The Joy of Being Last

Praise for the back of the pack

There’s a certain romance attached to being fast. The lead runner crossing the finish line, sweat gleaming, victorious. The celebration of a new “fastest known time” on a famous hiking trail. We’re taught to admire speed, to see it as a symbol of strength and success, both on the trail and in life. But what about us at the back of the pack? The ones whose strides are slower, whose breaths are heavier, and whose minutes-per-mile fall firmly into the double digits? The ones whose hikes involve stopping to silence footsteps in appreciation of a bird’s song, or who knows the location of every bench along their favorite trail? They may not be the first to finish their journey, but they experience something extraordinary: the quiet beauty of taking their time.

For years, I believed running was about winning—not in the literal sense of being first, but in the sense of beating my personal records, proving my endurance, and pushing myself harder. It felt like the only way to justify the effort. But, truth be told, I had neither the natural talent nor the discipline to make my pace match my heart. And I struggled with that for a long time. Why would I keep trying so hard just to fit squarely into my own definition of failure every time I ran? Why would I keep setting these goals only to be disappointed in myself? My past, non-runner self would have been so proud of my first ten mile run. But my runner self could only see failure because those ten miles involved multiple walk breaks and paces below the goals I had set.

I used to be too embarrassed about my pace to join in on group runs. Sometimes I’d start with a group and hope that they wouldn’t notice me gasping for breath between words as I was struggling to keep up with their “easy” pace. Eventually, I stopped joining others altogether. I felt so out of place in this world of fast runners. I pretended that I loved running alone, all while quietly feeling very lonely every time my feet hit the pavement.

But then I realized that fast runners aren’t the only runners. While the speedy ones may take the podium spots and rack up social media accolades, there’s an entire community of runners whose achievements look different. These are the runners who measure success not in split times, but in persistence—the ones who find victory in simply showing up, in conquering personal doubts, in crossing the finish line no matter how long it takes. Their stories may be quieter, but they are just as worthy.

The back of the pack is a world unto itself. The pressure is lighter here. The noise of competition fades, replaced by the rustle of leaves, the chirping of birds, and the rhythm of your own steady footsteps. No one is watching, judging, or waiting to compare splits. The experience shifts from performance to presence. Showing up to run doesn’t mean showing up to hit pace goals - it means showing up to enjoy the company, to appreciate the outdoors, to celebrate the fact that we do this at all.

In our culture of relentless forward momentum, there’s an unspoken stigma about slowness, as if taking your time somehow equates to weakness or failure. But nature doesn’t operate on deadlines or personal bests. Trees take decades to reach maturity. Rivers carve their paths over millennia. Seasons shift in their own time, regardless of how much we try to rush them. When you embrace being at the back of the pack, you step into that rhythm—one where the journey matters more than the destination.

To be last is not to be lesser; it’s to see the journey for what it truly is. The ones leading the pack might glance at the scenery, but their focus is ahead, on the next mile, the next marker, the next runner to pass. At the back, the scenery is the point. The experience is the point. You can pause to take it in without guilt or fear of “losing.” There’s a profound sense of freedom in realizing you’re not running against anyone or anything. You’re just... running.

There’s another truth about being last: it builds resilience. After pacing the 5 1/2 hour finishers at the Milwaukee Lakefront Marathon years ago, I commented to one of the 3-hour pacers that I was amazed at how he was able to maintain that speed for so long. He responded that my job was the hard job - he had been done running for a full 2 1/2 hours by the time I crossed the finish line. It was a dose of perspective that I didn’t realize I needed.

Photo: pacing the cutoff time at the Milwaukee Lakefront Marathon, 2024

Beyond the physical resilience, the mental fortitude is hard at work in the back, too. Those at the back have to wrestle with the doubts and judgments of a world that equates speed with worth. When you’re running slower, you’re more exposed—not just to the elements but to your own inner critic. Every step becomes an act of defiance against the voice that whispers, “You’re too slow. You’re not good enough. Why even bother?” And yet, you keep going. That persistence, that ability to show up even when you feel like you don’t belong, is a quiet kind of strength that can’t be measured by a stopwatch.

I think often of the phrase, “slow and steady wins the race.” It’s easy to dismiss it as a platitude, but there’s wisdom in it that goes beyond running. The victories of the back-of-the-pack runner aren’t about speed or placement. They’re about showing up, pushing through discomfort, and finding joy in the process. It’s about the courage to take your time in a world that glorifies rushing.

In many ways, the back of the pack is where the soul of running lives. It’s where you’ll find runners cheering each other on, sharing snacks, or simply chatting about life between breaths. It’s where the focus shifts from competition to connection—not just with others, but with yourself and the natural world around you.

As I’ve learned to embrace this slower pace, I’ve realized something profound: being last isn’t a failure; it’s a gift. It’s a chance to see the world differently, to let go of ego, and to find joy in the sheer act of moving forward. Because at the end of the day, the trail doesn’t care how fast you run it. It doesn’t care if you’re first or last. It’s just there, waiting for you to show up, however you can, and take the next step.