"London Marathon 2025: Getting in Shape Again for the Ultimate Running Challenge!"

 A Short Update – Courtesy of Shaky Signal Today’s entry comes to you via what might be the last surviving sliver of mobile data in my area, thanks to some technical difficulties at home. No broadband and a phone signal so weak that even pigeons flying past seem to disrupt it. So, before this message is lost to the ether, here’s a quick update on Day 94 of my London Marathon training. A Run in the Dark (Then the Light, Thankfully) Despite still nursing a bad back, I managed to get out this morning. My route took me from The Math School, through Borstal, across the Medway Bridge and into Strood. The clocks going forward over the weekend meant an ominously dark start, but luckily the sun soon decided to make an appearance, saving me from feeling like I was starring in my own bleak detective novel. Keeping a steady base-level pace throughout, I completed the loop and arrived back at The Math School exactly an hour later. While it wasn’t my most blistering run, consistency is key—just ...

A  Wise Pause Today was a day of choices, and for once, I made the sensible one. The pain in my back continues its stubborn residency, refusing to move out despite increasingly forceful eviction notices. With an early start required for a Mother’s Day outing for Kelly and the girls at Gulliver's Land in Milton Keynes, resting the back for another day was not just logical but, dare I say, an act of wisdom. The Long Haul to Milton Keynes If there’s one thing a sore back doesn’t appreciate, it’s being folded into a car seat for two hours each way. Milton Keynes may be a marvel of roundabouts and efficiency, but even its best-planned infrastructure can’t offer a shortcut to comfort. Still, it was worth every jolt and judder to spend the day celebrating Kelly and ensuring she was suitably pampered. The Recovery Plan Having survived the drive, tonight’s strategy involves a bath loaded with Radox salts and a thorough application of the massage gun, wielded by an overenthusiastic Kelly. If...

After yesterday’s promising threshold run, it really felt like I had turned a corner. Unfortunately, my back had other ideas. I woke at around 4 a.m. to a gnawing pain in my lower back and then again at 6:30 am just in case I’d forgotten about it. It was back, and it was demanding attention—ignoring it was about as effective as ignoring a tax bill. The Roast That Broke Me Despite this unwelcome development, I pressed on with my pre-Mother’s Day errands, determined not to let a bit of pain disrupt the grand plan. By midday, I was in full roast-dinner mode, cooking up a feast for the family. Now, I suspect that standing for hours over a hot stove, lifting heavy trays and wrestling with an uncooperative joint of meat are not top-tier recommendations for lower back recovery. But if you’re going to suffer, you might as well do it surrounded by gravy and Yorkshire puddings. A Laughable Promise Somewhere in between basting and boiling, I made a bold commitment: I would run after dinner. In hi...

I have finally done it! After well over a week of missed runs thanks to illness and a back that has been behaving with all the grace of an overdramatic stage actor, I’ve completed a full training run again. No shortened sessions, no gentle jogs—just a proper, structured run, the kind that makes you feel like you’re actually a marathon runner rather than just someone who owns a lot of running shoes. This morning, I woke up determined. The back was sore, but not in the "sit down and despair" way—more in the "mildly irritating, but let’s see how it goes" way. So I got myself up, took myself off to work, and laced up for what I hoped would be a good step back towards proper training. A Threshold of Pain and Progress Now, you’d think my watch would greet my return with some gentle encouragement, maybe a nice, easy aerobic run, or a brisk walk followed by a medal. But no. My Garmin Forerunner 955, ever the relentless taskmaster, had scheduled me a threshold run . Yes, y...

Running Through the Ache Another day, another run, another quiet mutiny from my lower back. I knew today wasn’t going to be a heroic effort, but determination outranks comfort when it comes to marathon training. I’ve done my research and as long as the pain isn’t making me see my ancestors or forcing me to adopt a new and permanent sideways gait, I can keep going. I set off with a plan—nothing too ambitious, just a steady run to keep my legs moving and my training ticking over. The first half wasn’t too bad, though I could feel the ever-present stiffness lurking in the background like an officious administrator waiting for an opportunity to hand me some very inconvenient paperwork. But by the time I reached the second half, my back decided it had quite enough of this nonsense and staged a small but effective rebellion. Every stride felt a little heavier, every movement required more thought than it should and the idea of stopping became increasingly appealing. Still, I pressed on. Not ...

The Reluctant Runner This morning, my back still wasn’t playing nicely and getting out of bed felt like wrestling an octopus made of lead. Every movement was accompanied by an internal monologue of protests, the occasional sigh and a fleeting temptation to just stay under the covers where nothing hurt. But that’s not how marathons get run, and so, eventually, I shuffled myself upright and into my running gear. Getting out onto the pavement wasn’t much easier. My legs felt stiff, my back ached and my form was less ‘graceful long-distance runner’ and more ‘wobbly foal on ice.’ Every footfall carried the weight of frustration. The run was short—more of a token gesture than a proper session—but at least I was moving. The real battle, at this point, isn’t the running itself; it’s the gnawing irritation of feeling like my training is slipping through my fingers. A Week of Woes Between last week’s miserable cold, the foot injury that followed and now this persistent back niggle, I can’t shake...

