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

Morning Light and Marathon Dreams Today was the day I had been building towards for months. Every cold morning, every soaked pair of socks, every long, lonely run came down to this — London Marathon day. The alarm clock chirped far too early, but I was already half-awake, running through the plan for the day in my head. After polishing off two cinnamon and raisin bagels (because clearly one was not going to be enough) and a strong coffee, I packed up my bag of gels, SaltStick chews, and hope and we set off. The drive up to Blackheath was filled with that strange, electric mix of excitement and anxiety. My parents did their best to drop me as close to the start as they could and I waved them off with a grin that hid the fluttering nerves underneath. I made my way to the starting area, ticking off the necessary pre-race rituals — most importantly, joining the epic pilgrimage to the toilets, where I was reminded once again that there are few places in life where dignity is checked at t...

It is very almost here. One day to go. The eve of the London Marathon. One more night’s sleep – although I use the word sleep in its loosest possible sense – and then it’s time. 120 days of preparation, 120 days of early alarms, sore legs, stubborn weather and occasional negotiations with muscles that would have preferred a quiet sit down instead, have brought me to this point. It has been a long, twisting road: early morning get-ups when the world was still dark and grumpy, runs that went on longer than sanity strictly allows, strange food choices that had me seriously questioning my life decisions and stretches of illness and injury where simply tying my shoelaces felt like a competitive sport. But through it all, the mission was simple: prepare . And despite everything, prepare I have. Tomorrow, 26.2 miles of London streets await me. It looks set to be a warm, sunny spring day, the sort that will lift the heart and melt the legs at roughly mile 20. But that’s tomorrow’s challen...

Today shall henceforth be referred to as Pasta Bake Day . Not merely a nod to a comforting dinner staple, but a full-blown carbohydrate crusade in the name of glycogen. I have consumed what can conservatively be estimated as three enormous bowls of pasta bake—enough to comfortably feed six normal human beings or one slightly obsessive marathon runner on the edge of taper-induced madness. A Culinary Marathon Begins The day started innocently enough. Two toasted bagels and a strong coffee to open proceedings—because while pasta is king this close to race day, one must not disrespect the ancient breakfast rites. By 11am, the call came: the first bowl of pasta bake. Steaming, cheesy, laced with sausage and layered like an edible safety blanket, it was absolutely divine. The kind of meal that makes you momentarily forget the existential weight of Sunday’s upcoming 26.2 miles. But like all good things, the second bowl—consumed two hours later—was not greeted with the same enthusiasm. Some...

 Another day, another bagel. As tapering continues, today was all about taking things slow — and, crucially, horizontal when possible. I even managed what I’d call a "decent night’s sleep," which in tapering terms is the gold standard just below "slept like a teenager during half term." The day began with a pilgrimage to Asda before work. The mission: acquire bagels. The outcome: success. The carb-rich spoils now await their glorious role in fuelling the engine over the coming days. A Standing Teacher Takes a Seat Most of my professional life involves standing — whether it’s in front of a whiteboard, beside a student’s desk, or pacing with a purpose that says, "Yes, I’m absolutely headed somewhere specific, not just stretching my legs." But today, I consciously chose to sit down whenever I could. My long-term back and shoulder issues have made a standing desk a necessity over the years, but today the goal was simple: preserve the legs. My students — wo...

An Alarming Rest Day The first of my rest days arrived with the cheery chirp of a 6am alarm, because apparently, my brain hasn’t received the memo about the whole “rest” part. Still, there was a strange satisfaction in rising early knowing I didn’t have to pound the pavements today. That satisfaction was slightly dampened—much like the weather—by a particularly excitable pollen count. Despite the persistent drizzle, the air was clearly full of microscopic mischief. The antihistamines made their valiant appearance and were taken with gratitude and a mild grumble. A Journey Worth the Cable Car This afternoon marked one of the most exciting rituals in the London Marathon build-up: collecting my race number. It involved a drive to the O2 followed by the delightfully surreal experience of sailing across the Thames in a cable car, which felt a little bit like commuting in a Bond film if Bond wore Asics and carried a protein bar. Upon landing on the other side, the Excel centre welcomed me...

