Introducing Our Outdoors Agony Uncle

 

Sometimes you just need a helping hand – whether it’s tough love, sage advice, or just a good place to have a whinge, Pat’s here to help with all your outdoor problems.

 

Most of my friends have one thing they’re really into. They’re climbers, runners, mountain bikers or paddlers, and they’re all pretty good at it. Meanwhile I’m bouncing between half a dozen hobbies and feel like I’m permanently average at all of them. Part of me loves the variety, but part of me feels like I don’t properly belong anywhere because I’m never fully committed to one thing. Am I spreading myself too thin? – Andy

 

Dear Andy,

I write to you from the sub-Antarctic region known as my garage – fancy, I know. I tell you this because it’s here, ensconced in my puffer jacket, that I find myself surrounded – dare I say mocked – by the detritus of past pursuits.

To my left, a pair of climbing shoes hang from a rusted hook; to my right, a disassembled rear bike rack languishes beside cobwebbed panniers. Rummage through the cupboard behind me and you’ll fish out a mask, snorkel, and dive computer. What I’m trying to say is: I get it.

Yours is a timely question. Just last week, Explorer Reece published a passionate defence of being what he terms a ‘Jack of All Adventures’. He argues in favour of being a perennial beginner, of trying new things for the sake of fun and learning instead of chasing unattainable perfection or proving one’s proficiency.

For what it’s worth, I agree with Reece. Nothing wrong with being a beginner. But it sounds like you’re struggling more with identity than aptitude. It sounds like what you’re experiencing isn’t really a fear of failure or mediocrity; rather, it’s a classic case of…where do I fit in?

I’m reminded of my university days, when I studied outdoor recreation (yes, Dad, it’s a real degree). The older students often spoke about a former classmate, a guy who made rock-climbing his entire personality and would arrive at the uni bar still wearing his harness. I can’t speak to his intentions with any certainty. Was he soft launching a foray into bondage? Did he whisper sweet nothings like crux and crimp to everyone within belaying distance? Impossible to say, but I think it’s safe to assume he went home alone.

I share this story because 1) lol, and 2) outdoor pursuits have a weird way of becoming an identity. In other words: verbs become nouns. You don’t just climb, you’re a climber. You don’t just run, you’re a runner.

But what if we zoomed out, Andy? 

What if you were simply someone who enjoys moving through the world?

Would that be so bad?

Because from where I’m sitting (in my garage, freezing), you’re not failing at six things. You’re succeeding at one. Yes, some people are climbers, some are runners and some are paddlers – good for them. We need these people. If nothing else, they make us look sane at the uni bar.

But there is another type of person in the outdoors and I’d wager you’re one of them. They’ll happily swap a trail run for a paddle, or a climb for a bike ride, simply because they love being outside. And these pursuits aren’t as different as they seem. Somewhere along the way you’ve learned to read all kinds of terrain. I bet you’ve developed good judgement, a sensible appetite for risk, and the ability to be uncomfortable without making it everyone else’s problem. I’d argue these characteristics are more important than technical ability. 

Truth is, one day your knees might decide they’re done with running. Or you’ll move somewhere without a climbing gym or whitewater. Life will get busy and instead of a weekend mission in the mountains, all you’ll manage is a 20-minute walk before dinner. These moments will be devastating if your identity is tied to one pursuit.

So no, Andy. You’re not spreading yourself thin. If anything, you’re broadening out. 

When I look around my garage, I don’t see evidence of indecision or someone who doesn’t belong. I see the signs of a life shaped by temporary enthusiasms. Each bit of equipment is responsible for a story, a friendship or a skill I didn’t have before. Perhaps there’s a price to pay – occasional envy, feelings of inadequacy – but the reward is a richer experience of the outdoors. 

I’d take that deal every time.

 

Got a question you’d love our Agony Uncle to half-answer with a bunch of anecdotes? Shoot it over to editorial@weareexplorers.co with ‘Agony Uncle’ in the subject line.