This past weekend I ran in my second-ever half marathon, an act which left me asking a pretty simple question of myself: Why?

That question hit me around mile nine, when a young boy screamed at me: "Come on! You can do better!"

Actually, the question that immediately came to mind at that point was, "Did no one think it was a bad idea to run a marathon through a part of Cardiff that was recently named 'Most Deprived Area in Wales'"?

We were just a parade of people to taunt and throw things at -- 10,000 potential happy slapping victims.

I am kidding, of course. Cardiff is a lovely place, and I'm not just saying that because I don't want them to take my visa away. It is, in fact, a safe and charming city full of people who are ready to welcome you in the traditional Cardiffian manner of throwing an egg at you while you wait for the bus.

So, I suppose it was probably closer to mile 10 that I actually got to that question of why I was spending a perfectly good Sunday morning running around.

"You know," I said to myself, "I'm really having trouble right now seeing the point of this. I've run a half marathon before, so I'm not doing it simply to prove that I can. Am I?"

Perhaps, I thought to myself, I was running for the scenery. A marathon or half-marathon is a great way to see a city. But I live in this city. I've seen it. I see it every day. If I wanted to see more of it, I could do so at my leisure in smaller increments.

Perhaps I was running because they give you all the Powerade you can drink. I love me some Powerade. It's delicious. I could drink that stuff all day. But if I drank it all day, the calories would eventually catch up with me, thus the reason for running the 13.1 miles. If a similar all-you-can-drink scheme were offered with Guinness, I would run a half-marathon every day.

Perhaps I was running to prove to myself that I am not old. There may be some truth to this theory. The highlight of attending university is the squadrons of young, attractive women that slink across campus in outfits that would have gotten them suspended at my high school. But these are also women who were born in years that I can very clearly remember. I have classes in which there are people who are 13 years younger than me. In some parts of the United States that would make them old enough to be my daughter.

I'm married, but every guy secretly calculates the odds of his suddenly having to use a stick to fight off the ladies. If I'm honest, my chances at present involve the disappearance from the planet of all other males. And several lesbians. So, maybe running for a really long time was a sort of subconscious consolation prize: "You're not sexy, but you can travel great distances."

Or, perhaps I was just running to see how long it would take before my calves start to hurt. The answer to that question is 12.5 miles.

And then I was at the end of the race. I was handed a little medal and a T-shirt and bottle of Powerade, and suddenly I felt all tired and content and happy. I had done it -- I had run a really long way. I could go home confident in the knowledge that if I had a friend who lived 13 miles from my house and he was watching "Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King," I could get to his house in plenty of time to watch the final epic battle.

I had indeed been running simply to prove to myself that I could. It didn't matter that I had done it before. In fact, that's part of the reason for doing it again. Sometimes it's nice to stack the deck in your own favor. It's worth it to do something not just to prove that you can, but because you know that you can.

I think I'll run another one. When my calves stop hurting.

Chris Cope lives with his wife in Cardiff, Wales. His column appears every other Tuesday.