I remember the first time I tried to run at night.

It wasn't something I did intentionally. My schedule, as usual, just got the best of me. Determined not to miss a day of training, I set out on a familiar path just after sunset.

I was without a watch, but I'm certain it was my fastest time ever. I was terrified, not just of the potential for meeting a violent wack-a-doodle on the trail, but of the twists and turns in the dirt road that I didn't notice when I ran the same route during the day. Then, for those of us with vivid imaginations, there were the images of wild animals, attack dogs and crazed cats I imagined running me down and devouring me.

I found myself planning my defense and my escape, and questioning my sanity for not heading to the gym after dark.

Interestingly, my opinion on running at night wasn't a happy one until I ran through Morgan in the middle of the night SEVEN years ago. It was the first year of Ragnar Relay's Wasatch Back, and this particular 6.8 miles was my second leg. It happened to be during a thunderstorm and, like me, my teammates, who were mostly female, worried about my safety. Back then there were so few runners, you really were alone as you ran through the moonless night. The cousin of one of the women volunteered to meet us near Morgan and ride his bike along side those of us with an over-developed sense of fear.

Even with a companion, it was scary. He had to abandon me for a short stretch to put on better rain gear and that was when it all started to shift for me. Fear made me move faster, but knowing help was just a few hundred yards away allowed me to stop hallucinating those worst-case scenarios. I eventually started noticing the night for something other than the cloak of things-that-mean-to-do-me harm.

Women are programmed to fear running at night. In fact, I was programmed to fear even running alone. It wasn't completely irrational, either, as I read stories every summer in my hometown of Anchorage, Alaska, about some unfortunate soul who met with a bear or a pervert while simply trying to enjoy the outdoors on foot.

So years of stories and warnings took their toll. I was, as many women are, terrified of running at night. To run after dark meant running in a group, carrying mace or hitting the treadmill. I often envied my male friends who ran at night without fear and sometimes even found myself resentful and angry that I didn't have that freedom.

So sloshing along the roadside at about 2 a.m. was liberating. I watched the lightening, listened to the rain and sucked in the smells of a stormy night in the mountains. For the first time, I ran through the night without fear.

Maybe it was just the feat of overcoming fear, but running at night has become almost magical for me. That night leg is now my favorite in the Wasatch Back, and not just because I get to do something I usually avoid. The air is more still, more fragrant in the middle of the night. I almost feel like I'm flying or floating as I stride through the dark. It's cool, it's calm and there is something very energizing about running while most living things are sleeping.

The allure of running at night during this race might be enhanced because I don't get to do it very often. But because it is rare for me to run with just the light of the moon, I savor these miles with the kind of gratitude that daily training sometimes beats out of my over-active imagination and frightened heart.

E-mail: adonaldson@desnews.com