"London Marathon 2025: Getting in Shape Again for the Ultimate Running Challenge!"

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. Some...

  The Final Countdown Begins It’s Easter Sunday and the calendar has become rather smug about the fact that there’s only one week to go. Just seven days now until the London Marathon. Every run feels more significant, not because of the distance, but because of its place in the story. There’s a definite shift now from training to preparing . It’s a bit like tidying your house before guests arrive—you’re not really doing much, but everything feels more important than it probably is. Today’s run was a measured 48 minutes, designed to keep the legs turning without tipping them into rebellion. I took the familiar route that I’ve now almost worn into the earth: down through the Highsted valley, where the world briefly feels flat and forgiving, and then, once again—as mentioned in more than one previous blog post—I ran up the absolutely no-nonsense incline that is Stockers Hill. That hill and I have history now. It’s the kind of climb that makes you question your choices, your fitness...

 It’s not often I’m up and out before the house has fully stirred during the Easter holidays, but today was one of those rare mornings where the trainers were on, the watch was set and I was out of the door just after 8am. Not quite “heroic effort” territory, but certainly early enough to feel like I’d earned the first cup of coffee before most people had even considered socks. Into the Valley, Again The plan was another 1-hour base run—nothing fancy, just a steady pace, the sort of run that settles into your muscles like an old story: familiar, gently paced, and mostly free of dramatic twists. I didn’t consciously choose the Highsted valley route again, but my legs seem to know where they’re going these days. I suppose that’s what happens when you repeat a path so often—it becomes part of the week’s rhythm, like bins going out or mysteriously disappearing teaspoons. The descent into the valley always brings a shift in mood. The roads give way to lanes, the air smells faintly of...

Weathering the Shift The countdown is getting serious now. With just under two weeks until race day, every run starts to carry a bit more weight, a few more questions and a lot more checking of the long-range forecast. Today, however, it wasn’t race day weather that caught me off guard—it was the sudden shift in the here and now. The morning arrived with a stubborn blanket of drizzle and the sort of damp that seeps into your enthusiasm as much as your socks. With the rain showing no signs of packing up its things and leaving, I waited it out. Eventually, at 12:30pm, I set out for a tempo run—my first proper one in quite some time. Tempo sessions aren’t just about pace; they’re about mindset. They ask questions like “Can you keep this up?” and “Whose bright idea was this?” over and over again until your legs answer with action or rebellion. Fortunately today, they leaned toward action. The Tempo Test The run started with a 10-minute warm-up, gently navigating my way towards the High...

Saturday dawned, as Saturdays tend to do , with a sense of inevitability and an alarm clock. Polly’s early morning football training was the first appointment of the day and while the action on the pitch was spirited, the weather remained dry and agreeable. No mud, no mess—just the satisfying crunch of boots on grass and the low murmur of parents pretending not to be too competitive. After cheering Polly on, we packed up and made our way home for phase two of the weekend agenda. There was no rest for the weekend warrior though—next came the supermarket gauntlet. Navigating aisles filled with indecisive trolleys and indecisive shoppers, I gathered supplies for the afternoon barbecue. The butchers proved more fruitful: three types of sausage and two types of burger. A fine haul. But first, there was the small matter of a run. Base Miles and Big Hills With the London Marathon just over two weeks away, I’m now into the stage of training where it’s all about consistency, calm pacing and ...

Buckets of Cold Joy (Observed from a Safe Distance) The week off continues and today began with a much-needed family trip to the coast. There's something timeless about the British seaside — even when it's cold enough to make your bones consider early retirement. The girls, naturally, made a beeline for the sea, undeterred by the temperature or the impressive quantities of seaweed strewn across the beach like Poseidon’s laundry day. I stayed dry, of course. Someone had to supervise with shoes still on and the ability to save them from jellyfish if absolutely necessary. Watching them paddle, laugh and shriek with the kind of unfiltered joy that only children and penguins seem capable of in icy water was a genuine delight. They didn’t mind the seaweed (well, Daisy did mind, but we don't talk of that) and they didn’t notice the cold — a skill I’m pretty sure we lose somewhere around adulthood, along with the ability to eat five ice creams in one sitting. It was chaotic and ...

