It’s fair to say that there were three very good reasons for signing up to do a VO2 max test. Firstly it was free and if you decline something that’s free it actually costs you money – which sort of makes sense. Second of all I was a little bit curious about what all this running had done to me other than ruined any chances of wearing open-toed shoes without having to team them with a low-cut top to draw attention away from my manky feet. And thirdly, I was thinking of you guys. Which is shorthand for saying I couldn’t think of anything to write about and then someone offered me a free VO2 max test.

Signing up for something three weeks in advance it’s easy to think ‘yeah that will be fine’. Your current self will totally screw your future self over and not worry about it. When three week’s time comes around, all the free stuff in the world can seem like a stupid idea.

But on Monday I strapped on my backpack and ran the two miles to Runners Need where my test was taking place. You heard me I RAN to my VO2 MAX TEST. Badass or stupid: you decide. The lovely people from the London Metropolitan University who were doing the testing asked me a few questions about my running – which was kind of awkward, what with me not really liking talking about running or rolling off all my PBs but I got over that. Then the strapped on a heart rate monitor and guided me to the treadmill.

Here was the game: I had six minutes to run as far as I could without collapsing. Sounds fun no? It’s been a fair few months since I last ran on a treadmill so I hurriedly did a bit of maths to try and work minutes per mile into kilometres per hour. This didn’t go well and I stabbed at the

[+] button franticly until it felt like my legs were about to work themselves off their hinges. The plan was ‘go as fast as you can and try to hang on’.

I remember now why I don’t like running in the gym: the mirror in front of your face. As awesome as I look when I’m running, seeing my reflection in all its awesomeness does remind the brain that the body is working pretty hard and that it could stop if it wanted. Luckily, as I was processing this a man hopped onto the treadmill next to me to try out some trainers and there’s nothing that gets the legs pumping like some competitive man-baiting. He got chicked and then some.

After six minutes I hit the stop button and nearly collapsed. After mopping up the puddle I’d created with some blue paper towel the university peeps did some maths and told me my results. As if we didn’t know: I’m awesome. I scored a 55. Go me… actually what does that mean? They then showed me this chart which explained it all:

I did a little dance and then I ran 2 miles home. Badass.