Today I want to talk about pace…and people.
As a runner, I think a lot about pace in terms of minutes/mile. At work, pace is important; go too fast and you make mistakes, but go too slow and your boss gets annoyed. While hiking, pace is more about heart rate, breathing, keeping up with your hiking mates and most often, trying to get where you’re going before dark and without broken limbs.
While backpacking this weekend, I had a wonderful little moment toward the end of our adventure that was entirely about finding…and owning…my pace. Allow me to set the stage.
It was day two of a quick overnight trip to the Virginia mountains. A perfect fall weekend of pleasant temps, falling leaves, and abundant sunshine making that glorious contrast of blue skies and yellow leaves just sing the rapturous choruses of magical autumn. The day prior, our group of 6 had climbed about 3-ish miles up the uber-popular Crabtree Falls and then continued up The Priest, a mountain in the Washington/Jefferson Forest. This hike is most often done as a day hike, but we decided to take our time and enjoy a night spent at the Priest Shelter on the Appalachian Trail.
The hike up was a challenge. The trail gains about 2500 feet over 5-ish miles, but there are some flat sections so it’s really more like that elevation in 4 miles, I’d say. Which isn’t nothing. Add heavy backpacks, and for me, the fact that I hadn’t backpacked since March, plus some steady, unrelenting steepness at the very end, and you have a recipe for a hard hike.
This was a good group of hikers, cheerful and funny and generally accepting of whatever pace we each needed to get up to the top. The faster folks seemed to have no issue giving us slower folks the time we needed. And the slower folks kept the apologizing to a minimum, as it should be. By the end, we’d spread out pretty well on the trail, but we all arrived within moments of each other, give or take. We had a lovely night at camp, waking up early to see if we could catch sunrise from the overlook just beyond the shelter. Turns out we weren’t facing east, but who cares? It was gorgeous.
Then, it was time to go down.
After our overall slower pace on the way up, I was a little surprised at how zippy the group was going down, especially on a leaf-covered trail full of loose rocks. Maybe it was the thought of beer and burgers and a shower, which is totally legit.
I love downhill, and I love to amble downhill, because that means I get to a) be careful of my bum ankle and b) look around and see all the stuff I couldn’t see while on the way up because I was just trying to breathe. But I also don’t mind being pushed to speed up a little, to test my balance and strength if nothing else.
But about 3-ish miles into this particular downhill, I found myself striding along with the leaders of the pack, while two of our group took a more leisurely pace behind us. I felt great and strong and so happy to be out there. I was also pleased I was able to keep up (it helped it was a flat section).
And then suddenly I realized I didn’t want to go that fast.
I wanted to be able to lift up my eyes and look at the gorgeous colors around me and to take a picture here and there. I wanted to find a different rhythm to my steps, one that was a bit more measured and contemplative. I wanted to be alone after a day spent in company.
So, at a pause moment, I said to the group: “You go on. I’m going to drop back for a little while.”
And they did, and I did. It was like shifting to a lower RPM, and it was wonderful. I had the woods and the sun and the leaves and the wind and that smell of fall…you know the one…all to myself.
Eventually, as good groups do, we all caught up with each other. Then it was back down the waterfall to our cars, followed by a roadside apple stop and a triumphant brewery meal. It was a wonderful weekend, and for me, it was blessedly free of my normal self-flogging about moving too fast or two slow. I was remarkably not in my head for the first time in a while, and that felt marvelous.
And then, as I drove home, I thought about that moment. That moment where I was keeping up…and decided to slow down. It was remarkable, really. I was entirely in control of my body. I was entirely in control of my pace. I was comfortable with it, and I was comfortable changing it. That feels powerful for some reason.
I do believe that moments like this don’t exist in a vacuum unless you hike alone. Your companions matter. In running they have actual pacers, folks who are there to help runners find the pace that they want. A boss who demands a breakneck pace without a chance to slow down isn’t going to keep their staff for long. And in hiking, I have worked hard to convince myself that if you choose good people to hike with, they really, genuinely don’t care if you’re slower than they are…most of the time. I give everyone, myself included, a pass now and then, especially if we really have to pee or are approaching hangry status. ;)
So, I wish for all of us who are not the fast ones, who are not easily out front all the time, the power to hike with people who, by simply not being jerks, give us the freedom to find and accept our pace…and maybe the power to change it just because we can.
And just in case they are jerks, let’s make sure we have the keys to the car on the way down.