I took the Yard challenge

"Could you?" That's the slogan of a police recruitment advertising campaign - and it normally applies to dealing with such stressful issues as domestic violence and drug abuse.

But it could also be asked of the thousands of young men and women trying to join police forces every year who have to pass the fitness test used to weed out unsuitable candidates.

It's certainly a question of pressing interest to the Metropolitan Police, which recently upgraded the fitness test, getting rid of the hated pressups and introducing something called the Dyno machine. Today it is launching a video to explain what the new-look fitness test is all about.

Could you? Could I? Could a slightly overweight, distinctly unfit, middle-aged hack - who stayed up too late the night before - pass the test?

When I arrived at the police training college in Hendon to see if I was made of the right stuff, the head of physical education, Alan Jones, was full of encouraging words.

These days the test is all about being scientific and applicable to the job of policing, he said. "We are looking at minimum standards, not Olympic standards. It's based on being able to apprehend an average citizen - not Linford Christie."

The oldest he had seen pass was a 47-year-old. This was fantastically encouraging for me: I'm only 43 and, therefore, just four years off Mr Jones's personal best for recruiting geriatrics.

First came the speed and agility test, which involved running up and down between cones. You got two attempts to complete it within 27.9 seconds and had to remember to go up and down between the blue cones and slalom round the orange cones (and when it all got too confusing, physical training instructor Suzy Tether was there to tell you where to go). Astonishingly, I made it without knocking over any cones (or even any physical training instructors). Even more astonishing, I did it in 26.75 seconds. Fantastic! I'd just felt my first collar.

No matter that my heart was doing some rather worrying things inside my chest, it was a result.

The group test was just what it said. You gripped this contraption that measured the strength in your wrists and hands and squeezed it as hard as you could. The pass was 32kg and I managed 53kg (you're nicked, sonny. And if I were you, I'd come quietly).

Next came the infamous Dyno machine, which looked like a bogstandard piece of gym kit. First you sat at one end to see how strongly you could push the bar, then you sat the other end to see how strongly you could pull the handles. The pass rates for pushing and pulling were, respectively, 34kg and 35kg. I did 58kg and 68kg. Marvellous. I'd just arrested my first push-me-pull-you.

They saved the worst for last. It was the dreaded bleep test, the one that strikes terror in the hearts of recruits - and accounts for the most failures.

Essentially, you have to run between two lines 15 metres apart, timing your runs to a series of bleeps. Gradually the bleeps speed up and you have to run faster until you really feel you can't run anymore. This aerobics torture lasted about six minutes, although it felt like six hours. But, by some freak of nature, I did it.

My legs felt like jelly, my heart was a pile-driver and my chest felt as if I'd swallowed a roll of razor wire - but I'd passed. I'm not sure what it means when someone who doesn't even run for the bus is considered fit enough for the Met, but Suzy seemed pleased.

"I think you've done really well," she said. "You've got the ideal attributes for a police officer."

Me, I'm looking forward to the next test, the one where you drink whisky all night with the guv'nor, then get up at dawn to arrest some villain with the words: "You're nicked, you slag" - but that's the advanced level.