Andy Richardson: The race is on to get back to fitness

Having become the newly crowned Slimmer Of The Year For Our House – adios, flabulous tum – it's time to turn on and tone up.

Not for me the alliterative Paul Weller lifestyle choice of Barolo, B&H and brazil nuts. Though that might make me skinnier than the lead singer in a 20-something indie band, this 40-something-but-still-rockin' mancub is on the treadmill less travelled. I'm Mo-boting my way to sveltedom by putting in more miles than an Eddie Stobart truck. Though, let's be honest, Barolo, B&H and brazil nuts would be much more fun; especially if they came with a free copy of Stanley Road.

My attitude to running mirrors a drinker's approach to gin. No session is too long. No pain is too great. I run with the gusto of a steak-a-holic in an abattoir. I commit like Liz Taylor to the concept of marriage. In my happily dysfunctional mind, there are two choices in life: marathon training or a night on the sofa with a packet of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and a Kevin Spacey film. In-betweens are for people with a peanut allergy and an aversion to America's greatest actor.

You might think me foolish. After all, like so many things in life, running is all about slow and steady progression. It's one of life's most democratic sports: the more you put in the more you get out. One of my former employers, Men's Health, owned a magazine called Runner's World and for several years I interviewed experts on how to train properly, drinking from their font of wisdom. Having acquired sufficient knowledge and experience to complete a PhD in sports science, I did what all independent thinkers do: ignored the lot.

So, not for me the slow and steady build-up. Not for me the gingery run-walk-run-walk method. Not for me the progressive and sensible modus operandi that is running a mile, taking a day off, then repeating ad infinitum. Nah. I can't do that. My boredom threshold is lower than a limbo bar. I just run until I drop. My first session took me on a seven-mile loop. It wasn't bad for a man who hadn't been out of the door for three years. The enamel dust from gritted teeth stained my running vest. It tasted strange but was a price worth paying.

It's not the first time I've immersed myself in the strangely therapeutic practice that is long distance running.

Having returned to the West Midlands many years ago, serendipity struck as I drove past the Wolverhampton Marathon. For the runners, it was the road to the Mander Centre. For me, it was the road to Damascus. I decided there and then that I would run the following year's event in less than four hours – and made it, grubby and with blistered feet, in 3.59.54. I returned a couple of years later, going around at a more respectable 3.22.23: not bad, for a fat lad.

I ran with a group of wizened men in Bridgnorth before joining Tipton Harriers, where I trained three days each week under the tutelage of a phenomenal coach called Colin. With a Brian Clough-esque approaching to his charges, he got the best from us and soon we were running up to 70 miles per week, as we sought ever-quicker times. I wore my green-and-white-striped club vest with pride. I looked like a Pacer but ran like a gazelle.

My appetite for destruction and pointless Guns'n'Roses-inspired metaphors grew stronger. Marathons were fine – be they in Wolverhampton, Hereford, London, Malta, Snowdon, Singapore, of all places, or elsewhere – but I hankered for a greater challenge. So I decided to run across Ireland. My route from Belfast to Dublin to Galway lasted 240 miles and took seven days. That's 34 miles a day, maths fans. With 40 miles to go, I tore my ankle ligaments. They resembled the threadbare cotton of a prostitute's sheets. With a swelling the size of a tennis ball, I did what all no-pain-no-gain runners do: strapped on my Asics and hobbled slowly towards the finish line. My visit to A&E came some days later.

My desire to run interesting and exotic races increased. On one occasion I drove 470 miles to Lossiemouth, in northern Scotland, to run an attractive half marathon. I slept in the boot of my car when I got there; having arrived too late to book a room. And then the next morning, I realised I'd forgotten my trainers. My nickname of Dimwit has been hard-earned.

This time, I'm planning a less painful regime. At the weekend, I limited myself to a pain-free four-mile jog. But the lure of a marathon is growing stronger and in January I'll sign up for my next. Run, Forrest! Run!

By Andy Richardson