Making strides

There’s a familiar squeeze in my chest whenever I start something new, especially when I’m doing it by myself. Anticipatory anxiety creeps in as I’m approach the task. Today’s hike was a good example of how I manage the continuum of fear.

Today I went on a hike at my favorite spot, Ramapo Reservation. Normally I would go with a friend, but on summer weekdays, most non-teacher people have jobs to go to. While I can sometimes plan ahead and make a date, sometimes I like to just get up and go. Instead of waiting and planning, this year I decided to put on my big girl pants and go by myself. 

On average, I’d go on a hike once or twice a year when I could connect with someone who actually wanted to go with me. This summer, I really wanted to go more than that. Now that I have the shoes, there’s more incentive to go. I broke them in on a solo hike a couple of weeks ago. It was a beautiful, clear, sunny day with lots of people. It was glorious, and the shoes felt great. I felt safe, even going solo, because there were so many people around. If I slipped and twisted my ankle or ran into a problem, someone would be there. Today, I wanted to reenact that same feeling, but the weather was overcast and slightly drizzly. It was not the kind of day where lots of people would come and bring their dogs to play in the lake at the top of the trail. 

For better or worse, I am the type of person who, when I decide I want to do something, I am most likely going to see it through. The weather report looked cloudy, but no rain, so I reserved the morning for a hike and my brain was locked in. Of course, the clouds sometimes provide drizzle and it was one of those days when I might otherwise have decided to stay home, do some stretching, and relax. My brain was still locked in; I wanted to go on a hike, and I was going to go on a hike. The worst that would happen is I’d get a little wet, and I’d already committed to sweating, so no big deal.

I filled my camel pack with ice water, strapped it on my back and brought my long raincoat, just in case it was going to get worse than the weather channel had predicted. I definitely needed my windshield wipers, and a tiny voice in my head kept saying, You can always turn around and go home. It’s dry there. I just kept going. When I pulled in the lot, I got out of my car, set my new Apple Watch to hiking mode, and started trekking. 

As I started walking toward the trail, I felt an extra heart flutter and tight feeling in the chest. It wasn’t a medical emergency, just the familiar pangs of anxiety. It’s the feeling that happens when your brain start saying, What are you doing, why are you doing this, you could be safer, if it’s raining, be careful you don’t slip and hurt your ankle when no one else is around to help you, you could be eaten by a bear. That and 100 more things started swirling in my head as I walked. But, since I did not want my lizard brain to take over my life, I kept going forward.

Read about the lizard brain in this Geriatric Gymnastics post.

In that moment, I decided my prefrontal cortex would be the ruler of my domain. I just kept walking, camel pack on my back, raincoat, hat, hiking shoes, and me. I did not need anyone else to enjoy the hike; I was going by myself and it was all good. Autonomy is a powerful feeling: you make the rules, you choose what path to take.

As I started along the trail, my steps were tense and rapid, almost as though I was trying to get it over with before I even started. I kept telling myself to be present: notice your surroundings, listen to the ambiance. Every step was like a march, carefully planning each footfall so I didn’t slip or twist my ankle. All I wanted to do was relax and enjoy the moment. That’s hard to do when your lizard brain is competing for attention. 

I got to the landmark wooden bridge just before the uphill portion of the hike started; the one that followed along the waterfalls that I love to sit and watch. I knew I wouldn’t be sitting, since everything was wet and I was already challenging every common sense notion of wanting to stay warm and dry. But as soon as I crossed the bridge, a sense of relief, perhaps calm washed over me. I wasn’t going to go back to the car until I completed the loop. 

I kept going step-by-step, rock by rock, as the raindrops hit my hat. I tried listening to a couple of podcasts that normally keep me entertained, but after a few minutes, I really wanted to hear the waterfall, the raindrops, my feet crunching on the rocks and pebbles below. I wanted to be mindful and present in my surroundings, not just for safety, but to give my brain something real to focus on. I wanted to enjoy the experience in real time, in real life. I turned off the podcast distraction and kept climbing.

I finally reached the top, the lake where the dogs are usually swimming, but today there was no one else but me. It was fine, there’s something contenting about solitude. I don’t have to connect with anyone, smile, and be friendly. I can just be me, in my own head. I continued on the back portion of the trail, all downhill, and I noticed my stride and heart rate was slower, my chest and shoulders were more relaxed. I guess the serotonin and dopamine was finally kicking in.

As I came downhill, I got a notification on my watch that my step goal was reached. A little further down. I got a congratulatory note saying that I went hiking for the first time. I laughed at the thought; it certainly was not my first hike. But then I thought in a sense, I kind of was going hiking for the first time. I certainly felt that way. when I got started. Reframing the perspective, it was technically my first solo hike in the rain. I smiled and in my head, pat myself on the back.

The good news is that I wasn’t eaten by a bear. I didn’t sprain my ankle. I had a really great time all by myself. Of course, I do love coming here with friends, but if I’m really getting a hankering for a hike by the waterfall, I know that my trusty hiking shoes will take care of me. And my lizard brain can stay asleep. I’ve got this.