Day 113 – The Countdown Conundrum

Rest is for the Weak… Apparently

After the tangled mess of the start of yesterday's rest day, it was only natural that last night’s sleep came in short, unsatisfying instalments. I stirred at 5:30am and from that point on, my brain decided that rest was so yesterday. I lay there willing myself back into slumber, but it turns out that worry about logistics, the marathon and whether we have enough butter are all surprisingly effective sleep deterrents.

Thankfully, I’ve got a good book on the go—something well-written enough to distract from tiredness but not so gripping that I accidentally lose four hours and all sensation in my arms.

Goodbye, Sweet Chariot

The first task of the morning was to return the hire car to Enterprise. I’ll admit, I felt a pang watching it disappear from the driveway, especially knowing we're now down to one car in a family of five with more schedules than the average airport. This will be fun. And by “fun,” I mean a calendar-based diplomatic mission involving spreadsheets, WhatsApp groups and the occasional bribe involving chocolate.

Rugby, Royalty and Realisations

Then it was on to a charity rugby event with the Sittingbourne Carnival Court. The girls were on top form, even after a very busy couple of days. I, on the other hand, was starting to feel like a worn-out extra in a sports documentary—smiling, supportive, but internally dreaming of a cup of coffee and five minutes of horizontal silence.

We got home mid-afternoon and I was just about to plant myself on the sofa when it hit me like an overdue library fine: you still need to run. A week out from the marathon. No time for loafing. No excuses.

The Anaerobic Grind

So, trainers on, playlist loaded and out the door I went for today’s session: 7 x 1-minute intervals at roughly 4:30 min/km pace, each followed by a 3-minute recovery. Anaerobic training like this is designed to sharpen speed and improve your body’s ability to function when it’s swimming in lactic acid—which sounds very science-y, but essentially means it teaches your legs to keep moving even when they’d really prefer to stop and negotiate a truce over a sandwich.

Each minute effort was full throttle—fast but controlled, with just enough left in the tank to avoid collapsing in a melodramatic heap on the pavement. I aimed to hit the pace from the first stride, not building up to it, but snapping into it like flicking a switch. The first two reps felt good, the third started to bite, and by the fifth I could feel my lungs having a quiet word with me about my life choices.

The 3-minute recoveries were sacred—mostly walking, giving my heart rate time to settle before easing into a light jog to reintroduce movement. This wasn’t just about fitness; it was rehearsal. Rehearsal for the moments in the marathon when you have to push harder, run smarter and trust that all these odd, painful sessions in wind and drizzle are building something bigger.

By the time I’d finished the last rep, I wasn’t exactly floating home, but I wasn’t crawling either. My legs, by now, are seasoned campaigners in these short, sharp bursts. There’s a familiarity to the discomfort now—not welcome, exactly, but accepted. Like a neighbour who always plays music too loud, but brings you a bottle of wine at Christmas.

The Home Stretch

It’s strange to think that in just over a week, all of this will come to a head on the streets of London. Every early morning, every ache, every stretch and stitch and silent swear word is for that start line—and what lies beyond it.

One more tough run in the bank. One day closer. One car fewer.