Day 105 – The Sea, The Road and a Moment on the Bridge

Buckets of Cold Joy (Observed from a Safe Distance)

The week off continues and today began with a much-needed family trip to the coast. There's something timeless about the British seaside — even when it's cold enough to make your bones consider early retirement. The girls, naturally, made a beeline for the sea, undeterred by the temperature or the impressive quantities of seaweed strewn across the beach like Poseidon’s laundry day.

I stayed dry, of course. Someone had to supervise with shoes still on and the ability to save them from jellyfish if absolutely necessary. Watching them paddle, laugh and shriek with the kind of unfiltered joy that only children and penguins seem capable of in icy water was a genuine delight. They didn’t mind the seaweed (well, Daisy did mind, but we don't talk of that) and they didn’t notice the cold — a skill I’m pretty sure we lose somewhere around adulthood, along with the ability to eat five ice creams in one sitting.

It was chaotic and sandy and entirely perfect in the way only an unplanned beach visit can be.

Afternoon Miles and Motorways

Once we returned home — hair windswept, feet sandy and the distinct smell of salt and peanut butter sandwiches lingering in the car — there was still one item left on the to-do list: the run. After the drama of yesterday’s workout (which felt a bit like starring in my own budget survival film), today’s challenge came from the clock.

Ninety minutes on the schedule meant a long, steady run — the sort that eats up an afternoon and reminds you why marathon training is really just very slow time travel. I set off down the well-trodden path into the Highsted Valley, the air cool and calm, the sun already softening as it tilted west.

Rather than cutting across to Milstead like I usually do, I opted for the road that snakes toward Torrey Hill. It’s a peaceful route — a few quiet homes, hedgerows full of bird chatter and the kind of countryside that gives the illusion of being flat, right until your calves start filing complaints.

Eventually, I reached one of the bridges that crosses over the M2 motorway. I paused for a moment there — partly to take in the view, partly because my legs had started negotiating union rights. Watching the traffic below, full of Friday flusters and GPS errors, I was briefly thankful that I wasn’t down there, honking my way through the rat race. It’s a rare kind of joy to feel superior to a Tesla without saying a word.

Returning from Whence I Came

After the brief pause and a few deep breaths that were somewhere between mindful and mildly desperate, I turned and followed the road home. The return journey always feels a little less uncertain — you know the turns, the climbs, the exact spot where your watch will beep accusingly for going “just slightly too slow.”

My back, which has been playing the role of “unreliable narrator” in recent runs, was blessedly more cooperative today. A few twinges, sure, but nothing dramatic. As with most aspects of marathon training, you stop aiming for perfect and start appreciating “slightly less creaky than yesterday.”

So, that was Day 105: a cold beach (watched from dry land), a long road (tackled with the usual amount of internal grumbling), and a brief moment on a motorway bridge where I was reminded that progress doesn't always need a steering wheel — just a decent pair of trainers and a good reason to keep going.