The Perils of Practice: Part 2.

Hey,  peril seekers, welcome back to the trials and tribulations I’ve encountered since I swapped my slippers for Salomons and stepped out to see what the world had to offer. So, without further ado, let round two of the perilous battle commence.

Brad Pitt.

In years gone by, albeit many, many years, I considered myself a reasonable specimen of manliness. Although like many gents of a certain vintage, my physique had fallen foul of hard times, warm beer, and fish and chips.

But when I mentioned to K that I was likely to be ripped like a Fight Club era Brad Pitt after all the exercise the AT would throw at me, she choked on her cornflakes, snorted, and milk came out of her nose.

It wasn’t pretty, and once we’d cleaned up the mess, she said I’m more likely to look like an arm pit than Brad Pitt. Ouch.

Mud.

Pigs love it. Vermont is infamous for it. And smearing it over your face is supposed to be good for your complexion. But there are only three kinds of mud that really matter.

1. The slippy, slidey kind that laughs at the grips on your shoes, shows you what it’s like to walk on oil on ice on marbles, and makes moving forward as easy as lava surfing in flip-flops.

2. The kind that sticks to your shoes like steroid infused limpets and makes you an inch taller and a few pounds heavier with every step. I did actually reach my desired of height of 6’ 3’’ that day, but my feet weighed 200lbs.

3. The thick, gloopy kind that sucks the shoes off your feet.

But  whatever kind of dirt is staining your trail runners, Mother Mud can strike when you least expect it. And that’s when your feet slide left as your body swerves right, gravity turns from friend to foe, and the ground comes up to meet you all too quickly. Three thoughts then simultaneously come to mind as you collapse into an undignified heap.

1. Oh crap. Expletives may vary.

2. I really hope this doesn’t hurt.

3. Did anyone see me? Like the tree falling in silence if no one’s there to hear it, did I really fall if no one’s there to see it? Sadly, yes. The mud-caked trousers and bruised hips confirmed it, then being banned from the house until K hosed me down seconded the motion.

My feet found the perfect slippy, sticky, sucky mud combo.

Night creatures 1.

When testing my sleep gear on a chilly night in the garden, I expected a cold nose and to hear the sound of night raptors sharpening their claws beneath the veil of darkness. But I didn’t expect to get rudely awoken in the wee small hours by a fox playing trampoline on my tent.

The little bugger frightened the life out me. And by the time I’d scrambled out of the tent, all I saw was his bushy tail disappearing over the fence. Gotta love the great outdoors.

Speed Creep.

This may sound like just another term for pink blazing – the not-so-subtle art where boys or girls speed up or slow down on trail to meet up with other boys or girls for good times, memories, and something not to tell the grandkids. But it’s not.

To be honest though, I’m impressed with the pink blazers’ ability to ignore the grime and trail funk smeared across the objects of their desire. And I’m even more impressed they can completely ignore the ingrained stench their would-be love interests wear like a badge of honour.

Which reminds me of a Trek blog a few years ago that referred to the male appendage in such adventures as a toxic plunger. That made me laugh at the time, and it’s the only line I remember from the thousands of blogs I’ve read since. Great description. Disturbing image though.

But no, I’m trying to talk about something altogether less affected by dubious personal hygiene or the odour of the walking dead. That said, I now realise my version of speed creep is far more mundane than the the perils of pinking, albeit less likely to result in itching, rashes, or the need for anti-biotics.

So, stepping into my more simplistic world of mud and mountains, speed creep comes to play when you’re hiking along at your go-to tempo before slipping into a boredom coma when your mind and body disconnect and you start singing Disney songs. And then your speed creeps up without telling you.

Obviously, this is not an issue if you don’t mind the extra boost, but I know from experience that when I speed up beyond my default setting, something will hurt. And that’s bad. On the upside, at least I don’t need to pack penicillin.

Night creatures 2.

