Day 43 – A Feast, A Fandango and A Fair Bit of Running

Today was one of those days that start off busy, stay busy, and end with the creeping realisation that tomorrow will be just as busy. But it was all for good reasons, so I can’t complain. Well, I could, but nobody would listen.

From Swimming Pools to Sparkles

The day kicked off with the usual Saturday morning schedule, despite the weather trying to thin out our plans. Polly’s football training was called off, which was a shame, but she still got her traditional Greggs star biscuit, so the universe remained in balance. Meanwhile, Daisy had swimming and musical theatre to attend, which meant my morning was still spent out away from home, with Polly and a coffee to keep me company.

A Strictly Spectacular

No sooner had I stepped foot back in the house than Kelly and I were out of the door again, this time bound for the O2 to watch the Strictly Come Dancing Live Tour. Ballroom and Latin dancing is something we both enjoy, and watching the tour each year has become a bit of a tradition. There’s something quite wonderful about watching professionals and celebrities glide across the floor with effortless grace—especially when I know that my own attempts at dancing are best described as "enthusiastic but concerning."

Since we were up in at The O2, I seized the opportunity to take Kelly for an early dinner at Rodizio Rico, a Brazilian restaurant where the meat just keeps coming until you either surrender or explode. The chefs carry around searing hot skewers and carve slices of beef, lamb, pork, and chicken directly onto your plate. It’s an experience both delicious and slightly gladiatorial. Kelly admitted defeat before I did, but it wasn’t much longer before I too had to accept that I had likely consumed my own body weight in barbecued meat.

Running on a Full Tank (and Then Some)

After a fantastic show and the drive home, it hit me—I still had a marathon to train for. And so, at 6:30 pm, with my stomach still questioning my meal choice, I laced up my trainers and headed out for a 48-minute base run around Sittingbourne.

It was one of those runs where every step felt like a negotiation between my legs and my digestive system. The route took me past the quiet residential streets, where the glow of living room TVs flickered behind curtains and out onto the dimly lit roads leading towards the edge of town. The air was crisp, and despite the earlier rain, the pavements were mostly dry—though a few puddles attempted to ambush me along the way.

As I reached the stretch along the High Street, I could feel every ounce of my earlier meal sitting in my stomach like an overenthusiastic houseguest who refuses to leave. My pace wasn’t exactly groundbreaking, but I focused on keeping steady, letting the rhythm of my feet carry me through. At one point, I passed another runner who gave me the universal nod of camaraderie along with an awkward wave, the unspoken understanding of “Yep, we’re both out here doing this, and neither of us is entirely sure why.”

By the time I looped back towards home, my body had begrudgingly accepted its fate, and I actually started to enjoy the run—at least in the way one enjoys an argument that they’re finally winning. I made it back in one piece, stomach still intact, legs still moving, and with the knowledge that tomorrow morning would bring an even longer run.

With that in mind, I’m off to get some sleep. Hopefully, by morning, I’ll no longer be 40% steak.