This is a tale of cheating and redemption. It takes place in the Gothic shadow of Durham Cathedral, the imposing ancient edifice that sits on a forested spur in the River Wear in northeast England. The main protagonist — you will not be surprised to learn if you have read this column before — me.

For three years before my voice broke, I was a pupil at Durham Chorister School, adjacent to the 800-year-old cathedral. For winter sport, we played rugby. But if the ground was dangerously hard due to frost, we were sent out on interminable cross-country runs along the banks and across the old stone bridges of the river.

I hated rugby and loathed running with an even greater passion. That was until I realized that on a crosscountry run I was out of sight of the teachers, who remained at school drinking tea and eating biscuits until we returned to the cobbled entrance yard.

With a friend, I hatched a plan. We set off behind the pack, running down the hill to the river, and then, when nobody was looking, we dove into some bushes. There we waited, shivering in our shorts and running vests, until the race leaders returned an hour later.

This is where the plan tipped from being a crafty dodge into something more sinister. Under the stern gaze of the cathedral high above us, we cheated. It hadn’t been our original intention, but after the first two runners puffed and panted past out hiding place, we realized that we could easily beat them to the finish.

And so we did, dashing over the line first and second. Nobody seemed to notice that our legs were not spattered with mud and that we were barely out of breath. The teachers congratulated us. Our achievement was posted on the school notice board. Our names were mentioned by the headmaster in front of the entire school.

My friend lapped up the plaudits, but I was mortified. On the next cross-country run, I resolved to follow the full course, and to give it everything I had. I struck out ahead of everyone, and to my astonishment I remained there to the end, winning on merit.

And though my lungs rasped with every breath and my muscles screamed painfully with every stride, I discovered that running provided a peculiar form of pleasure.

It still does. It is a sport that can go anywhere. All you need is a pair of suitable shoes and a reasonable sense of direction. An alarm clock helps, too. Early in the morning in cities on six continents, I have squeakily crossed marble hotel lobbies in my running shoes and set off to pound the waking streets.

Sometimes it is a hard slog, but more often I settle into a comfortable, metronomic rhythm — as I eventually learned to do at school — and draw strength from the sense that I could run forever. Or at least until a stitch in my side forces me to walk for a while.

I have never had the urge to enter any formal events. Crowded marathons hold no appeal. Nor is fitness my primary motivation.

Rather, my aim is to recapture the joy of that first serious run all those years ago in the lee of the great cathedral. To experience again the thrill of being alone, with only the sound of my breath and my footsteps, and to celebrate one of the defining characteristics of being human. Two legs.