The last time I started running was at the start of the 2020 lockdown when I set a goal of running every single day.
Looking back, it's often been in times of uncertainty or anxiety when I've taken it up.
I ran for the 50-odd consecutive days of levels 4 and 3 and got really fit and then, as I always do, stopped.
This latest running stint was sparked after a couple of colleagues began lacing up the shoes.
I couldn't resist the banter, and my penchant for one-upping - particularly when my ability to back it up is questionable - led me to propose the three of us enter a half marathon in December so we could race.
And so I downloaded a running app, went out and bought sparkling new running shoes and even a GPS watch - because all those things are easier than actually getting out on the pavement.
But I eventually got out the door and into the familiar pattern of that first run.
The first kilometre is a cruise, it seems easy, and you think you're fitter than you realise.
Then comes the lactic acid and then your lungs start to burn, and then you hit the wall.
This time there was a new level of pain.
As I lay vomiting on the back lawn after just 5km, I had the crushing realisation that I'm the most unfit I've ever been.
After living a sedentary life for the past year - particularly during the most recent lockdown - it was a shock to the system.
I suppose in your teens and 20s you have some kind of base fitness that never really goes away.
Those days are gone.
Now, starting from absolute rock bottom, I have a half marathon to run in a little over eight weeks.
I'll get there. I've done them before and this time there's pride and peer pressure spurring me on.
I've always been able to keep up running when there's something to run for or when there's a trajectory.
But my all-or-nothing attitude means unless I'm headed to the Olympics, what's the point?
Anyway, everything aches. I never have to want to start running again.
This means this time - even when this half marathon is over - I don't want to quit again.