The Easter holiday rolls on, and with it comes the glorious gift of sleep — the kind that doesn’t feel like you’re just borrowing time from tomorrow. I woke at a sensible hour, which is a rarity during term time, and the whole family headed out for a grand occasion: breakfast at Wetherspoons. There’s something oddly reassuring about it. The food arrives exactly at the temperature you’d describe as “edible if you hurry,” and the prices mean you can feed a family without needing to remortgage the house. We left well-fed and with the vague sense of having narrowly avoided third-degree tongue burns. Pre-Run Rituals and Gypsy Tart Promises On the way back, we visited the town’s new bakery, which is a danger to both waistlines and wallets. There I secured the all-important post-run Gypsy Tart — the Kentish nectar of victory — before heading home to begin the pre-run rituals. These currently involve lacing up trainers and aggressively applying Deep Heat to my still-complaining back, which ...

The Easter holidays have officially begun and for once, the morning didn’t begin with the dulcet tones of my alarm trying to convince me I’m a morning person. I rose at a sensible hour and managed to wave off Kelly, Daisy and Polly on their grand expedition to Old MacDonald’s Farm in Essex. Emilia, meanwhile, was deeply entrenched in the land of GCSE English Literature revision—somewhere between Macbeth’s ambition and Scrooge’s four ghostly visitations, I imagine. This left me at home with pretty much just myself for company. After a relaxed breakfast and a bit of reading, it was time for the inevitable: the run. A Sensible Man Wouldn't Have Given that my back is still staging the occasional rebellion, I took no chances and lathered on enough Deep Heat to alert satellites. Despite this, I decided that a VO2 Max session was somehow a good idea. Now, VO2 Max efforts are designed to push you to around 90-95% of your maximum heart rate, which is generally the sort of level most peop...

The Easter "Holiday" There’s a strange ritual that marks the start of every Easter break at my school—and it involves not rest, relaxation, or even the ceremonial unwrapping of an early chocolate egg. No, it’s me, waking up at 6am and heading into Rochester to run an A Level revision session for Year 13. Tradition is a powerful thing, particularly the kind that requires coffee before sunrise and a whiteboard pen in hand before most people have even remembered what day it is. Pavement Pounding and Cookham Climbing Due to the early start and location, my run once again looped the now-familiar pavements around The Math School. Originally planned to be just over an hour, my ever-vigilant Garmin Forerunner 955, with all the smugness of a digital life coach who definitely doesn’t have kids, suggested a reduced 40-minute session thanks to a rough night and a sore lower back. I wasn’t feeling great. The kind of “not great” where your body keeps filing complaints to HR and HR just...

A Sensible Sort of Run Today’s run was another base run—steady, controlled, and, in theory, uneventful. With the London Marathon now looming on the horizon like a particularly large and judgmental storm cloud, it was just over an hour at a sensible pace. Setting off from The Math School, I took the familiar route into Borstal, over the Medway Bridge and down into Strood. The morning air was crisp but not biting, the sort of temperature that makes running feel effortless for the first few miles before reality inevitably sets in. The sun was just beginning to stretch its golden fingers across the sky, casting long shadows over the Medway and for a brief, blissful moment, everything felt in balance—me, the road and the world. The Medway Bridge is a familiar landmark by now, its structure a comforting signpost in my training, marking the transition from Medway into the heart of Rochester and Strood. There’s something reassuring about that rhythm, the steady pattern of footfalls against the...

