Quieting the Noise from My Wrist
Cathy Engstrom is a former runner but a forever adventurer. She calls Colorado home, and when she's not writing you can find her exploring a dirt trail (the steeper the better).
When I was running regularly, I was very much a middle-of-the-pack participant. My times were fine, but I never clocked in at a pace that would get me anywhere near a podium. I mostly trained to finish events without injury, and other than one marathon where I had a stellar training cycle and secured a PR, I enjoyed chasing the process more than chasing a number on the clock.
I’ve had to part ways with running, but I am still able to hike and walk long distances. I am very fortunate to still have that ability, but not running anymore means I take longer to finish.
As I phased out running my pace became all I could think about; it felt like a sore tooth you can’t quit poking with your tongue. Comparing my times to previous years became an act of misery. The only data coming through on my fitness watch was that I was not as fast or fit as before. The annoying gadget on my wrist, which relies on me to plug it in each night, was giving me one-star reviews.
It hasn’t been easy but I've evolved over the last few years, in part because there’s no other option. I will always be slower than the version of me who ran. (Just like I am the youngest I will ever be right now.) But I also have the gift of perspective that comes with time, and when I look back on my favorite races or the early morning runs, not a single one stands out because of a negative split.
I bet I've taken hundreds of post-run selfies, but I don't
know how fast I ran in any of them. However, I do remember this sunrise!
The longest distance I ever finished was 53 miles, but when I revisit that day in my mind, my finishing time escapes me. Hours and minutes have receded to the background and what remains is the sense of accomplishment that comes from a tremendous experience.
I vividly recall phoning my friend Sarah to talk to me as I eked out my last few miles. I was running in the dark, my feet were screaming, and I was choking on orange slices, in an effort to get a few more calories down my throat. I wanted to be done more than anything, but I could hear Sarah washing dishes in her Seattle kitchen while she caught me up on the latest with her kids, entertaining me with low-stakes chatter to get my mind off of being at mile 46.
That’s what’s stayed with me.
In the hotel later that night, my friend Katie, who also ran the race, attempted to peel off her sweat-soaked clothes for a shower but was too weary to remove her compression socks. She was lying on the bathroom floor, resigned to the fact that she might not succeed. I was already in bed, unable to move let alone help her, and we laughed until our stomachs hurt over the absurdity of the situation.
That juicy memory, which has nothing to do with pace, lives rent-free in my mind.
At the finish line with Katie (left) before we tried to get ready for bed.
How long it takes me to run (or hike, or bike, or swim) from point A to point B is not a measurement of character or virtue. In fact, my pace on any given day is one of the least interesting things about me.
It doesn’t reflect the fact that I’m left handed, or that I attended four different elementary schools, or that I have deep ties to Ethiopia because of my youngest.
My pace doesn’t tell you anything about how hard I’ve worked on lateral raises this year, or that I pretend to be proficient when using chopsticks but I’m really just winging it; and it especially doesn’t tell you that I get tears in my eyes when I hear the song “I Gotta Feeling” because it takes me back to the time we were camping with our children and they were singing the chorus at the top of their lungs.
My pace can't tell you any of that.
I have no idea what our splits were, but I remember the gummy bears Dimity
shared and the insane Saguaro cactus in every direction. What a day!
I’m not saying it’s easy to slow down (it's not), and if you were often on the podium at the end of a race, it will be harder for you to tease out your self-worth without those achievements. But when I go out for a hard hike, my markers of success do not include digital numbers on a watch.
My pace is just one feature of a workout, but it will never be the most interesting feature o it—or me. And I choose to focus on the interesting.
