Day 104: Return to Scratcharse Hill (Because Once Wasn’t Enough)

The Easter holiday rolls on, and with it comes the glorious gift of sleep — the kind that doesn’t feel like you’re just borrowing time from tomorrow. I woke at a sensible hour, which is a rarity during term time, and the whole family headed out for a grand occasion: breakfast at Wetherspoons.

There’s something oddly reassuring about it. The food arrives exactly at the temperature you’d describe as “edible if you hurry,” and the prices mean you can feed a family without needing to remortgage the house. We left well-fed and with the vague sense of having narrowly avoided third-degree tongue burns.

Pre-Run Rituals and Gypsy Tart Promises

On the way back, we visited the town’s new bakery, which is a danger to both waistlines and wallets. There I secured the all-important post-run Gypsy Tart — the Kentish nectar of victory — before heading home to begin the pre-run rituals. These currently involve lacing up trainers and aggressively applying Deep Heat to my still-complaining back, which now mutters passive-aggressively with every bend and twist. It’s less of a pain and more of a disapproving presence, like a Victorian aunt who thinks jogging is vulgar.

The Climb (Again)

Today’s session was another VO2 Max special: eight two-minute efforts at roughly 90% of maximum heart rate. Only one minute of recovery between each — in the form of a slow trudge back down Scratcharse Hill, which sounds whimsical until you’re on it, at which point it becomes less “storybook feature” and more “geographical vendetta.”

Up and down I went, eight times, each effort fuelled by equal parts determination and mild resentment. I passed the same dog walker twice, and while I can’t be sure what she thought of the wild-eyed, sweaty man muttering encouragements to himself, I imagine it’s the sort of thing she’ll tell friends over tea. Still, I wasn’t stopping. It wasn’t pretty, but I got all eight efforts done.

Baths, Bakes and the Quiet Glow of Progress

Post-run recovery came in the form of a long, welcoming bath — the kind where you question all your life decisions and emerge pinker than when you went in. Then came the Gypsy Tart, consumed in the manner of a long-lost treasure finally reclaimed.

It’s easy to forget how far you've come when training becomes part of the daily grind, but days like this remind me: I’m climbing more than hills now.

And besides, if you’ve survived Scratcharse Hill twice in one week and lived to tell the tale, you’re probably on the right track — or at least, the hilariously steep one.