After yesterday’s promising threshold run, it really felt like I had turned a corner. Unfortunately, my back had other ideas. I woke at around 4 a.m. to a gnawing pain in my lower back and then again at 6:30 am just in case I’d forgotten about it. It was back, and it was demanding attention—ignoring it was about as effective as ignoring a tax bill. The Roast That Broke Me Despite this unwelcome development, I pressed on with my pre-Mother’s Day errands, determined not to let a bit of pain disrupt the grand plan. By midday, I was in full roast-dinner mode, cooking up a feast for the family. Now, I suspect that standing for hours over a hot stove, lifting heavy trays and wrestling with an uncooperative joint of meat are not top-tier recommendations for lower back recovery. But if you’re going to suffer, you might as well do it surrounded by gravy and Yorkshire puddings. A Laughable Promise Somewhere in between basting and boiling, I made a bold commitment: I would run after dinner. In hi...

I have finally done it! After well over a week of missed runs thanks to illness and a back that has been behaving with all the grace of an overdramatic stage actor, I’ve completed a full training run again. No shortened sessions, no gentle jogs—just a proper, structured run, the kind that makes you feel like you’re actually a marathon runner rather than just someone who owns a lot of running shoes. This morning, I woke up determined. The back was sore, but not in the "sit down and despair" way—more in the "mildly irritating, but let’s see how it goes" way. So I got myself up, took myself off to work, and laced up for what I hoped would be a good step back towards proper training. A Threshold of Pain and Progress Now, you’d think my watch would greet my return with some gentle encouragement, maybe a nice, easy aerobic run, or a brisk walk followed by a medal. But no. My Garmin Forerunner 955, ever the relentless taskmaster, had scheduled me a threshold run . Yes, y...

After yesterday’s excitement meeting the Gladiators and nursing the same stubborn cold that seems to have taken up permanent residence in my sinuses, it might have seemed reasonable to throw in the towel for another day. But towels, as it turns out, are best kept for drying off after a run, not for surrendering. When I woke up this morning, croaky and vaguely resembling a deflated bagpipe, I told myself, “No. No more days off.” It was time to get back out there, cold or no cold, time to be a a Gladiator! So I hauled myself out of bed with all the grace of a man who’s misplaced both his socks and his will to live, made a strong coffee and drove to Rochester. Onward to the Esplanade (With a Dash of Wheeze) I really wasn’t feeling at my best. But the air was cold, and for once, I didn’t care. I was here to run, not to appreciate meteorological nuance. I set off down the hill toward the Rochester Esplanade, breath a little wheezy but manageable—like a bagpipe that’s been patched with du...

I woke today at 6am, which felt like an insult considering I hadn’t exactly been on speaking terms with sleep during the night. In the fog of early morning, I stumbled downstairs and attempted to coax myself into existence with a bagel and a coffee – the traditional offering to the gods of consciousness. It didn’t work immediately, but I persevered. As I sat there, blinking at the wall and questioning whether time was indeed linear or simply a cruel joke played by clocks, it became increasingly obvious that there would be no running today. Again. Breathing currently feels like a negotiation with my own lungs, and a cough – that great usurper of peace – has started making itself known. Now, I know this might sound dramatic – perhaps worthy of fainting onto a chaise longue with a hand to the brow – but truly, I am fine. Just not the sort of "fine" that includes voluntary long-distance running. The idea of lacing up my trainers right now feels about as likely as winning an arg...

C old Reality If yesterday was a write-off thanks to an unwelcome cold, then today wasn’t exactly breaking out the celebratory bunting either. As I turned in last night, my body was already holding a quiet but determined protest, waving placards that read “No Running Tomorrow” and “Let Us Sleep In Peace.” I did the sensible thing – an unusual occurrence, I’ll admit – and set my alarm a good 45 minutes later than usual, fully aware that even this generous gesture would be met with the same enthusiasm one reserves for a Monday morning tax audit. Sure enough, dragging myself out of bed this morning felt like emerging from a swamp of treacle, only with less glamour and more sniffles. Not one to wallow – for long – I decided to inject a touch of positivity into proceedings. On the way to work, I swung by the shop to restock with something more exciting than the usual breakfast fare. Fruit and lemon pancakes made a strong case for morale boosting and bagels at lunchtime promised a kind o...

