During my checkup in September 2005, the doctor asked me about my physical regimen. “You seem healthy, but how much aerobic exercise do you get?”

“Not much,” I confessed. “I practice yoga about three days a week, and I walk to and from the Silver Spring Metro and around the neighborhood.”

The doctor frowned. “I think you should take up something more strenuous such as running.”

“Running!” I gasped. Wasn’t that a sport for young people whose hearts and muscles could handle all that stress? My 36th birthday was three weeks away. Running was ideal for me when I was trying to lose weight in my mid-20s, but I was too old for such an activity now. If I took my doctor’s advice, I could kill myself by trying to be healthy.

Still, her suggestion intrigued me. Earlier that month, while touring my future neighborhood in Chicago, I learned that I could walk from my apartment to Lake Michigan in five minutes. I was miserable in my car-packed, pedestrian-unfriendly suburb, so I eagerly anticipated one-mile strolls on the 18-mile lakefront path.

I expressed all of these ideas to my doctor, who assured me that I could take on greater challenges in my workout plan. I was relocating in order to explore other possibilities for my life, so running could become a small part of that new identity. Maybe I could run as far as four miles, I dreamed as I left the doctor’s office.

Five days after the move, I prepared to attend the 9:30 A.M. Mass at the local parish. I had heard something on the news about the Chicago Marathon, but I figured that it didn’t concern me. In my prayer that morning, I had thanked God for giving me the courage to move alone without a job. As I walked toward Broadway, I wondered what I would discover around the corner. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to stop me from going to Mass.

That is, until I got to Broadway.

Because of my sole focus on my religious obligation, I had neglected to determine the route for the Chicago Marathon. At Broadway, I wandered into a throng of spectators along the sidewalk throughout the 8-mile portion of the course. Thousands of marathoners were running in the street, seemingly with little effort.

I was watching the event on the northeast section of Belmont and Broadway. Unfortunately, the parish was located west of Broadway. If I attempted to cross, I would be trampled by fleet-footed runners. I could go back to my apartment, or I could observe one of the world’s most famous marathons in my neighborhood. I chose to remain with the crowd.

One hour later, after witnessing runners of diverse ages and sizes as they tackled a 26.2-mile race, I knew that four-mile runs on the lakefront path would no longer satisfy me. I wanted to race in the streets as far as I could go.