessly by their own windows, watching me tearing along the road. Perhaps they'll marvel at my finesse, my quite unnatural levels of fitness and self-discipline. Perhaps they'll think, I wish that I could be that man. That man looks like a real champion. And if I can't be him, perhaps I could just know him, perhaps I could go for a beer with him. I bet he's dead witty, amiable, self-deprecating company, they'll be thinking. Perhaps.

Perhaps I'll take to wearing bright orange t-shirts...

Hypotheticals these may be, but one thing is certain: in June, I will be transferring my jogging outside. The treadmill has been tamed. Armed with an unfeasibly large bottle of water and an oft-used hand towel, I completed a full thirteen miles yesterday. Admittedly, I didn't feel good by the end of it. Not at all. In fact, I felt bad. Nonetheless, thirteen miles is a long way and I managed it. I could almost have felt proud, had the sweat patches on my shorts not shaped themselves to look so convincingly as though I'd "had a little accident".

It's been my plan for some time to start "running proper" (in other words, running outside) when June begins. That'll stop those "running proper"-type friends of mine smirking knowingly when I say, "No, I've not run outside much yet, but I'm doing okay on a treadmill". That's what I've been thinking. Yes, that'll stop them. Well, perhaps.

In preparation, I have for some weeks been observing these running types under cover. On my way to work, or to the pub, I have been watching them. I have been studying their faces. Alas, there is something discouraging about their faces, in general. Sometimes a pained grimace is evident. With others, the mouth is wide open, the gasps for precious air clearly audible. But with all, even the most dedicated, the most muscular, intimidating and freakishly athletic characters, you can see it: that fatalistic despair in the eyes. I can hardly wait to join them.

Perhaps it won't be that bad really. The list of things I've dreaded long in advance is almost as long as the list of things I've actually done in my life. Piano exams, BCG vaccinations, airplane flights, job interviews: all of these things spring to mind as worse in expectation than reality. Things usually aren't as bad as you expect them to be, are they? The exception, of course, is this diary: infrequent, half-hearted, but at least reliably disappointing. Perhaps it'll improve with time.

It would, almost certainly, be a long time to hold your breath.