With my hair scraped and pinned back to stop it, flopping wet and sweaty in my eyes, my body encased in wicking synthetic fibre, my legs in skin tight leggings and my feet rammed into well worn, muddy trainers I am hardly glamour model material. Yet still the sight of me running along beside the road seems to get the white van man hot under the collar.
Perhaps I should be grateful as in my normal life as a 40-year-old mum of four I never illicit so much as a wolf whistle from a building site teeming with men, but don a fluorescent running anorak and suddenly I am Princess Leia in a gold bikini rolled into Ursula Andress emerging from the waves in Dr No. Either that or the white van man is so bored and frustrated by the London traffic that he is driven to blast his horn at anything moving faster than the speed of treacle and I shouldn't flatter myself.
Still I think on the whole I will take a compliment where I can and see those horn blasts and lewd comments as reward for all the hard work I have done sculpting my size 10 figure from what was left after birthing four boys.