Day 86: Gladiators, Rain and Beechams—A Very Different Kind of Endurance

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 all great plans, disaster lurked in the comment sections of social media. Reports came flooding in—seven-hour queues on Saturday, many disappointed fans and a general air of chaos that made the idea of turning up on Sunday seem as sensible as trying to train a cat to fetch. So Kelly and I, with heavy hearts and parental guilt that weighed about as much as a Gladiator’s bicep, told the girls we simply couldn’t go.

Polly’s cry could probably have been heard in neighbouring towns and I suspect it’s still echoing somewhere in my soul.

6:30am and a Bad Idea

So I had two choices this morning: stay in bed like a sensible person recovering from illness, or haul myself to Bluewater for 6:30am, in the rain, with a throat that felt like it had been sandblasted and queue for hours in the name of fatherly love. Naturally, I chose the latter—because sometimes love makes you do irrational things, like volunteer for a 26.2 mile run through London or wear a glittery bow in your hair because your five-year-old insists it makes you look "fancy."

The girls joined me at 8:30am, buzzing with excitement, and the long wait suddenly became a little brighter, a little less damp. By 10:30am, Giant, Apollo, Diamond, Athena, Cyclone, Fire, and Viper entered the event tent like demigods striding onto Mount Olympus, and my daughters went absolutely feral—in the best way, of course.

Standing Next to Giant

As we approached the front of the queue, I had a moment of reflection. Standing in line, I marvelled at the sheer dedication these athletes must possess—their training, discipline, and physical prowess. It’s humbling, really, and it gave me a dose of perspective about my own training. The next time I grumble about a tempo run, I’ll remember that I’m not about to be launched from a platform by a man named Giant.

We had our photo taken—me standing between Apollo and Giant, which was a bit like parking a hatchback between two armoured tanks. I may be able to almost match them in height, but the similarities stop there. I’m fairly certain their biceps have biceps.

Nandos, Beechams and a Happy Ending

With the mission accomplished, I retreated to the car, cracked open the Beechams All-In-One (the breakfast of champions) and was rewarded with a Nandos chicken meal courtesy of Kelly and the girls. Small gestures, big meaning. Because when it comes to your children’s happiness, you’ll do things you never thought possible—including voluntarily waiting in the rain at dawn, feverish and achy, surrounded by excited Gladiator superfans.

As we walked away, Polly squeezed my hand and said, “You are the best Daddy.” And in that moment, every cough, every sniffle and every minute of that queue was worth it. Sometimes, endurance isn’t measured in miles but in moments—and this one, right here, is one I’ll carry all the way to the finish line in London.