Back to work today. The alarm went off at 5am, with all the grace and charm of a fire drill in a monastery. I lay there for a moment, blinking into the darkness, wondering which life decisions had brought me to this precise point—specifically, the one where I willingly agreed to run 26.2 miles through London in front of thousands of people with questionable signage. But up I got, limbs creaking into motion like a badly written spell trying to animate a skeleton. Getting dressed in the early morning chill felt like an act of silent defiance. Coffee helped. A lot. And by the time I reached work—just after sunrise—I’d managed to transition from “shambling spectre” to “functioning human.” There’s something oddly comforting about watching the world wake up while you’re already moving. The streets were quiet, the sky streaked with soft pinks and golds and for a few peaceful minutes, it felt like the universe was tiptoeing into Tuesday right alongside me. The Most Uneventful Run in Human Hi...

Birthday Bliss Being a Bank Holiday Monday, I enjoyed that rarest of treasures: a birthday that didn’t involve a staffroom, emails, or muttering “thanks” to a Year 10 who says “happy birthday” like it’s a diagnosis. Instead, I woke up to the gleeful noise of children bouncing off the walls and Kelly wielding a pile of presents like the world’s most cheerful postie. Among them, the absolute gem: tickets to see the Gladiators live tour in November. Yes, actual Gladiators . There was a moment I thought about challenging my family to “Duel” over who loved me the most, but then I remembered the cake. Just a Little Trundle Now, you might imagine that being both my birthday and taper week would result in me doing what any rational person would do: sit down, stay there and perhaps eat more cake. But alas, the schedule called for a 30-minute recovery run, and as every runner knows, taper doesn’t mean stop , it means “run a bit, but feel smug about how little you're doing.” So I set off...

  The Final Countdown Begins It’s Easter Sunday and the calendar has become rather smug about the fact that there’s only one week to go. Just seven days now until the London Marathon. Every run feels more significant, not because of the distance, but because of its place in the story. There’s a definite shift now from training to preparing . It’s a bit like tidying your house before guests arrive—you’re not really doing much, but everything feels more important than it probably is. Today’s run was a measured 48 minutes, designed to keep the legs turning without tipping them into rebellion. I took the familiar route that I’ve now almost worn into the earth: down through the Highsted valley, where the world briefly feels flat and forgiving, and then, once again—as mentioned in more than one previous blog post—I ran up the absolutely no-nonsense incline that is Stockers Hill. That hill and I have history now. It’s the kind of climb that makes you question your choices, your fitness...

Rest is for the Weak… Apparently After the tangled mess of the start of yesterday's rest day, it was only natural that last night’s sleep came in short, unsatisfying instalments. I stirred at 5:30am and from that point on, my brain decided that rest was so yesterday . I lay there willing myself back into slumber, but it turns out that worry about logistics, the marathon and whether we have enough butter are all surprisingly effective sleep deterrents. Thankfully, I’ve got a good book on the go—something well-written enough to distract from tiredness but not so gripping that I accidentally lose four hours and all sensation in my arms. Goodbye, Sweet Chariot The first task of the morning was to return the hire car to Enterprise. I’ll admit, I felt a pang watching it disappear from the driveway, especially knowing we're now down to one car in a family of five with more schedules than the average airport. This will be fun. And by “fun,” I mean a calendar-based diplomatic missio...

Today was, on paper, a rest day. Rest days in marathon training are sacred. They are the little islands of stillness in a sea of pounding pavements and sore calves. They’re when you let your body recover, your legs recharge, and, ideally, your mind wander only as far as the biscuit tin. But rest, it turns out, is a relative term. Because while I had a very clear idea of what my day was supposed to look like, the universe had its own agenda. Spoiler alert: it didn’t involve a cup of coffee and a nap. When the Wheels Come Off – Literally We were taking the girls and the other members of the Sittingbourne Carnival Court on a team-building day to Chessington. A lovely idea in theory: sunshine, laughter, roller coasters and bonding. The drive was going well. In fact, it was suspiciously smooth—no traffic, good time, kids behaving. I should have known something was brewing. Then, as we glided along the M25, the car began to lose power. Not dramatically—just enough to make me think I’d som...

We’re in the final stretch now. Ten days. Just ten. The London Marathon is no longer a distant concept or a “someday” goal scribbled in a training diary—it’s almost now . The countdown has moved from being something motivational to something that occasionally wakes me up at 3 a.m. with the creeping realisation that I still haven’t decided what socks I’m wearing on race day. (This may not seem important. It is .) The usual wave of “Get Ready for London!” emails has started pouring in—some helpful, some terrifyingly enthusiastic. Every subject line sounds like it’s being shouted by an overzealous coach with a clipboard and a stopwatch. I’ve also been contacted by the sponsors, who are now very keen to soothe my aching limbs. Radox, in particular, has kindly reminded me that their bath salts are available in just about every scent known to humankind. If I follow their advice, by the time the marathon arrives, I may well smell like a pine forest that’s just come back from a spa retreat. ...

