Day 43: Collaborating with My Body

• Daleville, VA Zero (704.9)
• 0 feet ascent, 0 feet descent 

Hiking the Appalachian Trail is hard. Mile after mile, day after day. Pack explosion, repack, filter water, drink water, filter more water. Wash hands. Eat, eat again. Eat some more. Sleep, go again.

All this is expected. What is not expected is the importance of rest. Hiker midnight is absolute. Sleep is inviolate. If we want to fly, rest is necessary.

First Thought in the Morning

Silence falls at sunset. Wakeup time is more variable. At first light,  some people slip out early, eager to make it to town or get miles in before the day’s heat builds up. Others roll over and go back to sleep.

Regardless of the hour one awakes, the first thought is “How does my body feel?” Gently we flex our toes and squeeze our glutes.

We tense our core muscles and sit up. If it works well, we start the day with energy. If it is an effort, sometimes we roll over and go back to sleep. The day portends to be hard.

Medicare Pastor, Mary E Davidson, says that as long as her body feels recovered from the previous day, she is good to go. Her words stick in my brain. During her work years, she was a physical therapist and then a Lutheran pastor. After she retired, she completed a Triple Crown and then topped it off with the 4,000 mile Discovery Trail. She retired from long distance hiking at age 81. Over the years she hiked, she experienced injury, age related degeneration, and surgeries. 

With thoughtful care, she kept hiking. 

I had three major knee surgeries in the year before our hike. Almost every day, Mary’s words echoed in my mind. Paraphrasing from her book Old Lady on the Trail, I ask myself “Am I recovered from yesterday?” 

Recovery Is As Important as Hiking

With the assurance I am not doing something dumb, I am 100 percent all-in to rest. All my anxiety that pushed me to keep trying when I was injured is gone. It is my job to rest. My body needs me to collaborate with it. 

Pushing when the pain is reduced but not cleared is disrespectful to my muscles and bones. They need me to respect them. My desire to plow on is only part of the story. I need to let my body gather its strength to fly.

My grandfather, born 1906, taught me to take care of my tools. He always said, “Take care of your tools and your tools will take care of you.” While it was screwdrivers and saws with him, for me, now, it is my body.