"The trouble with jogging is that, by the time you realize you're not in shape for it, it's too far to walk back."

It's a New Year. For most of us anyway, I think the Chinese are still clinging resolutely to 2010. God knows why. Maybe they really enjoyed Toy Story 3?

So the question you're dying to ask is did I make any resolutions? Did I resolve to lose a few pounds, to stop eating vegetables or to take up knitting ear muffs for kittens (yes I believe it's a product in demand Dragons)? The answer is: no. But I did do something rather foolish. I agreed to run a 10K race for charity.

Anyone who knows me has just coughed on whatever they were eating/drinking/sucking, rubbed their eyes and burst into fits of laughter. Anyone who doesn't should have done so anyway, because anyone doing something as ridiculous as running for no other reason than running must be mad. Most of us only run when absolutely necessary; when chasing a bus that's already pulling off in the hope of a benevolent driver (an impossible dream I think) or when pursued by the Italian Mafia who've taken a disliking to the way we looked at their sister. Only those who have some sort of mental affliction will run when not forced, and those who run for "pleasure" should be sectioned.

Yet I have never claimed to be anything but mad ladies and gentlemen, and thus it is that I decided a charity run would be just the thing for 2011. I'd love to claim a degree of sanity in the fact that it's for charity, but that only gets me so far; I could have done a cake-sale instead and it would have been a similar test of my resolve to leave any for the paying public. But since I have agreed to run not bake I've begun the task whole-heartedly. And like any idiot who thinks, "How hard can it be?" I've quickly come to realise that life doesn't like human beings. I should have learnt from Jeremy Clarkson.

It doesn't help that I'm ill-equipped for a start. Most runners you see jog about in smart Nike trainers, flashy Lycra shorts that reveal far too much but give the impression of professionalism and a training bottle in hand emblazoned with some animal renowned for its speed. A gazelle for instance, or a sloth on cocaine. They don't lumber along in a pair of swimming shorts, a pair of trainers whose soles flap with every clumsy step and nothing for energy or hydration but a couple of sherbet lemons. What can I say? Sport, let alone running, is not something I've ever taken too seriously.

Fitness is also an issue. Christmas was kind to me, but I'm not thanking it for the several tires it's placed around my middle. It's a running race, not a motor race, I could do without them. And then there's the fact that I live in a city which some fool decided to build on as many hills as possible. Who made that decision?! I'd love to find out, meet up with the Doc and blag a ride back in time. I'd wring his neck, or kindly point him to Lincolnshire, where the closest you get to a hill is a dog turd.

All in all, it's not looking good. But thankfully, being mad, I have blind optimism. We'll just have to hope that sees me through. And then I'll retire to the cakes.