Day 108: Rest, Rory and the Revelation of 62311

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 echoing from the landing.

By the time I surfaced, breakfast had long since packed up and gone home. Instead, I settled for a lunch that could only be described as “ambitious,” which tried bravely to do the job of two meals and most of a snack. It wasn’t elegant, but it got the job done. The rest of the day passed in a gentle haze of reading, reclining and attempting to avoid any activity that required more than a mild shift in posture. The girls, mercifully, kept themselves entertained for long enough stretches that I could finish a few articles without a single glitter-related incident.

A Number to Remember

The one productive thing I can say I achieved today is sharing my London Marathon race number. My friend Mr H (who enjoys tracking me from the comfort of his sofa, tea in one hand and a biscuit he definitely didn’t offer to share in the other) reminded me to post it so that people can follow my progress on the big day.

So here it is: 62311.

I’ll be starting from the Blue Start near Blackheath, which now completes my personal hat-trick of London Marathon starting points. I’ve previously set off from Red and Green, so this feels oddly ceremonial—like completing a trilogy no one asked for but which I’m now irrationally proud of. The physical race bib hasn’t been collected yet, but once it has, I’ll get a picture up for you all. No doubt I’ll try to look casual and relaxed in the photo, as though I’m not already panicking about the weather forecast and whether my toenails will survive the month.

Looking Ahead to the Tempo Test

Tomorrow, I’ve got a tempo run scheduled—designed to simulate race day pace and heart rate. It’s the kind of run that starts off feeling manageable and then quietly ramps up until your lungs begin to issue polite but firm complaints. The goal is to build confidence in pacing and effort, although experience tells me the only thing I’ll confidently build is a long list of creative reasons why the second half of the run felt like wading through porridge.

But that’s for tomorrow. Today was about pausing. And in a world that seems constantly determined to run a personal best at all times, there’s something quietly victorious about doing absolutely nothing and calling it progress.

Marathon training, as it turns out, isn’t just about running. It’s about recovery, too—and on days like this, that recovery looks a lot like an overstuffed sandwich, a cup of tea cooling beside a half-finished book, and a sense of smug satisfaction that, for once, the shoes stayed on the shelf.