The NYRR 12-mile marathon tune-up this morning felt more like a wake-up call than a tune-up. Holy shit! I started out with good intentions (really, I did) but by mile 5, I realized things were going to end differently than I hoped.

I have run eight New York City Marathons. Number nine is coming up on November 1, the day after my Halloween birthday and also marking two years of sober-minded living. The universe rarely lines things up this perfectly, so when it does, I notice.

That’s why today was important, not because it went well, but because it didn’t. Calling it a “tune-up” was being kind; I’d call it more of a kick of reality and a serious time check for an enneagram 7 who doesn’t always pay attention to the passing of time.

I could blame this morning on August humidity, a long week, too much work, or even a strange illness, an infected salivary gland and a fever that stopped me from running for two weeks. All of these are possible and partly true. Running at the back of the pack teaches you to question easy excuses, because just like in my past ultra marathons, when you have 155 miles ahead and a pack on your back, only honest facts help you; it’s the flattering guesses that get in the way.

My self-proclaimed Patagonia Pace only works if I know where I really stand today. Not the level I remember from spring, not the one I wish I had, but the one I actually brought with me this morning, today.

Today handed me mine. How rude of it, but useful.

Somewhere around mile 4, a thought arrived that I had been circling for weeks. My daily routine should be legible as the goals I have set. A stranger reading my calendar should be able to guess what I am training for. Lately, I am not sure they could. The runs are there, but the surrounding facts are negotiable. The long efforts are there, but so is everything else stacked on top of them: my self-named Obligation Harpy perched on the whole pile.

But eleven weeks is the answer to that; eleven weeks is enough time to do something, which is the entire gift of finding out today instead of finding out on First Avenue at mile 17 on November 1 and ruining the whole dang NYC Marathon Party.

So, the schedule gets non-negotiable. The long runs get protected like a concert date.

I’m returning to my ultra marathon philosophy of Pocket Time. I’ll focus on the next small block of time, the next run, instead of trying to think about all eleven weeks of training at once.

People usually quit not because they can’t do something, but because they thought it would be easier. There’s a version of me who would have seen this morning as a final judgment. I know her, but she won’t be the one putting on her shoes tomorrow.

It’s better to learn this lesson today, after all 10.5 miles, and be grateful for it. With eleven weeks left and still on my feet, I have time to respond.

And here’s your soundtrack; do take note of the lyrics; they apply perfectly here! “The Distance” by Cake

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This essay first appeared on Camera Dark Notes, my Substack, where I write every other Sunday about sober-minded living and what comes into focus when the noise clears.