Day 87: Bleeding, Breathing and a Brush with White Goods

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 duct tape. Still, I pressed on. The High Street lay ahead, and with 45 minutes on the clock, I had no choice but to traverse its full length before the return climb up the hill to The Math School.

As I approached the school gates, I felt my nose running. I chalked it up to the cold’s usual mischief, but then realised it wasn’t just running—it was leaking. A quick inspection confirmed a small but determined nosebleed. It seems my cold had taken offence at my morning exertion and responded by trying to drown me in my own blood. Luckily, I’d reached school and could patch myself up, shower, and emerge vaguely human again, ready for the day.

Despite the nasal drama, it felt genuinely good to have got a run in. For the first time in days, I felt like I wasn’t standing still—more like edging forward, one wheezy, slightly-bloody step at a time, towards that London Marathon start line. Five weeks to go. The countdown now feels less like a number and more like a rapidly approaching brick wall.

And Then the Fridge Happened

The rest of the day went smoothly. That is, until I returned home and attempted to install our new fridge. In what can only be described as a modern re-enactment of David vs Appliance, I managed to drop the thing on my foot. Thankfully, it was a glancing blow—more an indignant nudge than a full-on attack. The foot’s sore, but nothing appears broken. It was, however, a gentle reminder that with just five weeks to go, the only thing I should be dropping is time per mile—not large kitchen appliances.

So, in summary: I ran, I bled, I nearly lost a foot to a fridge, but I’m back on track. Just another perfectly ordinary training day.