As I suspected yesterday, the vague tickle in my throat and the slight fog in my head have not graciously departed. No, they’ve unpacked their bags, settled in and brought friends. The cold has officially arrived and my head currently feels like it's filled with wet cement, while my throat seems to have been sandpapered by an enthusiastic DIYer. So, I am on full rest—well, as full as possible when you spend your day teaching teenagers who emit both energy and chaos in equal measure. That said, this is hardly catastrophic. With five and a half weeks to go until the London Marathon, I’m grateful that this bug has chosen now to make its grand entrance rather than waiting for marathon week. In the grand scheme of 16 weeks of training, a cold was always a likely visitor. Like an unexpected relative at Christmas, it’s not if they turn up, but when . Rest: Doing Nothing Properly I’ll be taking the tried-and-tested approach of plenty of fluids, multivitamins, and Lemsip (the triad of m...

Saturday arrived, and with it, the glorious sensation of a morning that didn’t require a pre-dawn alarm call. The world, it seemed, was not in such a desperate hurry today, which was a pleasant change. The usual Saturday duties took precedence first—Daisy to swimming, then onwards to musical theatre—before a brief return home for a well-earned breather. Sprinting into the Afternoon Looking back over the week, it was clear that the higher-intensity work had been lounging about, rather like a cat that had found a particularly sunny windowsill. That wouldn’t do. Today’s run was all about effort, and effort was exactly what was given. The session involved an anaerobic workout with seven repetitions of one-minute sprints, aiming for around a 4:15min/km pace. This was, naturally, both ambitious and painful. A few of these efforts even came with the delightful addition of an incline, as if gravity had suddenly decided to make things more interesting. Each intense burst was followed by a three...

A Chilly Start This morning, I once again awoke in good spirits—an occurrence I have learned not to question too deeply, lest it vanish in a puff of logic. With that in mind, I was out the door and off to Rochester. Today's run was another base run, and I was, of course, very pleased to take off down the Maidstone Road hill, letting gravity do some of the work. The route took me across the historic Vines, where the cold air nipped at my face with the persistence of an overly enthusiastic terrier. The forecast had threatened a flurry of snow, but in the end, it seemed the weather had just been teasing. It remained bitterly cold, though, as if winter had misplaced its departure ticket and was making the most of its extended stay. The Friday Rush The rest of the day passed in a blur of lessons, meetings and that particular brand of end-of-week chaos that only a school can produce. Fridays are always busy, filled with the anticipation of the weekend and the quiet, collective realisatio...

Earned, Not Given After yesterday’s long run and a weekend that could only be described as “character-building” (courtesy of unexpected water damage), I was elated to see that today’s schedule contained the most glorious of words: Rest Day. There are few things in life more satisfying than knowing you’ve worked hard enough to deserve a proper break. It’s the same feeling a wizard might get when, after a long night of incantations and improbable near-death experiences, he realises someone else is now responsible for saving reality. Resting Properly Now, a rest day isn’t just about doing nothing—it’s about doing nothing properly . That meant ensuring, through sheer determination and a bit of tactical delegation, that I had no lingering tasks hanging over me. No surprise marking, no ‘quick jobs’ around the house, and certainly no unexpected DIY disasters sneaking in under the radar. Once I was satisfied that all was in order, I settled into the fine art of relaxation, feet up, cup of tea ...

A Dawn Departure Sunday is usually the one day I can ease into the morning with a leisurely start, a small breakfast and perhaps even the Sunday morning news. But not today. With a packed family schedule ahead, I was out of the door by 6:30am for a long run into the countryside surrounding Sittingbourne. The world at that hour was still waking up and the mist rising from the roads had the look of something out of a poem—probably one where everyone dies tragically at the end, but beautiful nonetheless. The roads were quiet, save for the occasional early riser walking a dog that looked as though it, too, wished it was still in bed. A Miniature Railway and a Detour Partway through the run, I decided to hunt down the elusive Torry Hill railway. I had only found it once before and it remains one of those places where if you blink at the wrong moment, you’ll find yourself lost in the woods composing your own missing person poster. The turning for it is little more than an unassuming muddy pa...