IF you think Kelly Holmes is the pinnacle of female athleticism, you obviously haven't seen me in my leggings.

It is a rare sight indeed, but some, most notably my long suffering family, wish it were rarer. I refuse to exercise in public - and if you saw me lolloping around like a bag of spuds in a tumble dryer, you would fully endorse my decision - so my poor housemates have to put up with me puffing and panting in the living room.

It is not a pretty sight. Spuds in a tumble dryer is what I look like on a good day, when I haven't just eaten a whole tube of Pringles to try and take the edge off my hangover. On a bad day, it's more like jelly in a bin bag.

It may come as some surprise to those of you who have stuck with me through thick and thicker over the years that I'm not a natural athlete.

I've always enjoyed team sports, even picking up a medal in my schooldays for my defensive skills (i.e. pushing the smaller girls over) on the netball court, but athletics leaves me cold.

Even now, the thought of sprinting more than about 20 yards makes me want to pretend I've sprained my ankle so I can sit in the shower block reading a copy of Blue Jeans and picking my spots.

My body just wasn't built to travel at speed. In fact, not only was it not built to travel at great speed over a short distance, it was also not built to travel slowly over a long distance. Basically, anything above a brisk, short stroll and I'm knackered.

Which probably explains the looks of complete astonishment I got when I signed up for this year's Race For Life, which takes place on Knavesmire on Wednesday evening.

My beloved's eyebrows shot up so quickly when he heard the news that they very nearly lost contact with his face altogether. The reactions of friends, colleagues and family have been of a similar hue, usually starting with a disbelieving "Pah!" and ending with back-peddling so fast and furious it borders on Olympic standard.

It's not as if I'm planning on sprinting round the course in record breaking time, lunging for the line and then doing a lap of honour. I'll be happy so long as I can tootle around just quick enough so I don't finish last - oh, come on, there must be at least one frail old lady taking part with arthritic hips and a gammy knee that I can whistle past in the final straight.

So, I've been training hard to maximise my athletic potential. Okay, maybe 'training hard' is pushing it a bit. Occasionally heaving my not insubstantial rear end off the sofa and huffing and puffing for ten agonising minutes is a lot closer to the mark.

And here's the twist in today's sorry tale: I've fallen in love with my treadmill. It came like a bolt from the blue, but when Cupid's arrow struck, it struck hard. As I write this, my treadmill is propped up against the wall next to me, so I can lovingly caress its metal uprights and sweat-absorbing rubber arms as I sing its praises.

I'm not ready for a full, committed relationship yet, but I'm more than willing to carry on our dalliance after the Race For Life is but a sweaty memory. Two, three or maybe even four nights a week of pleasurable exertion that leaves me rosy-cheeked, panting and wobbly-legged will do for now.

The ante will have to be upped when I start training for the 2012 Olympics. I know, at 42, some might consider me a bit long in the tooth by then, but you never know. Especially if the frail old lady with the gammy knee is out of action.

Updated: 09:06 Tuesday, July 12, 2005