Why do I run? The broader answer to that question is that I run for peace of mind. I do not mean “the Birkenstock-wearing, transcendental meditation kind of peace of mind. I mean the “prevent my admission to a psychiatric facility” peace of mind. It would be disingenuous to assert that is the sole reason for going through the daily ritual of putting on my shoes and testing the limits of middle-aged knees battered by years of playing soccer.

Yes, I run for physical health. I run to escape the stress of life. But I have not always been a runner. It was in college that I started jogging, which is a different breed of exertion than running. And every runner will make that clear. It was about a decade ago that entered my first race – a 3k. For the next few years, I ran more 5ks and 10ks. And I began to enjoy the races.

And running always seemed to provide me a sense of control, particularly at a time when my world was increasingly out of my control. It is true that in every storm, we seek stability. We seek something to aid us as we brace against the disruptive winds of change. And it gave me the opportunity to be close to the rock that was lost in the wind years ago – my father.

What made my first trail marathon, the XTERRA Big Elk, so difficult physically and mentally was the complete lack of control. The nerves began earlier than usual and were as intense as the storm clouds that had gathered before the race started.

About 400 races set off down a paved road and into the woods. It was about 10 minutes into the race when I seriously wondered what the heck I was doing.

First, I am legally blind. I have viewed the world essentially through one eye for my entire life. While I can see through both eyes, the left is dominant. That means 95 percent of what I see is through that eye. (As a conservative, the irony of a dominant left eye is not lost on me). When you are running down hills that are littered with branches, rocks, and uneven ground, having good eyesight is kind of helpful.

It was about three miles in that the rain began and made the soft, muddy ground even softer. The real fun came between mile 6 and 7 when a handful of us discovered we had made a wrong turn. Add another mile to the race as we retraced our steps back onto the course, which was a double loop.

About half of the field were half-marathoners and when I reached the halfway point I seriously considered joining their ranks. It was my first trail marathon anyway. It was not a qualifying race, so what would it matter if I quit? No one is holding a gun to my head forcing me to complete the second loop.

I remained at the water station for about five minutes mulling over the decision. What would it matter if I quit now? Quit. Quit. Quit.

Or face the challenge head on. Deep down I knew the pain of disappointment would be greater than the pain of another 13 miles through the woods. I knew the pain would be less than the pain a child would feel when they learn their family has been broken and their world is, at least temporarily, in shatters. So, off I went.

The woods were muddier and lonelier with fewer people on the course. Like the first loop, going down the hills was an exercise in futility as I tried to “control” my speed. But gravity was a greater foe. There were several occasions when my arms and legs were going in four different directions and the mantra running through my head went something like “God, please don’t let me die!”

There were also more than a few less-than-feminine utterances that echoed through the woods after a painful misstep.

But God – and I like to think Dad – kept me moving forward. Just as they have my entire life. Despite the many obstacles which fall along the path of life, they have kept me from quitting. Like running, they have afforded me a sense of stability.

I cannot say the journey was enjoyable, nor can I say that after the race I did not resemble Pig Pen. But I did not allow the doubts and the despair to dissuade me from the mission. Most importantly, I did not quit – on myself or the children on whose behalf I am running.