I've started running again. I preface "again" because there appear to be periods in my life when jogging seems like a rational idea. The birth of a child, a divorce, any big event seems to get my wheels moving.

So at 41 years old, I've returned to running. The motivation, though, is different from any I've known before. It's not entirely about wanting to lose weight, though toning up is an incentive. It's not to escape from worry, though it has that added benefit. It's about wanting to be part of something.

I want to be part of life versus being an observer of it. So I resumed the sport.

This week, my husband was home from trucking. He knew me when I was running through my divorce. He'd see me and told me he was always secretly cheering me on. It's something I never knew but wasn't surprised to discover, because that's my cowboy. He's true blue down to his denim.

When he took our son to run errands, I took my run. Secretly I hoped he'd spot me on the road. Just thinking that he may be watching made me run better. I kicked up my legs and pushed my shoulders back. You know, I tried to look like a runner, not a desperate housewife. And it worked. I heard the car horn before they rolled into view. I held up my head, ran a little faster and gave a parade-wave. When I knew I was out of rear-view mirror distance, I let my shoulders drop and I slowed back down to my snail's pace.

It made me think: Why is it that we tend to perform better when someone is watching? What happens when they aren't? Are our form and our conduct worse, or are they better? I'd like to think that they're the same, but I'm not that naive. I'm in the industry of writing about what happens when people think others aren't watching.

A beautiful, young Ivy League student is murdered and discovered on her wedding day stuffed into a basement wall panel in a Yale University research facility where she worked. That's what happens when people think others aren't watching.

Four nighttime rapes of four women attacked in elevators, alleyways and even their own homes in the course of five weeks happened in Upper Manhattan when someone thought others weren't watching.

But here's what happens when people perform at their best despite who's watching. Colleges nationwide refocused their attention on campus safety. Police patrols increased. The Guardian Angels in New York stepped up their neighborhood patrols. Upper Manhattan tenants organized watch rallies. Communities united. That's what happens when people aren't concerned with being noticed or acknowledged for doing the next right action.

In less than two weeks from 24-year-old Annie Le's disappearance at Yale, New Haven police charged 24-year-old Raymond Clark III with her murder.

Following more than 100 tips from the public and scanning through 200 hours of video from 75 different cameras, New York detectives tracked down and arrested 21-year-old Vincent Heyward for serial rape.

It's easy to wonder why we don't perform our best when there's no audience. But the real question is: Why do we try to elevate other people's perception of ourselves? It could be as harmless as showboating when we run or as harmful as representing yourself as someone you're not, like a rapist or cold-blooded killer would do in public. It could even be the police trying to mask one crime as another.

At a recent news conference, New Haven Police Chief James Lewis placed a twist on Le's murder.

"It is important to note that this is not about urban crime, university crime, domestic crime but an issue of workplace violence, which is becoming a growing concern around the country," Lewis said.

Annie Le, a graduate student, was murdered at Yale University in New Haven, which to me, makes it both an urban and university crime. The motive may have been workplace strife, but it's nonetheless murder -- a horrible, senseless murder that should not be diminished with a politically correct phrase such as "workplace violence."

When postman Patrick Sherrill shot and killed 14 employees and wounded six others on Aug. 20, 1986, at the Edmond, Okla., post office before committing suicide, the police didn't deem it "workplace violence," which it was. Instead, those who were murdered lost their lives as a result of Sherrill "going postal."

Slang was employed as a verb to imply uncontrollable anger to the point of violence in a workplace.

The underlining human motivation was for the New Haven Police Department to look good. To achieve that, they distanced themselves from this heinous crime, which happened in their city at one of the most prestigious universities in America, by placing one degree of separation from them and murder and calling it "workplace violence." Call it what you will, but it's still murder. And a young woman is dead.

People in Upper Manhattan weren't concerned with keeping the status quo. They knew a serial rapist was terrorizing their city, and they fought back. They didn't try to spin it as something it wasn't.

New Haven officials worked best when they worked together to solve this crime. It was afterward that they showed their prejudice, minimizing the crime and the loss of a life by deflecting it with a catch phrase.

When the need to elevate other people's perception of ourselves reaches this level, it is catastrophic to our society. It reduces the value of a human life. And it's not right.

It's second nature to want to put your best face forward when you're in the spotlight. It's much more challenging to put that same best face forward when no one's looking. The true test of character is how you behave when the spotlight's off. That defines who you really are as a person.