What I love most about BodyFit is the huge range of people it attracts.

There’s the serious ‘my body is a temple’ types, who you just know buy all those running magazines and never dream of even looking at a chocolate bar.

I bet they even skirt round the confectionary aisle at Tesco and have never revelled in eating a family size bar of Dairy Milk on a Sunday afternoon.

There’s those who love running but fit it in around their hectic schedules and sometimes don’t make it because their real life has got in the way a bit.

These are the people who look good in Lycra, like they were born to wear it. And then there’s us.

We christened ourselves the tortoises because we’re mainly at the back. We’re not fast and we have no burning desire to be fast, to be honest.

But out we trot, week in and week out because we like it, in a twisted way, and we know it’s doing us good.

We’re always treated as one of the gang too – there’s no sniffiness because I like cake a bit more than other people.

I’m sure Sam’s heart sinks when she sees us and she realises she has to deal with our (my) whining at the back.

It makes me laugh every week when, at the end of the session, she points to us and says “you make your way back to the car park, everyone else do three more laps/sprints/go the long way round.” In my head, she’s culling the slow, fat and old from her flock.

The differences between us were made all too clear to me this week. We have a closed Facebook group and one of the proper guys posted: “I sometimes borrow a concept from chi running where one’s focus is getting each stride as perfect as possible.

“This internalisation means one isn’t primarily concerned about pace or distance but, by concentrating on form, pace, distance and running injury free will happen anyway.”

I didn’t even know chi running was a thing. I did think it may be a type of tea, but apparently that’s chai.

My internalisation during a run goes something like: “Okay, this hurts. My legs hurt. I can’t breathe properly. I hate the first mile. That must be a mile. Oh, we’ve only been running for four minutes. Oh no, it’s a hill. My calf hates hills. I’ll get to the top though. No, I’ll make it to the next lamppost and walk. I’m going to walk. Dianne’s not stopping. I better keep up. She’s really fast, I hate her. I’m at the top.

“Are Janette and Michelle stopping for a rest? Darn it, they’re not. Got to keep going. Why has that stranger overtaken me? She’s fatter than me. That must be a mile now. Oh, it’s only been six minutes. I can do this. I can’t do this.”

And so on, until we hit the 30-minute stage and it turns into: “This is brilliant. I love it. Oooo, watch that kerb. I wonder what I’m having for tea. Husband might want a kebab. I could do a pizza. That’s a nice house. Can we afford to move to Cockermouth? Why are Dianne, Janette and Michelle so quick? I’m going to catch them. Hang on, no I’m not.” See? I’m never going to internalise my chi or whatever. But, I suppose, at least I’m out there.