I kind of hate Strava.

When the competition is all in your head. And it won't leave.

There was a time when running, for me, was all about the clock. The only thing I wanted from every run was to be faster than the last. Every mile split mattered. Every training plan had structure. Every race had a number that would define whether the day was good or bad.

And most of the time, I missed the mark.

I’m not exactly known for my running prowess. My PRs would impress absolutely no one. But that’s not to say those times didn’t matter to me. I internalized every disappointing run and turned it into a bad day. The sun might’ve been shining, the foliage blazing with color, but Strava would remind me I was ten seconds slower per mile than last week, and that was all that mattered.

I’ve been trying to change that. I still care about numbers, in a gentle way, but I’m learning to define a successful run differently. It’s harder than I thought.

Today, I ran at Lapham Peak. I went in with no goals other than “move my body, breathe the air, and maybe don’t fall down.” Between the post-marathon crud and a lack of recent trail training, my legs were uncooperative and my pace was...well, let’s just say the turtles probably had opinions.

Trail marker for the Ice Age Trail at Lapham Peak.

By the numbers, it was one of my slowest trail runs ever. But by another measure, one I’ve only recently started paying attention to, it was among my best. I’m trying so very hard to enjoy that measurement.

Measuring Joy in Sightings, Not Seconds

The sun filtered through the canopy in long, late-morning beams that made everything look holy for a moment. The air smelled like damp leaves, and my playlist was nothing but wind and breath.

And then I saw them: deer.

Five in a single group, darting in and out of the trees, white tails flashing like punctuation marks in the forest. They paused by the trail, watching me as I fumbled for my camera. Then came the familiar flicker of guilt: my watch still ticking, my pace slipping as I stopped to take those photos. I had to remind myself: it didn’t matter.

I snapped a few shots before they bobbed off into the woods.

There’s a freedom in days like this, when no one’s waiting for your Strava upload, when you can stop to stare at mushrooms or sunlight through branches. When you can run for the pure, useless joy of running. It should be more meaningful than my overall pace per mile, right?

Deer #5 is there, I promise. He’s in the back, perfectly camouflaged.

The Tower Test

And then there’s the tower.

The observation tower at Lapham Peak has always been my personal Everest. I ran here for years - years! - before I could master it. I’d get a few steps up and feel the ground drop out from under me, not literally, but close enough that my knees protested the concept.

Now, I climb it without a second thought. All the way up. No hesitation, no wobbly hands gripping the railing, no halfway panic. Just the steady rhythm of wooden steps and the reward of a 360-degree view of blue October sky.

That moment, standing tall, unafraid, watching deer graze below, is always worth more than any finish-line clock could ever give me.

And still, I felt the pull to pause my watch. To protect the dignity of what had been a reasonable pace, now stretched into leisurely-hike territory.

I reminded myself again: it didn’t matter.

Redefining Progress

We like to think of progress as linear: faster, farther, stronger, better. But sometimes progress is quieter. Sometimes it’s what used to scare you that doesn’t anymore. It’s a reminder that, as a new runner, I longed to someday earn the right to wear a Milwaukee Lakefront Marathon finisher jacket and now I take finishing that marathon as a given each year.

Maybe a win this week isn’t a PR. Maybe it’s showing up when you didn’t feel like it. Maybe it’s walking instead of running and still calling it a good day. Maybe it’s resting without guilt. I’m still working on that one.

There are a thousand tiny ways to improve that have nothing to do with performance and everything to do with joy. I know this. I tell everyone this, and have for years. Yet the numbers on my watch still pull at me.

Finding the Real Finish Line

If the last few years (and a few long races) have taught me anything, it’s that finish lines aren’t where the good stuff happens. The good stuff happens at mile twenty-two, when you’re tired but still smiling. It happens in the quiet miles, in the long walks, before dawn, and in the tower you once feared but now climb with ease.

The more I run, the less it’s about speed and the more it’s about presence and remembering that the trail doesn’t care about your pace. It only cares that you showed up. The scoreboard? That’s all in your head.

Truly, no one is paying attention to your Strava, except maybe to be happy to see you got out to the trails today or to be amused at the silly title you gave your run. No one gives a lick about your speed.

Someday I’ll remember that, and I’ll stop feeling like a lousy runner when my Strava updates.