Headphones on as I jog along Stokes Bay up to Gilkicker Point, I’m in seventh heaven.
But after my back prolapse in the summer, these runs have ground to a halt.
So I needed to do something before I turned into the Pillsbury Doughboy.
I’m far from being what you would call a proper runner. I’ve never joined a club and don’t time myself to beat a ‘PB’ (personal best), as the competitive types call it.
But running is my exercise of choice. It’s free, you don’t need much equipment and if you get the route right, you enjoy some wonderful views.
With trainers temporarily hung up, it was time for my bike to emerge from the gloom of the shed.
Tyres flat, chain sporting the same rusty colour as autumn leaves, the only activity this little beauty had seen for the past 18 months involved spiders and webs.
But after a quick squirt of WD40 and some air in the tyres, off I went, full of enthusiasm and vigour.
Ten miles is a good cycle and I was looking forward to exercising the old leg muscles again.
Boy, muscle diminishes fast. I didn’t realise there was a gradient along Lee-on-the-Solent seafront.
Energy was deserting me and by Titchfield Hill the tank was virtually empty.
Sadly, I’m the type who thinks I can start with exercise where I left off. The disappointment at my lack of fitness was overwhelming.
Imagine my shock on the way home from Segensworth when I was overtaken by what seemed in the dark to be an older gentleman on a shabby mountain bike.
Then there was his state of dress compared to my ‘all the gear, no idea’ set-up.
Wearing some kind of uniform with a hi-viz jacket, this gentleman with a receding hairline was unfortunately uncatchable. As I got closer, he just moved away.
He didn’t look sportsmanlike and certainly wasn’t dressed like one.
So please, someone tell me that Tour de France winner Chris Froome now works for Royal Mail in Fareham and cycles back to Gosport of an evening.
Otherwise my bike may have to stay in the shed as I turn into the Michelin Man.