There is a word that describes me, and thousands of people like me. However, you won't hear it used in everyday conversation, because it has taken on an uncomfortably pejorative bent. It is basically an insult, whispered in sneers behind our backs by people who don't think we can hear them. Well, we can hear them all right, and enough is enough. I've thought about this long and hard, and I'm taking a stand. No matter the scorn and ridicule it might bring, I'm reclaiming this word for its original purpose.

My name is Stuart Heritage, and I am a jogger.

You read that right. I am a jogger. And, if you look deep into your heart, you'll probably find that you are a jogger too. However, fashion dictates that we must all now refer to ourselves as "runners", which seems unfair to people who actually run.

Because, really, look at yourself. Can what you do really be described as running? Runners vault across the surface of the Earth, wind whipping through their hair as they're overwhelmed by the freedom of possibility. That's not us. That's not what we do. We trudge reluctantly from foot to foot, our faces pasted with drool-crust from last night's sleep, cursing ourselves for ever thinking that this was a good idea. The wind has never once whipped through any part of my body during a jog because, if it looks like it's going to be very windy – or rainy, for that matter, or warm – I take off my shoes and go back to bed. For I am a jogger.

It's hard to know when jogging became running, especially since nothing has actually changed. Nobody got faster, or any more coordinated. We still just gormlessly plod twice around a park with our cheeks puffed out, but now we seem to have given ourselves a completely unwarranted linguistic promotion. Well, no more.

Much of this, I suspect, is down to dumb aspiration. It feels good to buy a pair of trainers from a shop called Runners Need, because that's a solidly aspirational name. Runners Need. It's an urge. Runners need to run. They'll die if they don't. Meanwhile, if there was any honesty in the world, the rest of us would be buying our shoes from a place called Joggers Suppose They Probably Should. Because that's the truth. Runners run because they love running. Joggers jog because they love cake and, to a lesser extent, fitting into their trousers.

Still, we can't blame anyone else for this shift in language, because we all know people who adopted it too eagerly. "Smashed a 4k run at an average pace of 12.35 a kilometre," your least-favourite Facebook friend will crow twice a week for ever. No you didn't, you spluttering oaf. You didn't smash anything, or crush anything, or burn up the ground. You might have dented it a bit if it's been raining, but that's about it. Your immediate surroundings remain comprehensively unsmashed. The only thing you crushed was your own self-awareness by thinking that anyone would be remotely interested to hear about your bloody hobby.

I will grudgingly admit that being a runner is an easy fiction to buy into. I sometimes jog with a Nike app that intermittently tells me how full-on awful I am at propelling myself around. Sometimes it drafts in Ellie Goulding to act as a uninterested cheerleader. "Hi, this is Ellie Goulding congratulating you on your run," she'll bleakly intone as I'm bent over double, cursing my stupid peanut-sized lungs. "Way to go!" And even though I don't really know who Ellie Goulding is, the fact that a pop star extolled my half-hearted display of effort – and actually referred to it as a run – fills me with a sense of entirely unearned accomplishment. Maybe Nike should go the whole hog and bring out another app where Gary Barlow congratulates you on your ability to brush your teeth. I'd probably have an orgasm if they did.

Perhaps, as with anything, this change happened because we like pretending that we work harder than we really do. Race organisers know this, which is why they all like to wildly overstate the difficulty of their event. There's Tough Mudder, and you don't have to look much further before you find races called Brutal 10 or Total Warrior. There's even one called The Suffering, which I can only assume got its name because someone vetoed God is Dead and All is Infinite Sorrow.

I did a race like this last year, and received a T-shirt with: "Life begins at the end of your comfort zone" written on it. I can't really wear it in public, partly because it looks weird to see that slogan worn by a red-faced idiot shuffling along like an old man with his pants around his ankles, but mainly because it just isn't true. I like the comfort zone. It's where all the sandwiches are.

I could happily live my life without ever getting near the peripheries of my comfort zone. You know why? Because I'm a jogger. And, look, so are you. We're not runners. We think that exercise is OK, but it's not the be-all and end-all. We should be proud of this. We need to claim this word back, with as much pride as we can summon. If you're with me, I'll see you in the park. Unless it's windy, obviously. Or warm.