Day 111 – Ten Days to Go and the Finish Line Is Starting to Glimmer

-

We’re in the final stretch now. Ten days. Just ten. The London Marathon is no longer a distant concept or a “someday” goal scribbled in a training diary—it’s almost now. The countdown has moved from being something motivational to something that occasionally wakes me up at 3 a.m. with the creeping realisation that I still haven’t decided what socks I’m wearing on race day. (This may not seem important. It is.)

The usual wave of “Get Ready for London!” emails has started pouring in—some helpful, some terrifyingly enthusiastic. Every subject line sounds like it’s being shouted by an overzealous coach with a clipboard and a stopwatch. I’ve also been contacted by the sponsors, who are now very keen to soothe my aching limbs. Radox, in particular, has kindly reminded me that their bath salts are available in just about every scent known to humankind. If I follow their advice, by the time the marathon arrives, I may well smell like a pine forest that’s just come back from a spa retreat.

This Way to Dungate (Probably)

Today was another taper-friendly run: a gentle, base-level hour to keep things ticking over. I decided to break routine and go a slightly different way—a loop I’ve done before. I set off through Bapchild, waved in the general direction of Rodmersham Church (which always looks like it should be in the background of a BBC drama) and aimed myself toward the elusive land of Dungate.

Now, Dungate is one of those places that definitely exists… but only if you already believe in it. There are no signs, no “Welcome to Dungate” flowerbeds. If you blink, you’ll miss it. If you don’t blink, you’ll probably still miss it, but at least you’ll know you tried. I took a picture next to a direction sign to prove it happened. In the absence of actual evidence, one must document one’s mythological journey like a cautious explorer—or someone who got slightly lost on a village run and decided to turn it into folklore.

Running on Empty (But Somehow Still Moving)

Today’s run took place in the afternoon, after a series of small tactical errors, including not eating lunch and not sleeping well the night before. The sleep situation wasn’t tragic—just one of those nights where your brain decides it’s an ideal time to come to life.

Despite all that, my legs felt good. Better than they had any right to, considering the above. Once I got going, I eased into a rhythm, and suddenly—there it was again—the joy. That rare and wonderful feeling where running doesn’t feel like effort but like movement with purpose. I wasn’t chasing a time or fighting my body. I was just running. It’s not always like that, but when it is, it reminds you why you’re doing all this in the first place. That, and the medal. And the post-marathon burger the size of a small canoe.

Good Friday at Chessington: The Real Endurance Event

Tomorrow is technically a rest day. However, instead of putting my feet up, I’ll be trading trainers for trainers (the comfy kind) and heading to Chessington for a Good Friday adventure. Let’s just say that queuing for Vampire may test my mental stamina more than any 20-mile training run. On the plus side, walking 20,000 steps while carrying someone else’s snack bag should count as cross-training.

Thank You

As always, thank you for reading, supporting, and cheering from the sidelines. If you'd like to support my fundraising for The Brain Tumour Charity and Sittingbourne Carnival 2025, my JustGiving page is here: JustGiving. Your kind donations make a real difference, and I’m genuinely so grateful for every one.

Until next time—onwards, tapering gently, bathing liberally and keeping one nervous eye on the forecast.

Location: London, UK

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Day 117: The Countdown Begins – With Bubbles, Cable Cars and Freeze-Dried Yoghurts

-
Image
An Alarming Rest Day The first of my rest days arrived with the cheery chirp of a 6am alarm, because apparently, my brain hasn’t received the memo about the whole “rest” part. Still, there was a strange satisfaction in rising early knowing I didn’t have to pound the pavements today. That satisfaction was slightly dampened—much like the weather—by a particularly excitable pollen count. Despite the persistent drizzle, the air was clearly full of microscopic mischief. The antihistamines made their valiant appearance and were taken with gratitude and a mild grumble. A Journey Worth the Cable Car This afternoon marked one of the most exciting rituals in the London Marathon build-up: collecting my race number. It involved a drive to the O2 followed by the delightfully surreal experience of sailing across the Thames in a cable car, which felt a little bit like commuting in a Bond film if Bond wore Asics and carried a protein bar. Upon landing on the other side, the Excel centre welcomed me...
Read more

London Marathon 2025: The Final Chapter

-
Image
Morning Light and Marathon Dreams Today was the day I had been building towards for months. Every cold morning, every soaked pair of socks, every long, lonely run came down to this — London Marathon day. The alarm clock chirped far too early, but I was already half-awake, running through the plan for the day in my head. After polishing off two cinnamon and raisin bagels (because clearly one was not going to be enough) and a strong coffee, I packed up my bag of gels, SaltStick chews, and hope and we set off. The drive up to Blackheath was filled with that strange, electric mix of excitement and anxiety. My parents did their best to drop me as close to the start as they could and I waved them off with a grin that hid the fluttering nerves underneath. I made my way to the starting area, ticking off the necessary pre-race rituals — most importantly, joining the epic pilgrimage to the toilets, where I was reminded once again that there are few places in life where dignity is checked at t...
Read more

Day 30: Canterbury 10-Mile Race - A Yardstick for Progress

-
Image
The Morning Rush Sunday races always mean an early start, and today was no exception. Arriving in Canterbury at 8 am, I was immediately thrust into the trifecta of pre-race rituals: parking, collecting my race number, and navigating the inevitable toilet queue—an experience that can feel like an endurance event of its own. It was a bitterly cold morning, hovering around 2 degrees. Dressing appropriately for a race in such conditions is always a gamble: the first few minutes will chill you to your core, but once you’re moving, layers can become an unnecessary burden. After a quick, if not particularly effective, warm-up, I bumped into a friend, Ben Holliday, whose detailed analysis of local cricket diverted my attention from my frozen fingertips. Perhaps distraction really is the greatest warmth. The Race With over 1,200 participants, the start line was a jostling crowd, all shuffling for position like biscuits in a tin. The initial bunching, while slightly frustrating, provided some re...
Read more