Towards the end of each week, I receive a cryptic email from my friend Alan.

It usually says something like '4.30 Woods?' or 'Early one, Parks, backwards?' Sometimes, it'll say 'Can't, sorry - in-laws!' The message refers to running - what time we should start and where we might go. It doesn't really matter where or when we go, as all our runs are essentially the same. The email and its standard language is just the first step in a ritual of behaviour which is as soothing and well-worn as liturgical responses.

Come Sunday, we meet outside Alan's front door. I wear a blindingly bright orange top which he - hilariously - always pretends not to notice. We then do our stretching. Because neither of us can be bothered to stretch properly, we just wave our arms about as if we know what we're doing, sniggering, as we know the exercise has absolutely nothing to do with running. These repeated jokes - all of which are bad, or rude - are part of the weekly tradition. Jokes over, we set off stiffly to do the Parks, or the Woods, or the Loop. We've run so often together that we quickly fall into a steady stride.

The Sunday run is my window on life. Job, commuting, chores all fall by the wayside as the grey ribbon of tarmac comes up to meet my pounding feet. It's two hours in which I get somewhere. It doesn't matter where, I just get there, effortlessly sidestepping all the blockades of modern living.

At the end, one of us always says, 'That was definitely faster than we normally go.' It's a lie, but we say it every week anyway. And then the window closes and it's back to life...