Day 100: One Hundred Minutes, One Twisted Back and One Ice Cream (But Not Mine)

Today marks Day 100 of my London Marathon training. It’s strange—when I first started this journey, 100 days felt like it would be an almost mythical milestone. A century of runs, routines and rain. And now it’s here, less like a trumpet-blasting celebration and more like a quiet, weary nod between two old travellers passing on the road. With three weeks to go, I decided the best way to commemorate the occasion was to run for just over 100 minutes. The number felt satisfying. My legs disagreed.

But this milestone run didn’t happen until the afternoon. The morning was reserved for Polly’s tennis session, which she thoroughly enjoyed, particularly the ice cream that followed. I didn’t have any, but I did get a reward of sorts: a minor back twinge, earned not from any athletic feat, but from the unassuming act of twisting to pick up a slowly rolling tennis ball. There are people who can sprint a hundred metres in under ten seconds. I, meanwhile, can injure myself bending at the wrong angle with the grace of a disgruntled giraffe trying to tie its shoelaces.

Into the Valley, Up the Hill

Despite the discomfort, the idea of skipping today’s run wasn’t really an option. Time is ticking, and the marathon isn’t going to train for me. So I pulled on my kit, did a few stretches that felt more theatrical than helpful, and headed out into the countryside.

My route was one I’ve come to know well: out of Sittingbourne, descending into the Highsted Valley. It’s always a picturesque stretch, though you can’t admire the scenery too much when you’re trying to avoid both tripping over potholes and accidentally making eye contact with horses. There’s something philosophical about valleys—you can’t enter one without knowing you’ll eventually have to climb out. In this case, that meant the hill into Milstead.

I took a short break on the way up to grab a picture with another of Milstead’s place name signs. I’ve started doing this partly to track progress, and partly because it makes me feel like I’m on a strange treasure hunt where the only prize is lactic acid. The back pain was still there: not worse, not better, just humming along in the background like an ageing fridge that’s seen too much.

The Return and Recovery Ritual

The final stretch home was slow but steady. I didn’t push my pace; this was about getting through it. If today was a test, it was less of a sprinting exam and more a meditation on persistence. I returned home with sore legs, a stiff back, and a small but smug sense of satisfaction.

Then came the bath. I dumped in an absurd amount of Epsom salts—enough to make it feel like I might accidentally summon an ancient sea spirit. Whether or not it helped remains to be seen, but it felt like I was doing something constructive and at this stage in training, small victories are as valuable as new trainers.

Three weeks to go. The excitement is building, the nerves are quietly creeping in and my back continues its career as a passive-aggressive commentator. But I’ve come this far, and 100 days is no small feat.

After all, the difference between madness and marathon training is mostly just branding.