A Morning of Regret Today did not start well. I am a firm believer that household appliances should remain in their designated spots and not take it upon themselves to launch surprise attacks. Unfortunately, my fridge disagreed and in a moment of sheer domestic betrayal, it attempted to introduce itself to my foot at high velocity. This, naturally, was an experience I do not recommend. Upon waking this morning, I discovered that in my valiant effort to prevent the fridge from completing its assault on my foot, I had also managed to tweak my lower back. Gravity, it seems, has a cruel sense of humour. The Shuffle of Determination With my foot throbbing and my back feeling as though it was held together with hope and misplaced confidence, I embarked on my scheduled run. It was supposed to be a threshold session: 4 x 6-minute efforts at a pace that could be described as "faster than comfortable." What I managed was more of a determined shuffle, the kind usually reserved for peopl...

After yesterday’s excitement meeting the Gladiators and nursing the same stubborn cold that seems to have taken up permanent residence in my sinuses, it might have seemed reasonable to throw in the towel for another day. But towels, as it turns out, are best kept for drying off after a run, not for surrendering. When I woke up this morning, croaky and vaguely resembling a deflated bagpipe, I told myself, “No. No more days off.” It was time to get back out there, cold or no cold, time to be a a Gladiator! So I hauled myself out of bed with all the grace of a man who’s misplaced both his socks and his will to live, made a strong coffee and drove to Rochester. Onward to the Esplanade (With a Dash of Wheeze) I really wasn’t feeling at my best. But the air was cold, and for once, I didn’t care. I was here to run, not to appreciate meteorological nuance. I set off down the hill toward the Rochester Esplanade, breath a little wheezy but manageable—like a bagpipe that’s been patched with du...

As expected—because sometimes life really does enjoy making us look clever in hindsight—I am still battling the remnants of a rather persistent cold. It’s the kind of cold that lingers like a dinner guest who doesn’t pick up on hints about the time. Running today was out of the question. After all, threshold runs and tempo workouts are tricky enough without the addition of violent coughing fits and the general sensation of having your lungs wrapped in sandpaper. Today should have been about rest and recovery. And yet, the universe had... other plans. Gladiators in the Wild (Also Known as Bluewater) You see, yesterday I discovered that the Gladiators—yes, those Gladiators, modern-day titans of TV—were making an appearance at Bluewater. Now, we live in a house where Gladiators is more than a show; it’s practically a religion, complete with chants, favourite contestants and small children attempting to elbow drop the furniture. Naturally, I told the girls we’d go. However, as with ...

I woke today at 6am, which felt like an insult considering I hadn’t exactly been on speaking terms with sleep during the night. In the fog of early morning, I stumbled downstairs and attempted to coax myself into existence with a bagel and a coffee – the traditional offering to the gods of consciousness. It didn’t work immediately, but I persevered. As I sat there, blinking at the wall and questioning whether time was indeed linear or simply a cruel joke played by clocks, it became increasingly obvious that there would be no running today. Again. Breathing currently feels like a negotiation with my own lungs, and a cough – that great usurper of peace – has started making itself known. Now, I know this might sound dramatic – perhaps worthy of fainting onto a chaise longue with a hand to the brow – but truly, I am fine. Just not the sort of "fine" that includes voluntary long-distance running. The idea of lacing up my trainers right now feels about as likely as winning an arg...

It really hasn’t got any better. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s got worse. Not apocalyptic worse—there are no frogs raining from the sky or cats learning Latin—but worse in that I feel distinctly unwell, and distinctly sorry for myself. This morning I got into work and at points found myself doing the kind of 1000-yard stare usually reserved for people who have seen things. Terrible things. Like emails. Focusing was hard. Getting through the day felt like wading through metaphorical treacle, only with less of a sugar high to sweeten the experience. My brain spent most of the day in a fog, occasionally surfacing for air, then deciding that perhaps it wasn’t worth the effort after all. A Small Victory (and a Flake) But even in the gloomiest of days, there can be unexpected glimmers of joy. At lunchtime, salvation arrived not on a white horse, but in the form of an ice cream van pulling up outside school. There are few things that bring a smile quite like a Mr Whippy and a 99 Fl...

