Day 99: Sequins, Strikers, and Sprints

With the first day of my Easter holiday finally upon me, you’d be forgiven for assuming I might gently ease into it—perhaps with a cup of coffee, a leisurely scroll through the news, or the kind of lie-in that makes you question whether clocks are even real. But alas, my day began not with rest, but with football. Specifically, Polly’s football, rolling across a cold, early-morning pitch.

So, instead of duvet time, I was up, dressed and out of the house before the sun had fully committed to the sky.

From the Sidelines to Sequins

No sooner had Polly’s session ended and the mud been metaphorically (and quite literally) brushed off, I was back home, getting ready to go back out. Kelly had tickets to ABBA Voyage—a show she’s been eagerly looking forward to—and I had the honour of accompanying her into London. Cue quick shower, fresh clothes and the an on the road snack that makes your digestive system file a complaint.

We drove to Stratford, not quite realising we were heading directly into the path of a West Ham United home match. Our timing could generously be described as “bold.” As we emerged from the car park, the pavements outside Westfield were awash with two distinct tribes: the claret-and-blue faithful trudging toward the London Stadium with grim determination and the glittering sea of ABBA fans heading for the arena like human disco balls. Somewhere between them stood us—looking like we’d dressed for a themed peace summit.

An Arena Full of Ghosts and Joy

Once inside the ABBA Voyage arena, the chaos melted away. The show was everything we hoped it would be and more. A dazzling blend of music, technology and nostalgia, it somehow managed to be both heart-thumping and heartbreakingly beautiful. And Kelly? She was beaming from start to finish. Seeing her light up like that made every bit of the day worth it.

Traffic and Reluctant Running

Of course, coming out of the show at 4:45pm meant we hit the peak of post-match traffic. It was a slow crawl out of London. We made it home sometime after 7pm, which—if you’re the sort of person who likes their evenings to include a bit of downtime—wasn’t ideal.

For me, though, there was no time to settle in. Marathon training doesn’t care for your sentimental post-ABBA glow. It does not say, “Well done, you’ve had a long day, have a biscuit and a sit-down.” No, it sits there in your calendar, smug and immovable, like the cat on the sofa.

So, with zero motivation and only the fading light of dusk to guide me, I got my kit on, laced up my trainers and headed out into the evening.

Anaerobic Agony (With a Side of Determination)

The session on the plan tonight was not a friendly one. After a 15-minute warm-up, I launched into seven intervals of one-minute hard running at around 4:30min/km pace, each followed by a three-minute recovery jog. Despite the darkness, the exhaustion and my body’s best attempt to lodge a formal protest, I got it done. All seven intervals. Each one squeezed out like the last bit of toothpaste from a nearly empty tube. And surprisingly, my back wasn’t screaming in protest—more quietly muttering in disapproval, which I’ll gladly take at this stage.

The Hundred Beckons

Tomorrow is Day 100. Somehow. It’s hard to believe how far I’ve come, or how many times I’ve had to argue with myself just to get out the door. But with just over three weeks to go, the end is in sight. It’s shimmering faintly on the horizon like a mirage… possibly wearing sequins and singing Mamma Mia.

The next few weeks are make-or-break. The time for skipping runs, making excuses, or relying on enthusiasm alone is long gone. We’re in the final act now. The costumes are glittering, the crowd is watching and I just need to keep putting one foot in front of the other.