Everyone always says you need a goal in running, and that’s true. Also true: it has to be a significantly greater challenge than whatever went before. If you’ve already got to 5k, the likelihood is you could have sailed on to 7k. By this point, you’re effectively at a 10k, so even though you have never run one, this is an under-ambitious goal.

That was my thinking, when I decided to do a half-marathon. Bring me the head of something that feels impossible. But not, you know, a full marathon, because a friend who did one said, on nipple damage alone, she wouldn’t do it twice. A half, then. By early summer. I even had a training regimen all worked out: just run for one more minute each day, starting at 20 minutes, which is how long I could run continuously at the beginning. Within 90 days, I’d be at 110 minutes, which is 30 minutes shy of the average half-marathon time for a woman in her 30s. Obviously, there’s half an hour and a decade missing in these calculations, which I filed under “the magic that will happen”.

Well, some magic did happen; I broke my hand, under circumstances too embarrassing to relate. This is not, on its own, a reason to give up exercising. Sure, there are some adventures that will have to wait (skiing, skipping, boxing). But there is an established theory of overflow, where you can exercise just one arm and the other will gain strength. Running should be fine, the doc said, unless you fall over. “I’m not going to fall over,” I snorted derisively. She rolled her eyes: “Said the woman who fights with dogs.” (Goddammit, that is, indeed, how I broke my hand.) “Definitely don’t go running with your dog.” (Double goddammit. Yes, it was my own dog.)

This is how I ended up on a treadmill, which I’d vowed never to use again after I discovered the charms and also the thriftiness of the outdoors. I hate gyms for running; I feel environmentally sheepish and materially short-changed, even when it’s a municipal gym at the end of my road. But there it is. Take it up with my dog (who didn’t attack any humans, by the way, before anyone who wasn’t there complains about him. It’s fine for anyone who was there to complain).

It turns out this is perfect for my plan. There is no easier way to move up in defined increments than to have a machine in front of you telling you how many minutes you’ve done. I love the lack of friction on a treadmill; it makes me feel like Zola Budd. I had forgotten how great it was not to be dependent on fine weather. And I don’t have to spend very long there. The gym culture, in the middle of a working day, after January resolutioners have given up, is extremely eccentric: one elite athlete in the corner, two other people exerting themselves so little they might as well be crocheting. I’m a total convert; it’s going to be a job getting me back outside even after my cast is off and I am allowed to fall over.

What I learned

Adjust to your energy level by altering the incline of the treadmill rather than the speed.