C old Reality If yesterday was a write-off thanks to an unwelcome cold, then today wasn’t exactly breaking out the celebratory bunting either. As I turned in last night, my body was already holding a quiet but determined protest, waving placards that read “No Running Tomorrow” and “Let Us Sleep In Peace.” I did the sensible thing – an unusual occurrence, I’ll admit – and set my alarm a good 45 minutes later than usual, fully aware that even this generous gesture would be met with the same enthusiasm one reserves for a Monday morning tax audit. Sure enough, dragging myself out of bed this morning felt like emerging from a swamp of treacle, only with less glamour and more sniffles. Not one to wallow – for long – I decided to inject a touch of positivity into proceedings. On the way to work, I swung by the shop to restock with something more exciting than the usual breakfast fare. Fruit and lemon pancakes made a strong case for morale boosting and bagels at lunchtime promised a kind o...

As I suspected yesterday, the vague tickle in my throat and the slight fog in my head have not graciously departed. No, they’ve unpacked their bags, settled in and brought friends. The cold has officially arrived and my head currently feels like it's filled with wet cement, while my throat seems to have been sandpapered by an enthusiastic DIYer. So, I am on full rest—well, as full as possible when you spend your day teaching teenagers who emit both energy and chaos in equal measure. That said, this is hardly catastrophic. With five and a half weeks to go until the London Marathon, I’m grateful that this bug has chosen now to make its grand entrance rather than waiting for marathon week. In the grand scheme of 16 weeks of training, a cold was always a likely visitor. Like an unexpected relative at Christmas, it’s not if they turn up, but when . Rest: Doing Nothing Properly I’ll be taking the tried-and-tested approach of plenty of fluids, multivitamins, and Lemsip (the triad of m...

The Groggy Morning Conundrum This morning greeted me with a sensation I hadn’t missed: that telltale ache behind the eyes, a throat that wasn’t sore but certainly considering the idea, and a general fogginess that could best be described as ‘muddle-headed’. Initially, I chalked it up to the early start, having forcibly encouraged myself out of bed at 5 am with the enthusiasm of a man facing a firing squad armed with alarm clocks. But as I made the drive to Rochester, blinking at the road ahead and occasionally wondering whether it was actually getting further away, the notion began to solidify — I might be teetering on the edge of a cold. Or, at the very least, some mystery ailment that had decided to arrive uninvited, like an unwanted relative at a dinner party you never agreed to host. A Gentle Jog and Growing Suspicions Fortunately, today’s training didn’t demand anything heroic — just a recovery run at an easy pace, clocking in at just over 30 minutes. That kind of session is l...

Heavy Legs and Light Ambitions After the longer run yesterday, I woke up today with legs that felt like they’d spent the night reconsidering their life choices. Walking to the bathroom was less a movement and more a negotiation between willpower and gravity – and gravity, it turns out, is a very persistent negotiator. On the schedule this morning was a 35-minute base run, intended to ease the muscles back into action gently, like a friendly nudge from someone who wants you to jog but doesn’t want to get punched for suggesting it. I set out early, as usual, in the half-light of morning where only runners, foxes and questionable life decisions roam. The run itself was uneventful, apart from the ongoing commentary from my legs, which could be summed up as “are we really doing this?” Still, the base pace did its job. Things loosened up over time, albeit in the same way a stubborn jar lid eventually gives in — with a sense of begrudging resignation. By the end, I was grateful for the shor...

The Elusive Concept of a Lie-In With the pressure of last week’s early start behind me, today’s long run came with a rare and glorious luxury: a slightly more relaxed morning. Now, any parent knows that “waking naturally” is a mythical event, usually accompanied by small feet in the ribs or a panicked shout about missing socks. Nevertheless, I managed what passes for a gentle start, complete with a toasted bagel and a cup of coffee brewed with the reverence it deserves—i.e., strong enough to wake the dead or at least mildly prod them. Off into the Green The weather was kind, the sun giving everything that warm glow which makes you momentarily forget that your legs are about to spend over an hour questioning your life choices. Setting out through the gentle countryside around Sittingbourne, I felt immediately at ease—legs ticking over nicely, heart rate nestled contentedly in the right range, and pace hovering around what I imagine (or hope, perhaps delusionally) will be marathon da...

Saturday arrived, and with it, the glorious sensation of a morning that didn’t require a pre-dawn alarm call. The world, it seemed, was not in such a desperate hurry today, which was a pleasant change. The usual Saturday duties took precedence first—Daisy to swimming, then onwards to musical theatre—before a brief return home for a well-earned breather. Sprinting into the Afternoon Looking back over the week, it was clear that the higher-intensity work had been lounging about, rather like a cat that had found a particularly sunny windowsill. That wouldn’t do. Today’s run was all about effort, and effort was exactly what was given. The session involved an anaerobic workout with seven repetitions of one-minute sprints, aiming for around a 4:15min/km pace. This was, naturally, both ambitious and painful. A few of these efforts even came with the delightful addition of an incline, as if gravity had suddenly decided to make things more interesting. Each intense burst was followed by a three...

