0800 hours. The 47 hotel in Rome. Denise hands me my heart-rate monitor. She is wearing nothing but Lycra, and is, quite simply, perfect. Not an ounce of cellulite anywhere. I don’t have an ounce of cellulite anywhere either, but I don’t have an ounce of anything anywhere. No fat, no muscle, not even any gristle. If it weren’t for skin and bones, I wouldn’t exist at all.

Denise asks me if I exercise regularly, as I fumble amateurishly with the heart-rate monitor. For no obvious reason other than ego, I start exaggerating wildly about my mountain-biking prowess, the marathons I do for charity, my lifetime dedication to the rowing machine. Then the heart-rate monitor kicks in and I stop mid-brag: 94 already and we haven’t even started running. It is the lie detector of the fitness world, and I’ve been caught red-handed.

Welcome to SightJogging, the most ridiculous way to see a city ever invented. Carolina Gasparetto, the appropriately named founder, thought it up a couple of years ago, presumably after one too many grappas or one too many ab crunches, and it launched officially late last year. The theory is simple: you have a city tour while running. Yes, you’re right: she should have called it Running Commentary.

“It’s because you’re nervous,” says Perfect Denise, looking at my lie-detector watch mournfully. How perceptive of her. I am nervous. Perfect Lycra-clad women make me nervous, especially when I have to pretend I can run for an hour by actually running for an hour.

08.03 We’ve done a couple of minutes’ walking to warm up — not sure that’s enough — and now we’re running. In the hotel-bedroom mirror, before I went down to meet Denise, I lectured myself severely. “Matt,” I said sternly, “do not dash off at a macho pace. You will drop dead halfway round.” But a man running with a woman — Lycra-clad or otherwise — is genetically incapable of pacing himself. So, when we run up one of Rome’s seven hills rather fast, Denise says, “How’s the pace?”, and I say, “Absolutely fine, touch slow but fine” — which, as the lie detector is pointing out, is a lie. It’s reading 142 already, so I run with my hand behind my back.

08.08 My heart rate levels out at the Monumento a Vittorio Emanuele II, which Denise points out with embarrassment: “Here is my city’s giant typewriter.” She’s already given me the lowdown on Teatro di Marcello (which Americans exclusively mistake for the Colosseum) and some rather lovely steps designed by Michelangelo. But, frankly, I’m more concerned with not being killed.

This is because we are sharing Rome with Roman drivers. I’ve encountered a lot of idiotic driving in my travels, but the Romans are in a super-idiot league of their own. To a Roman driver, pedestrians on zebra crossings are no different from bollards on an obstacle course: power-slide around them, lose five points if you knock one over. If going around is not possible without committing manslaughter, screech to a halt inches from the pedestrian, shake fist as they genuflect, then screech off again, preferably giving them a little nudge with the wing mirror on the way.

The first time this happens, I try to memorise the maniac’s registration, assuming the police would take a dim view of this attempt on an innocent tourist’s life. The second time, it is a police car. While I’m playing Frogger in the traffic, Denise just carries on running, calmly pointing out this and that, and this is how we arrive on gorgeous Piazza Navona.

08.15 First, I think: “Gosh, no other tourists. Aren’t I the early jogging bird?” Then I think coffee break. Or at least a break from running, so Denise can tell me everything she knows about the piazza. You wouldn’t want to rush it, would you? But she has a trick up her Lycra sleeve... we don’t stop running, we just loop the fountains two or three times. “So you see that statue up there? Hang on, we’ll go round again.”

Three workmen are having a slice of pizza for breakfast by one of the fountains. They all stop mid-mouthful to watch us — super-fit Lycra girl and super-skinny bloke — looping the loop. Unsure whether to laugh or wolf-whistle, they try both, which is impossible.

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08.27 Gone all the way down a really old street. Can’t remember name or location because I’m struggling a bit at this stage. Just aware that it is downhill and that, logically, means there will be an uphill. I’m not even allowed to stop jogging at traffic lights. I have to jog on the spot or Denise comes over all militant: apparently, it’s dangerous to stop. I can’t catch my breath long enough to suggest it might be dangerous not to.

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