Only recently have I made the decision to call myself a runner. I’m not yet a Runner, with a capital R, but I run, so I guess I’m a runner. And since making that choice, I’ve also realised something else. I hate running.

But, judging by the responses I’ve had from friends who also run – everyone hates running. When I first met my boyfriend he used to run after work every day for ages. I’d get home and he’d be huffing and puffing after an hour or two of running round South London and then cycling until he got bored and found somewhere to dock his Boris bike. So I just assumed he ran so often because he liked doing it. Wrong. My boyfriend absolutely hates running. He runs because if he doesn’t, he wouldn’t be as fast on the sports field. Running for him – and for me – is a means to an end and not really much more.

Every night after work I run around the block or on the treadmill before he gets back from his office. I have to get changed and out the door as soon as I get home otherwise I’ll talk myself out of it. I have to get out there and get running before my brain has caught up with what’s going on, which is about the time I’m once round the neighbourhood and desperate to stop. Another lap and a half later I can stop, and that’s the best part of my day. A miserable 5km under my belt which means I can stuff my face with Greek yoghurt and nut butter before my boyfriend takes me with him to the gym, or meets me when I’m already there, dripping with sweat and gasping for recycled smelly air.

I’m desperate to like running, I really am, and maybe when I’m flying round a 10k course with my feet barely touching the ground I might start grasping what all of the fuss is about, but until then, I’ll keep dragging myself around the block, hating every step until I can see my front door.