Day 119: The Power of Pasta (and a Dash of Panic)

Today shall henceforth be referred to as Pasta Bake Day. Not merely a nod to a comforting dinner staple, but a full-blown carbohydrate crusade in the name of glycogen. I have consumed what can conservatively be estimated as three enormous bowls of pasta bake—enough to comfortably feed six normal human beings or one slightly obsessive marathon runner on the edge of taper-induced madness.

A Culinary Marathon Begins

The day started innocently enough. Two toasted bagels and a strong coffee to open proceedings—because while pasta is king this close to race day, one must not disrespect the ancient breakfast rites. By 11am, the call came: the first bowl of pasta bake. Steaming, cheesy, laced with sausage and layered like an edible safety blanket, it was absolutely divine. The kind of meal that makes you momentarily forget the existential weight of Sunday’s upcoming 26.2 miles.

But like all good things, the second bowl—consumed two hours later—was not greeted with the same enthusiasm. Somewhere between forkful five and forkful twenty, it became a task. The cheese was still stringy, the sausage still seasoned, but I had moved from joyful carb-loading into what can only be described as pasta fatigue. A phenomenon where chewing becomes contemplative, and one begins to question whether their stomach is a noble vessel for performance nutrition or simply an innocent bystander caught in a starch-based siege.

An Evening with Henderson’s Finest

This evening brought reinforcements in the form of a fresh batch. I took a slightly different route this time: no sausage, more herbs and a generous lashing of Sheffield’s finest Henderson’s Relish. If you know, you know. If you don’t, imagine if Worcestershire sauce had a cousin who ran a jazz club and wasn't afraid to be a bit bold at dinner.

The result? A dish so rich and flavourful it briefly gave me the energy and confidence of someone who hadn’t spent the afternoon arguing with his own digestive system. I am now sitting in what I can only describe as a state of pasta transcendence—the kind of carb high that makes you feel like you could wrestle a cloud or write a symphony. My muscles feel fuller, my mood lighter and I’m reasonably confident I won’t need to eat again until September.

The Heat Is (Literally) On

Now, for the less comforting news: the weather forecast. Sunday’s predicted temperature has continued its slow, smug rise and now sits at a distinctly balmy 22°C. The London Marathon organisers have officially sent out an email advising us to “consider slowing our pace.” A diplomatic way of saying, “It’s going to be hot and if you’re stubborn, you might explode.”

To put it in perspective, my previous marathons were 9°C and 12°C respectively. At 9°C, I remember thinking I was too warm by mile ten. At 21°C, I may just liquefy somewhere near the Cutty Sark and be mopped up by a volunteer holding a flag that says “Keep Going!”

In response, I’ve armed myself not only with energy gels but also with SaltStick chews, which promise to replace the electrolytes I’ll inevitably sweat out during the race. They taste like determination mixed with fruit and I shall be popping them like an anxious Victorian lady with smelling salts.

Almost There

We’re now just two days away, and everything feels louder. The taper jitters. The urge to double-check everything twice. The looming question of “Have I done enough?” (Followed by the equally unhelpful, “Have I done too much?”). There is even a certain level of undue paranoia surrounding being on my feet longer than I need to be. These are the sounds of marathon week. The start line is so close now I can practically hear the nervous laughter and smell the deep heat.

All I can do now is continue the fuel-up tomorrow with even more carbs, keep myself rested and ignore the small, persistent voice in my head that wonders whether I should’ve just signed up for the 5k fun run instead.

Still—there’s magic in this madness. The same kind of magic that fuels humans to believe that running 26.2 miles is a good idea in the first place. And if that magic happens to be made out of pasta? So be it.