Driving home one night this last week, I surfed the airwaves and chanced upon an interchange of radio gossip between one of our cheery local commentators and a weatherman.

They were eulogising about their efforts in the half-marathon which had taken place the weekend before in our Georgian neighbour, Bath. There's a half-marathon coming up in Bristol, too, of course, later in the year. And very successful it is.

In between then and now, other jogs and road races will unfold throughout the year, and I got to wondering whether I had missed out on this trend to pound pavements while raising cash for a good cause.

I reflected on the matter still further on reaching home and slumping into a comfy chair clutching a much-needed cuppa. Then, realising I could only see the tips of my shoes peeping out from beneath the barrel-shape that was once where a chap's six-pack should have been, I quickly abandoned all thoughts of participation in anything so strenuous.

Once, long, long ago, it had all been so different. I actually used to win sprint races.

I played on the wing, pathetically (admittedly) in rugby matches, and could easily survive the rigours of my school's weekly cross-country. But it was the latter which, I guess, initially soured my relationship with all things athletic.

In our mid-teens, spurred on by iconic rebels such as Messrs Jagger and Richard, we began to question the right of someone to order us out in shorts, T-shirt and plimsolls (if you don't know what these are, ask your parents) to slip slide our way around the local countryside.

Week by week we became more disaffected by this imposition on our puny physiques by our PE teachers. We all suspected their love of cross-country was fostered by the fact they could just wave off three classes of boys from the top end of the school playing field, and let us stream across the nearby road and disappear into the woodlands above the town. An hour or so later, we would all return, muddied and knackered.

What they didn't know, though, was that there was a breakaway faction, led by a bit of a lard-ass, who devised a cunning wheeze. A certain element of the disaffected juveniles, me included, would cross the road, and then, having seen the teacher turn and walk away, head straight for a sweet shop where his mum worked. Here we would stock up on treats and head for the trees. And, yes, smoking (tobacco only!) was also involved.

And there we would stay until we spotted the goodie-goodies returning from their exertions.

All that was required was a quick bit of muddying up on our parts and we'd fall in behind them, puffing and panting as we crossed the school playing field. It was pathetic misbehaviour, I know, but from there on in all sporting ambitions waned rather rapidly.

To the extent that, these days, and for many days, months and years before, I have come to accept that my role in matters sporting is as a paying spectator. Notably at football matches. That, in itself, can be arduous. There's the walk from where you park the car for starters, followed by all those steps to your seat in the stand. On top of that there's the added mental stress of being a watcher rather than a do-er. Take the recent derby match between Bristol City and Cardiff at Ashton Gate. Television demanded it had to be played at 1.15pm on a Sunday afternoon. Normally that would have been no problem except that, stupidly, I had forgotten this and allowed my wife to book us out with friends for a lunch date. This was a long-standing appointment which could not be broken, so I decided to bite the bullet and struck a deal with Mrs D.

I would watch all the first half of the game and half of the second half, whereupon I would vacate my seat and leave for lunch. In true journalistic tradition, I made my excuses to those who attend matches around me well before I was due to leave.

At the chosen hour, with the match still at a nerve-jangling no-score draw, I upped sticks and left. My departure could not have been more stressful being met as it was with uncalled for jeering, generated by those nearest me, and by the unwelcome singing of a favourite Ashton Gate sarcastic vocal aimed at anyone who gets up from their seat mid-match.

"Slack-Bladder, Slack-Bladder," they trill, to the tune of the TV show of a similar name. Was I embarrassed? You bet!

I'd have done a runner, if only I'd had my plimsolls!