If you listen to the Government you would think we are a nation of fat slobs.

If, on the other hand, you found yourself in Bath or the Forest of Dean a couple of weekends ago, you would have seen thousands of fit folk running half-marathons.

Perhaps the health advisers should get down to one of these events and ask those taking part why they do it, then bottle up the answers and try to persuade others to do the same.

A huge number of the runners are not natural athletes or sports fanatics, just ordinary people who get hooked on the natural high that comes from pushing oneself to do something that might have previously seemed impossible.

Any reasonably healthy person can have a go, if they follow a structured training plan. You don't need to join a gym, nor buy expensive kit; you just need to put one foot in front of the other, for ever increasing distances, three times a week for a few months.

The feelings on race day beat any thrill that might be found at the bottom of a wine bottle or at the fish and chip shop. There's a heady cocktail of fear and camaraderie, with little glimmers of hope thrown in as you pass the markers at six miles, 10 miles and the beautiful 12-mile post that says you are nearly there.

Then, after the race, there is the warm glow of self-satisfaction (which you ought to keep to yourself) and some kind of strange chemical process that leaves you feeling pleasantly doped for a couple of days.

The only downside, for me, comes when I check the results on the internet and see who I beat. This year, it turns out, I went faster than the three top runners in the female, over-60 veteran category at the Forest of Dean race. But only just. What was I saying about feeling smug?