I don't understand jogging," once mused comedian Dylan Moran. "Why run if you're not being pursued?" Up until about six weeks ago, I was in agreement.

Why would anyone -- at least anyone on nodding terms with their sanity -- decide to jog anywhere when the option of motorised transport was available?

You can't trust anyone who says that they enjoy the gym. There's something clearly wrong with them. Over the years I'd seen all too many friends succumb to fitness regimes and join gyms. Once the life and soul of a weekend spent in the pub, within what seemed like minutes, these mates were married with babies, shouldering huge mortgages. And that descent into middle age hell seemed to start with the same catalyst: the gym.

But, after finally quitting smoking and dining out on it for months, the pounds began to sneak on. Like baldness, putting on weight was a slow process, unnoticed on a daily basis but over time, it was undeniable.

By the time I had celebrated nine months free of the weed, it was becoming apparent that I had either fallen pregnant or was getting chubby. Affirmative action was required. Joining a gym was the only answer -- although the question probably included the words 'pain', 'suffering' and 'agony'.

Having been given a personal training programme by an instructor whose abs could crack walnuts, I naively thought this represented a short, sharp shock to the system, a regime that would be eased off in the coming weeks. How hard could it be?

Very bloody hard ...

In retrospect, consuming a bottle of wine directly after visiting the gym was probably not precisely what my instructor meant when he spoke about 'tolerance' and 'resistance'. But you've got to have something to look forward, especially after falling off a treadmill.

Truth be told, the exercise regime has got steadily worse over the weeks -- I start sweating as soon as I think about going now.

But I'm still going.

Whether that is down to the fact that I'm too stubborn to make my gym a present of my subscription fee or that I'm open to actually getting fitter is a topic for another day.

Preferably one to be debated in the pub and not on the cross trainer. - Garreth Murphy