Day 106 – Sausages, Slopes and Small Mercies

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 not doing anything heroic. So today’s run was another base effort: 51 minutes of heart rate discipline and no sudden lunges toward personal bests.

I headed out into the familiar embrace of the countryside, descending into the Highsted Valley where spring seems to have fully moved in, unpacked and started painting everything green. Then came Stockers Hill. At roughly an 11% gradient, it’s the sort of incline that makes your calves consider unionising. I didn’t attack it; instead, I approached it like a man slowly realising he might have made a terrible life choice. But I kept the heart rate where it needed to be—this was no time to flirt with cardiac drama.

Stockers spits you out into the lovely village of Rodmersham Green, where the Fruiterer’s Arms pub sits like a trap for the weak-willed. I passed it with only a wistful glance, resisting its siren call like a Greek hero who’d read the small print. Through Rodmersham and into Bapchild I went, rounding off the run without incident. The legs? Happy. The back? Gloriously silent. Progress indeed.

The Barbecue: Redemption in Charcoal Form

After scraping off the archaeological layers from the barbecue—evidence of past meaty triumphs—I got the coals glowing. The sausages sizzled with promise: pork and leek, pork with honey and mustard and hog roast varieties that frankly deserved their own fanfare. The beef burgers were hearty, the venison ones noble and together they formed an impressive line-up.

I ate heartily, because recovery is important. And then, because second helpings are also important, I did it all again later in the evening. There’s something deeply fulfilling about ending a day of effort with a plate of smoky meat and a contented silence, broken only by the gentle clink of cutlery and the quiet hum of a job well done.

Onward to Sunday

Tomorrow brings another run, of course—but being Sunday, it should also bring a little rest, some sofa time, and perhaps a few reflections on how far this journey has come. The big day is close now. The work is nearly done. But not quite yet.

And so we press on. With tired legs, a full stomach, and just the faintest whiff of barbecue smoke still clinging to the air.