My conscience nagged me for the fact that I was driving to the next town over in order to take a morning jog that I could have just as easily accomplished in my own neighborhood. For some reason, though, I took the drive.

I jogged a quiet road, despite the screeches coming from my lower back and leg muscles. For once, the near immobility of my body may have been a good development. Had I been on a roll, had I been determined to complete my five miles, I wouldn’t have explored a short, off-road pedestrian trail that I never noticed before.

Back on the road, I continued along my route as my muscles screeched louder. They just weren’t going to run today. So I turned around and walked the road in retreat and frustration.

The chill air on my moist skin propelled me to run again, ‘as I headed to the car. This time, with a casual downhill and the promise of being homeward bound soon, my legs moved a little freer.

On the way, I saw a street sign. It meant nothing to me, a street I’ve never been down. I considered exploring it, but changed my mind. I’d already declared my jog a bust, two thumbs down, over.

But then, on the far side of the road’s mouth, I stopped. Why not explore it today?

I jogged along the length of the relatively short neighborhood street until it emptied into another. Not knowing which direction the new street would lead, I headed left with the understanding that turning around is always an option.

Around the bend, a large red stop sign, centered in the roadway and skirted by a large dune of sand, declared the road closed to autos. Normally, I would have turned around (not having seen the sign for Scenic Bypass). Normally, an obvious road closure meant that I, especially, could not go further. Yet, the city sign and official dog-waste disposal items hinted of something else.

Footpaths led pedestrians around the sand mounds.

I checked, before forging on, to verify that the driveway to the adjacent house wasn’t the road I was about to enter. Then I pushed forward, running now with ease, along an unexplored recreation trail offering glimpses of ocean through the trees.

As I ran, I thought of running’s metaphors in my life.

I seek those ultimate goals and set the lesser goals as stepping stones to the ultimate. Today, five miles. A few days from now, six miles.

And then there are the mini goals, those times when the jog isn’t happening. But instead of simply stopping on the spot, the brain urges me to the next landmark — that bench a quarter of a mile ahead. Just try a little bit more before giving up completely, my mind tells me.

On this run, beginning this new section of unfamiliar road, fears of not being able to take another running step after distancing myself too far from my car jittered my nerves. I should have turned around, my brain said. This is a risk.

Then my brain reminded me that I can always walk. Taking risks in life are not do-or-die. It is not run hard or not at all. Walking, pausing here and there in the pursuit of something worthy of risk is still better than taking no risk at all.

So I continued to run to my car on that longer than expected circuitous route. Once at my final destination, in an act that pushes salt into the wounds of my ego’s poor initial performance, I kept going. Why stop here?

Through running I seek ultimate goals. I explore avenues unknown, and I allow myself some temporary discomfort within the pursuit of greater accomplishments.