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

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 ...

After yesterday’s VO2 Max session – which felt like being chased up a steep hill by the ghost of poor pacing decisions – I greeted today’s training with a sense of deep gratitude. On the plan? A gentle 28-minute recovery run. No heart-rate zones to stress over, no watch screaming at me to go faster, no silent judgement from passing cyclists. Just movement for the sake of movement. After the lung-burning brutality of yesterday, this run felt like slipping into a warm bath. The pace was slow. Deliciously, intentionally slow. I focused on staying relaxed, keeping my stride soft and doing that thing where I pretend I’m in one of those inspirational sports montages! Backchat The ongoing grumble from my back didn’t quite fade into the background today, but it wasn’t the loud, blaring alarm it had been yesterday either. More of a quiet protest, the kind you get from someone reluctantly dragged into helping you move house. It still made its opinion known during the first few minutes of the ...

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...

Today marks Day 100 of my London Marathon training. It’s strange—when I first started this journey, 100 days felt like it would be an almost mythical milestone. A century of runs, routines and rain. And now it’s here, less like a trumpet-blasting celebration and more like a quiet, weary nod between two old travellers passing on the road. With three weeks to go, I decided the best way to commemorate the occasion was to run for just over 100 minutes. The number felt satisfying. My legs disagreed. But this milestone run didn’t happen until the afternoon. The morning was reserved for Polly’s tennis session, which she thoroughly enjoyed, particularly the ice cream that followed. I didn’t have any, but I did get a reward of sorts: a minor back twinge, earned not from any athletic feat, but from the unassuming act of twisting to pick up a slowly rolling tennis ball. There are people who can sprint a hundred metres in under ten seconds. I, meanwhile, can injure myself bending at the wrong an...

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 directl...

A Rest Day, Blessed Be After a week spent tentatively reintroducing myself to the concept of running (my legs were not particularly pleased to see me), and yesterday’s threshold run which could generously be described as “ambitious” and less generously as “utterly daft,” I was more than ready for a break. So when I woke this morning and saw my Garmin suggesting a rest day, it felt like the universe – or at least a very smug wrist-based algorithm – was offering me a reprieve. To be honest, I needed it. My sleep has been patchy all week, the kind of nights where you wake at 3 a.m. for no reason except to stare at the ceiling and overthink decisions you made in 2001. That kind of tired worms its way deep into the bones and no amount of coffee or protein powder can magic it away. Breakfast: A Civilised Affair There’s a quiet joy in Friday rest days. They bring with them a change of pace – and, more importantly, a change of breakfast. When you’re not trying to line your stomach before a...

Morning Drama and the Case of the Ignored Alarm After yesterday's osteopath appointment, I had no idea what to expect when I got out of bed this morning. Would it be pleasure? Would it still be pain? Or would it be that peculiar middle ground where you can’t decide if you’re healed or just temporarily distracted? To begin with, I ignored my alarm for fifteen minutes, which immediately introduced an element of chaos to the morning. Nothing quite gets the heart pumping like realising you’ve lost a quarter of an hour before the day has even started. I sprang out of bed—well, rolled out gingerly—and made myself a coffee before heading off to Rochester. A Surprise at The Math School It wasn’t until I arrived at The Math School that I realised something miraculous: my back was not hurting as much. There was still some soreness, but the searing pain running from my back through my hip into my leg had—dare I say it—disappeared. It was an unexpectedly excellent start to the day. However, my...

A Stubborn Reminder This morning, my lower back decided to remind me of its existence. Not in a dramatic, stop-everything-and-sit-down sort of way, but in that quiet, persistent manner that suggests it has been taking notes on my current situation. It wasn’t screaming in agony, but it had adopted the passive-aggressive tone of an old acquaintance who has never quite forgiven you for that one thing you did years ago. Still, it wasn’t bad enough to stop me running—just enough to make sure I knew it was there, lurking, waiting. The run itself was another gentle base-level session, starting with a descent from The Math School before winding back up the other side. The downhill section felt fine—gravity, after all, is an excellent running coach, though it does tend to overdo things if left unchecked. The uphill return was a little less forgiving. My legs ached, my back complained, and my energy levels were somewhere around the region of a phone on 1% battery, desperately clinging to life. S...

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...

 A Short Update – Courtesy of Shaky Signal Today’s entry comes to you via what might be the last surviving sliver of mobile data in my area, thanks to some technical difficulties at home. No broadband and a phone signal so weak that even pigeons flying past seem to disrupt it. So, before this message is lost to the ether, here’s a quick update on Day 94 of my London Marathon training. A Run in the Dark (Then the Light, Thankfully) Despite still nursing a bad back, I managed to get out this morning. My route took me from The Math School, through Borstal, across the Medway Bridge and into Strood. The clocks going forward over the weekend meant an ominously dark start, but luckily the sun soon decided to make an appearance, saving me from feeling like I was starring in my own bleak detective novel. Keeping a steady base-level pace throughout, I completed the loop and arrived back at The Math School exactly an hour later. While it wasn’t my most blistering run, consistency is key—just ...