On another night under canvas, I awoke in the dark to a soft mewling-hissing sound coming from a foot away from my head. Now I’ve seen enough films to know you should never open your eyes in these situations, never turn around to the unknown noise, and never follow the spooky man into the spooky house. But sometimes needs must.

So, moving with the trepidation of a first day lion tamer, I flicked on the light and the noise stopped. Then I caught movement out the corner of my eye, ignored the rules about not turning around, and saw the yellow pinpricks of light staring back at me from the darkness.

Then it moved with a speed that defied physics and I jumped a mile and let loose an involuntary noise before the cat squeezed back under the flysheet and out into the night. It took a long time to get back to sleep.

Tracker.

I bought a fitness tracker a while back but like all boys with new toys, I got a little obsessed and felt the over-whelming urge to check it every few minutes. How far have I walked? What’s my heart rate? Which way’s north? Is it time for tea?

But the tracker wouldn’t stop beeping when my pulse hit 220 – apparently that’s a bad number for someone my age – and suggested a strategy re-think. So, I slowed down (a bit), which helped, and I’ve stopped running up hills, which helped as well. Then I changed the beep setting on the watch, and that helped most of all.

Although I’ve wondered whether it was really me or the watch that needed to change after my trusty tracker beeped while I was strolling along the beach to tell me I was at 63,000ft and travelling at 196mph.

And while that certainly explained why I felt a bit puffed, it’s more likely my watch had suffered a momentary bout of digital dementia, and that maybe I wasn’t the problem after all. Yeah, let’s go with that.

The watch on a good day….. Except for the bottom pic when I was apparently at -1178 feet below sea level. Hmmm.

Gear 1.

We’ve all got it, we all need it, and it’s a good idea to practice using it before hitting the trail. I’ve even got my tent’s pitch time down to an hour, so things are going well. Providing it doesn’t rain.

But I’d really prefer one of those Harry Potter tents that pitch with a flick of your wand and turn into a palatial palace when you step inside. Is that too much to ask? And can Dan Durston’s magic fingers create such a masterpiece from the latest wonder-fabric to keep the ultra-lighters happy? Hi, Dan.

Cost.

When I first stepped out in search of fresh air and fitness, I used the gear I had to hand, so the cost was nil. But once I’d been bitten by the bug, and especially as I started planning for the AT, I realized my gear closet was bare.

I’d never been proper hiking before so had no need for hiking gear. All I had was a beanie hat, but that was it. So, I donned my hat, wandered off, and got a few strange looks. Apparently, you’re supposed to wear more than just a hat when you’re hiking.

But I’ve upgraded the beanie since then and spent more pennies on the other bits and bobs I’ll need to see me through the sun, snow, and storms that may lay ahead. And that’s when the cost started moving north.

The beanie – my first piece of gear.

I knew the big gear would cost a few quid – tent, backpack, quilt, sleep pad – and I wasn’t wrong, but by the time I’d finished spending, the bank manager asked for a quiet word.

Although the overall cost wasn’t because I’d bought the best kit, or the latest or lightest uber-gear, it’s just the cost of doing business in England. It’s not cheap over here.

Even eBay wasn’t the haven of bargains I’d hoped for, at least not for the stuff I wanted. And that was before I added flights, hotels, and shuttles to the mix.

In retrospect, I probably didn’t need to spend quite so much, but I had a plan and buying the gear was part of the fun. On the other hand, if the big plan falls flat on its face, at least eBay will finally get a flood of decent gear to sell.

England’s not cheap. Add 25% to convert to $$$$.

Gear 2 – Tweaking.

Not to be confused with twerking which is a whole different weekend ball game. No, I’m talking about those fine tweaks you make to get your gear working for you rather than against you. Afterall, practice is supposed make things perfect.

How can I pitch my tent on uneven ground? What happens if I pull these little straps on the top of my pack’s shoulder straps? Is it better to put the ramen noodles into the pot before or after the dehydrated potatoes? And when do I add the custard and gravy sprinkles?

