For several weeks, I had feared the future. Okay, I was not fearing the future as much as I was scared bleepless by it. For several weeks, I repeatedly asked myself why I clicked the register button for the Denver Marathon.

I am a lowlander. I have been skiing at altitude in New Mexico and in France. But I had never even run a mile in the mountains. As dreadful as the notion of running at 10,000-plus feet was, I was looking forward to visiting with a friend I had not seen since high school and to spending some time with her horses. Ever since childhood I have been drawn to horses, but rarely have the opportunity to spend any time with them.

While living in Cincinnati I was able to take some riding classes and even earned a few ribbons to boot. I also spent a few weeks at an equestrian camp in Wisconsin with my cousin Molly. The camp was located somewhere outside of Green Bay and I clearly remember the first day introductions.

And I remember being slightly nervous and apprehensive. Having teeth that were, well, quite equine, and glasses that were thicker than steel, I always held back, particularly in awkward situations. And nothing is more awkward than those “circle” moments.

You know, when everyone sits in s circle (legs crossed) forks over their personal information like we were all being checked into prison. When my time came, I said my name and that I was from Cincinnati, which drew odd looks and seeming amazement.

I felt out of place, which makes a lot of sense because I was an “out-of-towner.” My campmates seemed intrigued. At least until we had our first occasion to clean out the stalls, a task which seemed to be the great equalizer. No matter what we brought to camp and what we would return to after camp, the daily duties to which we had to tend proved to be a comfortable ritual, a shared experience.

It is one of the things I have learned along the way about running marathons – they are the great equalizer. At least at the beginning. I and the hundreds of other people who actually pay to test our physical and mental limits boarded the bus at 4:15 for the 30 minute ride up the mountain. It was a good thing the sun was still sleeping so I did not have to see how high we were climbing.

Like good little lemmings, we all waited patiently at the starting line either hovered over the heating lamps or standing in line for the “facilities.” And then we were off and it was too late to be fearful.

I started out cautiously and slowly as the first miles were downhill. And then they were not downhill, which is something I clearly missed when I was studying the elevation chart before the race. This was supposed to be a downhill race. It was not.

I was no longer wondering why I had registered, but how the Hell I was going to get through it. It was clear this race would challenge me mentally as much as it would physically.

As I do whenever life throws me a curve, I looked to the clear and vast sky and (literally) asked Dad for added strength. While I have no evidence he is even listening – after all there are plenty of interesting people in Heaven to keep him busy – I continue to rely on him. I cannot remember his voice, nor the cadence of his speech, but I listen anyway.

My registration form indicates that I am running as a 43-year old. But when the doubts arise and I begin to question whether I will finish, I am running as a 6-year old who, like most little girls, had elevated their father to godlike status. When he rose to Heaven, the status was elevated even further.

And maybe that is one reason why it is so difficult for me (and for others whose fathers left them too early) to meet expectations. Maybe that is why I sought out a race at elevation – to prove to him I could do it. And to show myself and other little girls that we can still meet and overcome whatever is placed in front of us – with a little help from Dad.