Tomorrow, I’m running a marathon in St. Louis with a friend.  It will be a brief, 30-hour get-away from our world in Kansas City.  My foot, which recently started protesting this race, has simmered down.  It will be annoyed at 26.2 miles of pounding, but I have faith it will maintain its cool.  This past week, I typed pages of schedules and directions to ensure my family survives my absence.  My husband appreciates it, but the primary purpose of the exercise is to satisfy my need for control.  As I trudged through the kids’ schedules and tried to avoid thinking about the anger my foot might express at mile 20, I started to wonder why in the world we sign up for these races. …