The struggle is real, and more recently I’ve been playing around with the backpack strap tweak (try saying that five time fast) to see whether tightening this or loosening that will make the pack fit more comfortably. But it’s a slow process with a million tweaks that my shoulders wish I could sort out quicker.

Midnight Bottle.

The curse of the middle-aged bladder is an annoying affliction making night-time trips to the loo a reality, which is fine when you’re at home. But what do you do when you’re in the woods at night?

1. Keep your legs crossed, avoid all thoughts of waterfalls and running taps, and hope the feeling goes away. This is not a great plan.

2. Venture out into the darkness, navigate to a suitable spot without slipping, tripping, or treading in what the bears have left in the woods, and do your thing. This is a popular choice but of limited appeal when it’s cold, wet or windy.

3. But for my money, the midnight bottle is the king and saviour of this nocturnal dilemma. Why step outside my silpoly sanctuary when I can just pick up the bottle, take aim, and… well, you get the idea?

Admittedly, aiming in the dark takes a bit of practice, and I have to double check I’m not topping up my water bottle instead. You only make that mistake once. Otherwise, I’m good to go, literally.

And apologies to the ladies for this item as it’s really one for the gents. Although I suppose a midnight bottle/She-Wee combo could work, but good luck with that.

A midnight bottle for every occasion.  Ready, aim, fire.

Comparisons.

I tend to find them unhelpful as I only compare myself to those higher up the comparison ladder, and never look down to see how far I’ve come so far.

With the AT in mind, I’ve watched a thousand videos of hikers blazing a trail from Georgia to Maine, watched them conquer Mount Katahdin, watched them pose for the obligatory photo with the sign at the top, and thought, ‘yeah, that’s what I want.’

Then reality taps me on the shoulder, points to my knees and ankles, shows me the AT completion stats, and asks me what I realistically expect to happen.

So, it’s unfair to compare myself to the Dixies and Darwins of the thru-hiking world. More importantly though, I should really stop listening to those newbies telling me they’re training 28 hours a day, 9 days a week, and finishing with an ironman triathlon for an encore.

But it’s hard not to listen, and harder not to compare, and that makes me feel insignificant and underprepared given how little I’ve trained by comparison.

Then I imagine the gym-sharks and runner-rats grinning in exhausted satisfaction as their training pays off and they take their picture at the top of the mountain long after I’ve shuffled home with my tail between my legs.

I know it doesn’t always happen like that in the real world, but it does in my mind, so why let a meaningless comparison pile on the misery? Simple, I can’t help it. It’s the way I’m wired. On the other hand, maybe I should just suck it up and crack on with an ultra-marathon before breakfast so I can hang with the cool kids.

On second thoughts, maybe not, so I think I’ll leave comparisons in my wake. And if I do well on trail and get the job done, good for me, but if I don’t, well, at least I gave it a go. Hike your own hike, right?

Got to shakedown to wise up.

So, there you have it, a few of the perils of practice that have kept me company while I’ve been putting one foot in front of the other in search of hiking glory. I’m sure there are many perils I’ve forgotten, and I’m sure many more will find me as I journey north, but with trial and error comes growth and understanding, so what have the perils taught me so far?

1: That my legs and lungs can take a whole lotta hiking with a loaded pack – although my shoulders still aren’t convinced.

2: That my mind is coming around to my way of thinking.

3: That I really should avoid animals.

4: That panic and comparisons won’t help.

5: And that being 20 years younger with better cardio-vascular genes would be a huge bonus.

But perils aside, I’ve done what I can to hone my hiking prowess for the Appalachian rodeo ahead – got to shakedown to wise up, right? And I bet I’m not alone in the anguish and comedy that perils bring, and I’m sure a million stories are out there just waiting to be told by anyone who’s stepped beyond their front door.

Thanks for reading.

Toby.