Run for your Life

I've always felt there was something faintly squalid about taking exercise. In my mind I suppose I've likened it to volunteering for some sort of humiliating assault, that and going to the lavatory. It's also struck me as being somehow beneath me and on the occasions I've done it I've found myself thinking 'What are you doing? Have you forgotten you're a busy man?'

I'm not alone in thinking this. A friend of mine who is a personal trainer has had to stop taking people - mainly writers - power walking on Hampstead Heath because she is fed up with being shoved conveniently into the bushes whenever one of her clients spies an approaching friend - or rival - and cannot countenance the shame of it all.

I have had my fair share of gym memberships but because I consider exercise an ugly ordeal that needs to be faced alone I've always looked for clubs that are highly discreet and/or ghost towns. This has led me to the health centres of hotels, the sort of establishments that provide not only room service direct to the machines but also sun loungers and hairdressers and porters who bow at me as I enter the building calling me Madam or Miss. Nobody seems to visit these places more than once, apart from the two elderly ladies in tennis skirts who ride the exercycle side by side from four until five everyday, whereupon they call down to the tea room for eclairs. I think the sense of luxury can be quite important if you regard exercise as excruciating and banal. It does soften the blow when there are fluffy robes and slippers all round. It's like compensation.

So I surprised myself by trying on trainers at Runners Need this week in Camden Town. This is an extremely serious shop which sells everything for the committed runner (from lunar energy bars to belt bags for runners' ipods) so I barely thought I would be allowed through the door, at the very least I expected some sort of unfit-person-in-the-building-security-alert to sound. But the kindly sales assistant managed to keep a straight face and merely asked me to remove my shoes (Sergio Rossi high heeled rose-wood clogs) and told me to walk the length of the shop. But as I demonstrated my best Naomi Campbell dip and swirl all he seemed to notice was my overprenation and also my lack of stability. (These guys can get personal.) After much deliberation a handsome pair of Asics running shoes was picked out for me. 'They've got four foot supports,' the man informed me. 'They are ultra-stable.'

'Four foot?' I queried. 'How deluxe.'

'No, fore-foot, it's for when you're running uphill and the heels of your shoes don't really touch the ground.' I didn't really understand but a huge smile came over my face. That he should be able to picture me running uphill was really touching. But it got worse. Having fitted the shoes he gestured outside and asked me to run the length of Parkway to see how they performed. With my wrap skirt flapping and my green polka dot blouse riding up my chest I sprinted to my best ability. I had a real incentive for speed : I went to school near Parkway, I live near there, I shop there.

With these Asics on my feet I didn't just run I flew. As the shoes sped me up and down the street I felt powerful and free. As I am not generally comfortable in comfortable shoes I'm used to pounding the pavements in three or four inch heels and suddenly it felt like getting new legs. I started dreaming dizzily of all the places I could go, all the things I could do. I felt a whole new world stretching out in front of me where anything was possible.

To celebrate I wandered into Heartstone, Camden's premier organic cafe which takes Primrose Hill Smug to heady new levels. 'Could I have a cappuccino with skimmed milk if you have it please?' I asked.

'We don't believe in skimmed milk' the waitress snapped. She may be the rudest woman in London but I didn't even care. I was walking on air.