4:50 a.m. Screaming obnoxiously, my alarm chose that minute to wake me up.

Runners talk about finishing. What the finish line looks and feels like. Or the bib collection they have from various races, some traveling all over the country, others across the world. What’s rare to hear about is the waking up — the early mornings, the training runs no one ever speaks of. At 4:50 a.m. I chose to get up, walk out the door, and start running.

I meant it. I think. Mostly, I did.

Like I did years ago, I laced up in the kitchen this morning, just before the sun woke up. Heading out into June’s cooler air, lower 60s. In Missouri? This is a lie. Thankfully, that’s not always the case. This morning turned out to be very cool, excellent for running. Most of the time during the summer, it’s cool enough at dawn to feel forgiving. By eight, it’s hot enough to remind you of what you can expect in September. I ran 2.09 miles. Took me just under 30 minutes. My average heart rate? Pushing 154 beats per minute — which is my body’s version of Are you absolutely sure about this? There’s coffee, a warm bed, and of course, the dog, Pretzel. You can always go back.

But I’m committed: I’ve chosen the City of Roses Half Marathon on September 27, 2026. Cape Girardeau. There’s only one problem.

I’ve not run consistently in over two years. And the City of Roses is a monster of a course, even for those who are ready, trained, and know the terrain.

Yikes.

I’ve been asking myself whether it can be done — the half marathon, a running comeback, the whole enterprise. Can you pick up where you left off after years away? The honest answer is: I don’t know. Not yet. But I know I got up, walked out the door, and gave it my best. I know the Jackson sidewalks are real. What’s funny is my legs remembered a whole lot more than my heart and lungs did. Mile two hurt a lot less than the first quarter-mile. That’s how this goes.

Eight years. That’s how long I’ve been pushing through the suck. Most of those races are ultras — distances that make 13.1 miles sound reasonable, almost easy. History doesn’t disappear just because you stopped. It goes quiet, waiting for you to come back. The aerobic engine idles. Muscle memory waits.

Two years is a long time to let something idle. I’m picturing a car sitting in the driveway, running but going nowhere. Pretty much my body for the last two years. But the thing is, you don’t start over from zero. You start over. At the beginning.

Fourteen weeks. That’s all I have between now and the starting line at the Osage Center. The plan is simple in structure, more than difficult in execution: build the base, add structure, peak, and taper. Then it’s race time. Week one is just showing up. Proving to myself — and my body — that this is really happening.

Today’s pace was 13:56 per mile. The math on that puts me somewhere around a 3:03 finish, if nothing changes between now and fourteen weeks from today. Something will change.

Can it be done? Probably. Should it? I don’t know — but I’m thinking of all my rock climbing friends who, when asked why they scramble up those sheer cliff faces, reply with, Because it’s there.

That’s why I’m doing this. Because it’s there.

But what does it cost you if you don’t try? What happens when you let another fall go by without a single reason to be out the door before sunrise? When you keep your running shoes on the shelf instead of lacing up and going?

This morning I ran 2.09 miles. It was enough.

Fourteen weeks from now, I’ll run 13.1 more.

Let’s go.