 It’s not often I’m up and out before the house has fully stirred during the Easter holidays, but today was one of those rare mornings where the trainers were on, the watch was set and I was out of the door just after 8am. Not quite “heroic effort” territory, but certainly early enough to feel like I’d earned the first cup of coffee before most people had even considered socks. Into the Valley, Again The plan was another 1-hour base run—nothing fancy, just a steady pace, the sort of run that settles into your muscles like an old story: familiar, gently paced, and mostly free of dramatic twists. I didn’t consciously choose the Highsted valley route again, but my legs seem to know where they’re going these days. I suppose that’s what happens when you repeat a path so often—it becomes part of the week’s rhythm, like bins going out or mysteriously disappearing teaspoons. The descent into the valley always brings a shift in mood. The roads give way to lanes, the air smells faintly of...

Weathering the Shift The countdown is getting serious now. With just under two weeks until race day, every run starts to carry a bit more weight, a few more questions and a lot more checking of the long-range forecast. Today, however, it wasn’t race day weather that caught me off guard—it was the sudden shift in the here and now. The morning arrived with a stubborn blanket of drizzle and the sort of damp that seeps into your enthusiasm as much as your socks. With the rain showing no signs of packing up its things and leaving, I waited it out. Eventually, at 12:30pm, I set out for a tempo run—my first proper one in quite some time. Tempo sessions aren’t just about pace; they’re about mindset. They ask questions like “Can you keep this up?” and “Whose bright idea was this?” over and over again until your legs answer with action or rebellion. Fortunately today, they leaned toward action. The Tempo Test The run started with a 10-minute warm-up, gently navigating my way towards the High...

As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, today was a scheduled rest day—one of those delicious calendar entries that promises no running, no effort, and ideally, no guilt. They say rest days are where the real training happens and I am inclined to agree, especially when they involve minimal movement and maximum comfort. This one, in particular, came at just the right time. After staying up until around 1am to watch Rory McIlroy finally win the US Masters, it seemed only right that today was dedicated to horizontal living and low-level human functioning. When Breakfast Forgets to Happen I genuinely cannot remember the last time I skipped breakfast. I am someone who, even mid-run, will start planning my next meal with a sort of hopeful optimism. But this morning—or should I say late morning—breakfast somehow didn’t materialise. I stayed in bed for as long as the house would allow, navigating that delicate balance between enjoying the peace and ignoring the increasing calls from the children...

Two weeks. That’s all that stands between me and the start line of the 2025 London Marathon. My training plan has now turned a corner—gone are the drawn-out endurance runs where time stretches like cheap elastic. In their place? Base level runs: shorter, steady, and kinder to the joints, muscles, and any other parts of me that regularly file complaints. It’s a bit of a sore point (quite literally) that I lost two weeks of training. First, illness. Then, a back injury that felt like it had ambitions of its own. Because of this, the classic 20-mile training run—the holy grail for many marathoners—remained firmly in the realm of dreams and myths, like unicorns or affordable petrol. But, as with all things marathon-related, there’s no absolute truth. Some plans demand a 20-miler, others call it unnecessary. I’ve spoken to runners of all stripes—marathoners, ultrarunners, strange mystical ironfolk—each with their own wisdom. And almost all of them agree on one thing: speed work and interv...

Saturday dawned, as Saturdays tend to do , with a sense of inevitability and an alarm clock. Polly’s early morning football training was the first appointment of the day and while the action on the pitch was spirited, the weather remained dry and agreeable. No mud, no mess—just the satisfying crunch of boots on grass and the low murmur of parents pretending not to be too competitive. After cheering Polly on, we packed up and made our way home for phase two of the weekend agenda. There was no rest for the weekend warrior though—next came the supermarket gauntlet. Navigating aisles filled with indecisive trolleys and indecisive shoppers, I gathered supplies for the afternoon barbecue. The butchers proved more fruitful: three types of sausage and two types of burger. A fine haul. But first, there was the small matter of a run. Base Miles and Big Hills With the London Marathon just over two weeks away, I’m now into the stage of training where it’s all about consistency, calm pacing and ...