IN my head, I’ve always been a sporting legend, blessed with natural talent and adored by millions.

When our kids were little and we played football in the garden, I’d be Paul Gascoigne, effortlessly dribbling past them before brilliantly scoring the Goal of the Month and celebrating with my arms aloft.

Even now, at the age of 55, I’m Roger Federer when I play tennis while the 60-year-old fella with dodgy knees on the other side the net is Rafa Nadal.

Recently, I’ve started taking part in the Park Run on Saturday mornings, dragging my bones around three laps of Darlington’s South Park to complete five kilometres.

I’ve done six Park Runs now - personal best 27 minutes, 25 seconds - and my latest attempt was at the weekend. As I set off amongst hundreds of runners, I was no longer Peter Barron: greying grandad, a stone (or two) overweight, and not much faster than an arthritic tortoise. I was Mo Farah, multiple Olympic champion and world champion.

I normally try to keep myself to myself when I’m running: get into a nice rhythm, take the occasional puff on the asthma inhaler, and don’t overdo it.

But last weekend, as we set off on the first lap, I found myself alongside a mum shoving a pushchair in front of her as she ran. Her daughter, maybe four, was enjoying the ride.

“Blimey, you’re brave,” I gasped to the mum, in between puffs on my inhaler.

“Oh, we both enjoy it,” she replied with a cheery smile.

I’ll be honest, I was pretty confident that it wouldn’t be long before I left the mum with the little girl in the pushchair behind – and I did. I was feeling in pretty good nick and she simply couldn’t keep up with me on the first lap.

But five kilometres is a long way and, half way into lap two, I heard someone coming up behind me. It was the mum with the pushchair and she was talking out loud to her little girl: “C-A-T spells cat…D-O-G spells dog…R-U-N spells run.”

As she pulled alongside me, she moved onto maths: “One plus one is two…two plus two is four…so how many is three plus three?”

Who was this Wonderwoman? Not only was she catching me up but she was managing to fit in a spot of teaching at the same time.

By the start of the third lap, she was really starting to annoy me. As she strode past me, I was unable to splutter a single word but she’d started reciting The Owl and the Flaming Pussycat in between nice even breaths.

The records will show that the mum shoving a pushchair with a child inside finished a considerable distance in front of me.

Maybe I’m not Mo Farah after all.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

COLLEAGUE Matt Westcott was touched when his ten-year-old son Harvey made him a cup of tea.

"Where's my biscuit?" asked Matt.

"In the cup. I thought it would save you eating it," came the reply.

DAD-OF TWO Gavin, of Bishop Auckland, dropped me a line to tell me how he thinks his six-year-old son Sam has the potential to become the new David Attenborough.

The family were watching a programme about wild animals and Sam piped up: “Dad, you know giraffes have really long necks? Well, they must get terrible sore throats.”

MEANWHILE, Malcolm Johnson, of Sunderland, got in touch to tell me about his daughter Stacey, aged seven.

It was raining outside and Stacey was looking bored. “Dad, can we go on holiday?” she asked.

“Yes, we definitely will, later this year,” replied Malcolm.

“No, we need to go this afternoon,” came the reply.

THANKS to “Charlielottie”, from Middlesbrough, on Twitter for telling me about her two-year-old daughter Sophie’s reaction to hearing her mum say “the baby’s stirring”.
Sophie went over to check on her baby sister and declared: “Yes, Mummy, Isobelle’s mixing.”