A  Wise Pause Today was a day of choices, and for once, I made the sensible one. The pain in my back continues its stubborn residency, refusing to move out despite increasingly forceful eviction notices. With an early start required for a Mother’s Day outing for Kelly and the girls at Gulliver's Land in Milton Keynes, resting the back for another day was not just logical but, dare I say, an act of wisdom. The Long Haul to Milton Keynes If there’s one thing a sore back doesn’t appreciate, it’s being folded into a car seat for two hours each way. Milton Keynes may be a marvel of roundabouts and efficiency, but even its best-planned infrastructure can’t offer a shortcut to comfort. Still, it was worth every jolt and judder to spend the day celebrating Kelly and ensuring she was suitably pampered. The Recovery Plan Having survived the drive, tonight’s strategy involves a bath loaded with Radox salts and a thorough application of the massage gun, wielded by an overenthusiastic Kelly. If...

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...

Running Through the Ache Another day, another run, another quiet mutiny from my lower back. I knew today wasn’t going to be a heroic effort, but determination outranks comfort when it comes to marathon training. I’ve done my research and as long as the pain isn’t making me see my ancestors or forcing me to adopt a new and permanent sideways gait, I can keep going. I set off with a plan—nothing too ambitious, just a steady run to keep my legs moving and my training ticking over. The first half wasn’t too bad, though I could feel the ever-present stiffness lurking in the background like an officious administrator waiting for an opportunity to hand me some very inconvenient paperwork. But by the time I reached the second half, my back decided it had quite enough of this nonsense and staged a small but effective rebellion. Every stride felt a little heavier, every movement required more thought than it should and the idea of stopping became increasingly appealing. Still, I pressed on. Not ...

The Reluctant Runner This morning, my back still wasn’t playing nicely and getting out of bed felt like wrestling an octopus made of lead. Every movement was accompanied by an internal monologue of protests, the occasional sigh and a fleeting temptation to just stay under the covers where nothing hurt. But that’s not how marathons get run, and so, eventually, I shuffled myself upright and into my running gear. Getting out onto the pavement wasn’t much easier. My legs felt stiff, my back ached and my form was less ‘graceful long-distance runner’ and more ‘wobbly foal on ice.’ Every footfall carried the weight of frustration. The run was short—more of a token gesture than a proper session—but at least I was moving. The real battle, at this point, isn’t the running itself; it’s the gnawing irritation of feeling like my training is slipping through my fingers. A Week of Woes Between last week’s miserable cold, the foot injury that followed and now this persistent back niggle, I can’t shake...

A Morning of Regret Today did not start well. I am a firm believer that household appliances should remain in their designated spots and not take it upon themselves to launch surprise attacks. Unfortunately, my fridge disagreed and in a moment of sheer domestic betrayal, it attempted to introduce itself to my foot at high velocity. This, naturally, was an experience I do not recommend. Upon waking this morning, I discovered that in my valiant effort to prevent the fridge from completing its assault on my foot, I had also managed to tweak my lower back. Gravity, it seems, has a cruel sense of humour. The Shuffle of Determination With my foot throbbing and my back feeling as though it was held together with hope and misplaced confidence, I embarked on my scheduled run. It was supposed to be a threshold session: 4 x 6-minute efforts at a pace that could be described as "faster than comfortable." What I managed was more of a determined shuffle, the kind usually reserved for peopl...

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...

As expected—because sometimes life really does enjoy making us look clever in hindsight—I am still battling the remnants of a rather persistent cold. It’s the kind of cold that lingers like a dinner guest who doesn’t pick up on hints about the time. Running today was out of the question. After all, threshold runs and tempo workouts are tricky enough without the addition of violent coughing fits and the general sensation of having your lungs wrapped in sandpaper. Today should have been about rest and recovery. And yet, the universe had... other plans. Gladiators in the Wild (Also Known as Bluewater) You see, yesterday I discovered that the Gladiators—yes, those Gladiators, modern-day titans of TV—were making an appearance at Bluewater. Now, we live in a house where Gladiators is more than a show; it’s practically a religion, complete with chants, favourite contestants and small children attempting to elbow drop the furniture. Naturally, I told the girls we’d go. However, as with ...

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...

It really hasn’t got any better. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s got worse. Not apocalyptic worse—there are no frogs raining from the sky or cats learning Latin—but worse in that I feel distinctly unwell, and distinctly sorry for myself. This morning I got into work and at points found myself doing the kind of 1000-yard stare usually reserved for people who have seen things. Terrible things. Like emails. Focusing was hard. Getting through the day felt like wading through metaphorical treacle, only with less of a sugar high to sweeten the experience. My brain spent most of the day in a fog, occasionally surfacing for air, then deciding that perhaps it wasn’t worth the effort after all. A Small Victory (and a Flake) But even in the gloomiest of days, there can be unexpected glimmers of joy. At lunchtime, salvation arrived not on a white horse, but in the form of an ice cream van pulling up outside school. There are few things that bring a smile quite like a Mr Whippy and a 99 Fl...

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...