Run as fast as you can.

About six months ago, The Guardian ran a series of booklets called "The official British Army fitness programme", which detailed an exercise regime based upon army training. I picked up a copy because I'm always interested in that sort of thing, and one thing which caught my eye was the section on running.
As a form of exercise, I've never been a fan of running. It's painful, repetitive and darned boring and I just plain don't enjoy it, but it was with interest that I looked at one test of fitness based on how fast you can run a mile and a half. A mile and a half?, I thought. That doesn't sound far. That's just once round the park. How hard can that be? and with that in mind, I gave it a go.
Cue what seemed an eternity of panting and wheezing as I hauled my huge, pasty behind round the running track in Battersea Park. I lumbered. I tottered. I staggered. I was overtaken and lapped by graceful, gazelle-like athletes. After an age I finished and checked my time against the chart in the booklet. The times were divided into four categories: excellent, good, average, and poor. My time wasn't even listed. I looked to see what this meant.
You worthless, disgusting vermin! Said the booklet. You honking great chubster! There's only two sorts of soldier come from Yorkshire, David, and that's steers and queers, and I don't even need to ask which you are! By God, when you took your shirt off, I hadn't seen that much white since last time it snowed! Now get down and give me fifty!.
Well, I was slightly nonplussed that they knew my name and I didn't feel that the advice given was as constructive as it might be, but nevertheless I persevered. I started to run. Not obsessively, because I still hate it, but at least I did it.

Finally, after months of painful waddling, I checked my time again. Delightfully, I have managed to raise my standard to 'poor'. I'm so pleased.