I think I may be the slowest hiker in the world. Last Saturday, I took our little beagle, Chloe, out for a walk on a two-mile loop up on Welsh Mountain. She’s built low to the ground with stubby little legs, and takes maybe five inches per stride. Yet even she turned back on her leash to give me a disapproving look. Truth is, I’m not getting any faster the older I get.

That little hike reminded me of one of my “epic” adventures, back in 2019—a ten-day trek on the Appalachian Trail through Shenandoah National Park. One hundred and seven miles of ups and downs, with an elevation gain (and loss) of some 22,000 feet across 60 peaks. It was my first experience in overnight trail camping and the first time I had hiked with a pack.

The AT is set up with shelters every 10–15 miles, each oriented around a water source (usually a fresh mountain spring) and has a three-sided shelter, fire pit, primitive privy, and cleared areas for camping. Most hikers pace their journey, so they end each day at one of these shelters. Hiking was a solitary exercise for me.  But the evenings were often communal as the same faces often gathered around the campfire.

For about three days, I was accompanied—though not exactly by choice—by a group of 4 young(er) women who called themselves Team Vodka. They had gone to college together some years ago and now reunited annually for a three-day wilderness hike. When I raised an eyebrow at their trail name, they laughed and assured me it was a relic from their college days, not their current habit.

These women hiked fast. While it took me from dawn to dusk to cover the day’s miles, Team Vodka would roll out of their tents late, hike a few carefree hours, and still beat me to camp. Every. Single. Day.

I’d leave at sunrise, shoulders already sore from the stress of a 40-pound pack, determined to stay ahead. But by late morning I’d hear the sound of laughter and conversation drifting up the trail behind me. Then, sure enough, a flash of pink or green through the trees. Moments later they’d sail past me on the switchbacks, chatting and smiling as if the mountain was a gentle stroll.

By the time I dragged myself into camp, there they were—tents set up, boots off, and chatting by the fire like they had just wandered out of a spa. I tried not to make eye contact.

The next morning, I set out with fresh determination. I was going to hold my lead. And I did… for a while. But somewhere near a nameless summit, I heard that familiar train of laughter bearing down on me. With only seconds to prepare, I dropped my pack, grabbed my water bottle and a handful of trail mix, and struck a casual pose on a nearby stump.

“Oh, hey guys, how’s it going?” I said, nonchalantly, as they approached, letting on that I was just wrapping up an extended break. I hoped they hadn’t noticed the sweat dripping off my nose.

We exchanged pleasantries, and as they bounded off.  I waved and said, “Have a good hike!  See you at camp.”

On day three, I woke up with renewed vigor. Today I would stay ahead of them, if it killed me. I went roaring out of camp and pushed myself hard all morning, waiting for the telltale chatter and flash of color coming up behind me. But all was quiet. And when I arrived at the shelter in the afternoon, foot sore and exhausted, Team Vodka was not there. They had apparently gone off the trail, having completed their three-day jaunt successfully. I had “won” a contest that only existed in my head.

Now, I don’t want to be too hard on myself. In one sense, I was only competing against myself, and I was a better hiker for pushing my limits. But if I’m honest, it wasn’t just that. I wanted to prove I could keep up. I wanted to measure myself against someone else’s pace. And that’s where the danger lies.

We all have an unhealthy tendency toward comparison—an unholy urge to measure our worth by how we stack up against others. We see it in culture, in politics, even in the church. Sure, I’ve got issues, but at least I’m not as bad as…. That kind of thinking either feeds our pride when we are “winning” or condemns us when we’re not.  Life becomes a stress-filled performance of superiority or shame as we measure ourselves against both the achievements of others and the ease with which we think they achieved them.

The Apostle Paul reminds us: “Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else, for each one should carry their own load” (Galatians 6:4–5). And the Bible also says, “Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus” (Hebrews 12:1–2).

The point isn’t whether you’re fast or slow, impressive or unnoticed. The point is that you’re walking with Jesus, carrying your load faithfully, and keeping your eyes on Him. Each of us has our own path, our own God-given abilities and our own customized pack. And the call is to encourage each other along the journey, not to compare or compete against one other.

So whether you’re the hiker out front or the one trudging behind, the invitation is the same: stop worrying about who’s ahead or behind, and walk with joy the trail God has marked out for you.

Because in the end, I don’t need to finish first—but I do want to finish faithful.