A Chilly Start This morning, I once again awoke in good spirits—an occurrence I have learned not to question too deeply, lest it vanish in a puff of logic. With that in mind, I was out the door and off to Rochester. Today's run was another base run, and I was, of course, very pleased to take off down the Maidstone Road hill, letting gravity do some of the work. The route took me across the historic Vines, where the cold air nipped at my face with the persistence of an overly enthusiastic terrier. The forecast had threatened a flurry of snow, but in the end, it seemed the weather had just been teasing. It remained bitterly cold, though, as if winter had misplaced its departure ticket and was making the most of its extended stay. The Friday Rush The rest of the day passed in a blur of lessons, meetings and that particular brand of end-of-week chaos that only a school can produce. Fridays are always busy, filled with the anticipation of the weekend and the quiet, collective realisatio...

Back on the Road After yesterday’s rest day, I was absolutely raring to go this morning! There are few things more satisfying than feeling properly recovered and ready to get back to training. I got up in good time, brewed a much-needed coffee and set off for The Math School with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for people discovering an extra biscuit in the tin. On arrival, I checked my watch and was pleased to see a 46-minute base run on the schedule. With the daylight already staking its claim over the morning—a welcome shift from those cold, dark starts—I decided to extend my run by another ten minutes. My route took me through Borstal, across the Medway Bridge and into Strood, a journey made all the more pleasant by the fact that, for once, my legs and lungs were in quiet agreement about the pace. Running with Purpose It was wonderful to enjoy a morning run where every step felt purposeful, rather than a grand negotiation between body and willpower. These steady runs are wh...

Today, I was afforded the luxury of a second rest day this week. My Garmin Forerunner 955, the ever-watchful companion on my training journey, kindly informed me that I hadn’t been getting enough quality sleep and had not fully recovered from my run last Sunday. To add to that, yesterday’s threshold run had really taken it out of my legs, so I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised that the watch called for some downtime. In a way, it’s like having a personal coach who’s as strict as they are considerate—though I suspect it could be a tad more forgiving on the days I’d prefer it to be a little less ‘helpful.’ While I’m grateful for the extra rest, I can’t shake the feeling of apprehension. It’s like I’m being told to step back just as I feel like I’m on the cusp of pushing forward. But, as always, I trust that the watch knows what it’s doing—after all, it’s got more sensors than an overly cautious weather station. There will be tougher runs ahead, I’m sure of it. Running for a Purpose ...

The Burning Cold It was back to the grind this morning with the dreaded threshold run. The air still carried that late-winter bite, the kind that burns the lungs on the way in and somehow manages to do it again on the way out, just for good measure. There is something uniquely unpleasant about cold air at this time of year—it has all the crispness of a bright spring morning but none of the warmth to go with it. Every breath felt like inhaling liquid nitrogen while my legs did their best impression of reluctant statues. As I descended Shorts Way down to the Rochester Esplanade, I had to work hard to keep my heart rate up, which is ironic, considering how eagerly it tries to spike when I see the alarm clock in the morning. At this hour, my body is deeply offended by the concept of speed. Every fibre of my being clings to the idea that nothing should move quickly before the sun has made a proper appearance. But marathon training doesn’t care for such sensibilities, so I pushed on, lungs b...

Earned, Not Given After yesterday’s long run and a weekend that could only be described as “character-building” (courtesy of unexpected water damage), I was elated to see that today’s schedule contained the most glorious of words: Rest Day. There are few things in life more satisfying than knowing you’ve worked hard enough to deserve a proper break. It’s the same feeling a wizard might get when, after a long night of incantations and improbable near-death experiences, he realises someone else is now responsible for saving reality. Resting Properly Now, a rest day isn’t just about doing nothing—it’s about doing nothing properly . That meant ensuring, through sheer determination and a bit of tactical delegation, that I had no lingering tasks hanging over me. No surprise marking, no ‘quick jobs’ around the house, and certainly no unexpected DIY disasters sneaking in under the radar. Once I was satisfied that all was in order, I settled into the fine art of relaxation, feet up, cup of tea ...

A Dawn Departure Sunday is usually the one day I can ease into the morning with a leisurely start, a small breakfast and perhaps even the Sunday morning news. But not today. With a packed family schedule ahead, I was out of the door by 6:30am for a long run into the countryside surrounding Sittingbourne. The world at that hour was still waking up and the mist rising from the roads had the look of something out of a poem—probably one where everyone dies tragically at the end, but beautiful nonetheless. The roads were quiet, save for the occasional early riser walking a dog that looked as though it, too, wished it was still in bed. A Miniature Railway and a Detour Partway through the run, I decided to hunt down the elusive Torry Hill railway. I had only found it once before and it remains one of those places where if you blink at the wrong moment, you’ll find yourself lost in the woods composing your own missing person poster. The turning for it is little more than an unassuming muddy pa...