My name is Barry and I’m a runner. As a clinically obese 52-year-old Irishman who regularly binge drinks (the NHS’s joyless definition, not my own), I would love to be able to say I took up running for health reasons but that would be a lie. Truth be told, I was railroaded into it by my Football Weekly associate Max Rushden, who publicly challenged me to run the London Landmarks Half-Marathon after I had belittled the efforts of a friend who completed it by asking: “How hard can running 13 miles be?” To cut an already short story shorter, in April I hope to plod from Whitehall, past Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament across Westminster Bridge, along Victoria Embankment and on to Trafalgar Square in the company of more than 20,000 fellow runners, most of whom should finish in front of me if they have so much as a modicum of shame.

I will be running for Great Ormond Street Children’s Charity, not because of any particularly heartwarming or tragic link I have to this wonderful hospital, but because the bloke in charge of their fundraising heard the gauntlet being thrown down and asked me first. Presumably, that’s why he’s the boss. In return for the £25,096 raised thus far due in no small part to the astonishing generosity of the Football Weekly audience, the charity has sent me a 100% recycled polyester men’s turquoise running singlet bearing a teardrop-shaped logo in which a small and presumably unwell child is smiling and crying simultaneously. It’s 2XL, the biggest size they had available. I don’t think it’s supposed to be skintight.

Before October, my most recent recollection of actually running more than 20 metres for a departing bus dated back to 1992. I was chased down the main street of my provincial home town by some ne’er-do-wells following a post-nightclub misunderstanding, the details of which have been lost to time. Before October, I had not competed in any sport more physically taxing than pool or darts since leaving school and could scarcely have been more unfit due to an almost totally sedentary lifestyle largely fuelled by booze and the fags I finally quit 18 months ago.

Painfully aware that I really needed to start training to have any chance of completing my barstool to half-marathon challenge in April, I downloaded an app that devised a fitness programme for a middle-aged man of my condition and physique. My first official session with Runna lasted 30 minutes, only 10 of which were designated for jogging and still rendered me a sweating, wheezing wreck. Only three months and 40 training sessions later, I can bash out a little over 10km with a minimum of fuss. Barring injury or illness, I am on course to line up for the LLHM in three months with something resembling a confidence I did not have two months ago when I had to walk down the stairs backwards because my legs had seized up. I have accepted that I am unlikely to win.

I consider myself “a stayer”, to borrow a phrase from horse racing. Stamina is not an issue, but I have little pace and no gears through which to go. I plod at two speeds: running or not running and upon completing my first 5km effort, I checked to see how close I had got to the men’s world record over that distance.

The Ugandan athlete Joshua Cheptegei (12min 35sec) may or may not be concerned to read that I stopped the clock at 44min 23sec, a personal best I have since reduced by nine minutes. And yes, of course I have become what is known in running circles as a “Strava wanker”, Strava being another app that allows you to map and record the exact details of each session, share your efforts with other users and show potential stalkers or burglars where you live. I have also taken to posting occasional post-run videos on Instagram in an effort to raise more money for charity. People seem to like them because they invariably feature me sitting on the same park bench, looking sad while explaining why I really hate running.

Ironically, the more people like them, the more the money rolls in and any chance there is of me getting to quit running diminishes. It is no platitude to say that I am grateful to everyone who has donated, but I also hate them because now I’m in too deep. Since starting running I have spent £160 on a pair of fancy Asics trainers that I didn’t want but apparently need. I now own a long-sleeve thermal base-layer shirt which, depending on the winter weather conditions, is either too warm or not warm enough. I purchased a pair of leggings that I’m too embarrassed to wear in case I happen to meet someone I know. My keys and phone are stored in a special running belt. I listen to podcasts that help alleviate the tedium of running but are constantly interrupted by a disembodied AI woman from the app who urges me to “speed up” or says “nearly there”. Ooh err, missus.

I went running on Christmas Day. My legs are in constant pain. I don’t sleep any better at night and I have put on weight because 10km only buys you three pints of Guinness but I’m treating every run like I’ve just completed the Marathon des Sables.

I have discovered a hitherto untapped talent for sidestepping dogs and yesterday while out running I impersonated my brother-in-law from Nova Scotia while saying hello to some Canadian geese whose path I crossed in a bid to make them feel more at home. My thighs chafe, my nipples will too and I am developing pavement rage unbecoming of my normally laid-back self. Earlier this week I used a bag of frozen peas to ease the nagging twinge of a hamstring I’d never previously been entirely sure was there. My name is Barry and I am a runner, kidnapped by a hobby I despise. The same old Barry, just fatter, poorer and with more expensive shoes.

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