With last year's attempt at the 5k Race for Life leaving me in no doubt that my fitness levels were certainly not those of a 24-year-old it only seems fair that this year I should do myself, and my sponsors proud.

After being left watching ladies twice my age, and twice as firm, sprint up the Stanmer Park hills while I gasped along behind proved once and for all that age and fitness levels do not neatly correlate.

My punishing regime of alcohol and hangover food have left me somewhat in the wilderness when it comes to my fitness. Yes, I can drink with the stamina of a 20 stone darts player, but unfortunately I run like one too.

After completing the race in 40 minutes by huffing, puffing and dragging my unwilling lead legs around the course I made a vow. Next year I would glide through the race with the poise and fitness of a real runner. Like someone who decided to make a change and put effort into their fitness. I will run and feel proud.

But one pint leads to another and my set–in-stone resolve to stick to a training plan turned to drunken talks of how I was definitely going to start tomorrow. And as we all know tomorrow really never comes.

This now leaves me in a make or break situation. With thirteen weeks until the race for life and having notched up zero kilometers on my training regime, I have to start now or face up to the fact that this year I will be even less fit than last.

So, running shoes? Check. Sports bra? Check. Bum covering jumper? Check. Feeling of unease and apprehension? Check. And that is that. As from today my training schedule is marked in my diary and I have no choice other than to start. Hopefully the next few weeks will see the beginnings of a wonderful friendship forming as I experience the joys of the runners high. Or perhaps my love for beer will just get stronger…? Only time will tell.