Day 112 – The Unrest Day (or: What Fresh Challenge is This?)
Today was, on paper, a rest day. Rest days in marathon training are sacred. They are the little islands of stillness in a sea of pounding pavements and sore calves. They’re when you let your body recover, your legs recharge, and, ideally, your mind wander only as far as the biscuit tin. But rest, it turns out, is a relative term. Because while I had a very clear idea of what my day was supposed to look like, the universe had its own agenda. Spoiler alert: it didn’t involve a cup of coffee and a nap.
When the Wheels Come Off – Literally
We were taking the girls and the other members of the Sittingbourne Carnival Court on a team-building day to Chessington. A lovely idea in theory: sunshine, laughter, roller coasters and bonding. The drive was going well. In fact, it was suspiciously smooth—no traffic, good time, kids behaving. I should have known something was brewing.
Then, as we glided along the M25, the car began to lose power. Not dramatically—just enough to make me think I’d somehow nudged it into neutral. I hadn’t. The accelerator became more of a suggestion than a command and I knew something was up. Thankfully, I was on a rare stretch of the M25 that still has a hard shoulder. I pulled over, exhaled and prepared for the unexpected.
Calling for help via one of those big orange SOS phone boxes felt oddly retro—like using a cassette player or writing a cheque—but also somehow more reassuring than relying on an app. With five young people in tow, all of them under 16, it wasn’t exactly the break from training I’d imagined. “Keep calm and get behind the barrier” isn’t on most parenting posters, but today it could’ve been.
The RAC man arrived within 30 minutes, and I’ll admit, I was relieved that he arrived so quickly. But as he tried to start the car and win it back over with the charm of a seasoned roadside mechanic, it became clear that the cambelt and the engine were no longer on speaking terms. In fact, the cambelt had left the chat.
We were towed to Leatherhead—because nothing says ‘rest day’ like being dropped 50 miles from home with no transport, limited options and a gaggle of children to relocate. Thankfully, Miss Sittingbourne’s dad came to the rescue like a knight in shining family saloon and took Kelly and the girls onward to Chessington while I remained behind to wrestle with hire car logistics and the exquisite customer service stylings of the RAC call centre.
Let’s just say their idea of “swift and simple” and mine are... different. I suspect a few of them are powered by clockwork and moral ambiguity.
Eventually, after enough phone calls to qualify as a short novel, I was handed the keys to a temporary car and set off to rejoin the group. I made it to Chessington only two hours behind schedule, which in the grand scheme of things now felt like a triumph. I even got to enjoy a few hours in the park, laughing with the girls, dodging the more aggressive roller coasters and letting the day shake itself off.
When it Rains, it Pours (and Sometimes the Ceiling Joins In)
If this was an isolated incident, it might be funny. But it’s not. The last few months have felt like one long series of things going wrong. The fridge-freezer packed up. The living room ceiling threatened to become a floor. And now the car. It’s easy to feel, in moments like these, that life is stacking problems like a bored toddler with a wobbling tower of blocks—just to see when it’ll all come crashing down.
And in the middle of all that, I’m training for a marathon.
The Point of the Road
But here’s the thing. Life doesn’t wait for a better time to throw things at you. It never says, “You look like you’ve got a lot on—here, have a break.” It just... keeps going. And all you can do is keep going with it.
Marathon training has taught me something simple but powerful: you don’t stop just because it’s hard. You slow down, maybe. You breathe. You swear under your breath (or into a hire car steering wheel). But you keep moving. One mile. One step. One more call to an increasingly indifferent call centre.
Some days, the win isn’t in the pace or the distance. Some days, the win is just getting through it. Surviving the M25. Making it to Chessington. Keeping your sense of humour when the world seems determined to test your patience, your plans, and your cambelt.
Because life might not be fair, or easy, or restful. But it does go on. And so will I. One foot in front of the other.
Comments
Post a Comment