Before You Judge the Climber

We see a person’s pace. We rarely see the resistance.

Christine and I were driving from Mammoth Lakes toward Pinecrest with our mountain bikes secured to the hitch rack behind us when we came across a beautiful trail. It was an eight-mile round trip: four miles climbing up, then four miles riding back down.

It looked like the perfect place to stop.

Earlier in the trip, Christine had impressed me with how well she could keep up on rigorous hikes straight up the sides of mountains. She was strong. She was capable. She had already proven that more than once.

But this was our first mountain-bike ride together, and almost as soon as we began climbing, she started falling behind.

I would ride ahead, then slow down and look back. She was working hard, but the distance between us kept growing. Even she could not understand what was happening.

“Wow,” she said, “these bikes must work different muscles than hiking!”

I remember thinking, Damn, she’s really struggling.

Her bike was even more expensive than mine. From everything we could see, she had good equipment, a strong body, and the same trail in front of her. The obvious explanation seemed to be that mountain biking simply was not her strength—or perhaps that she could not keep up with me because I was the stronger rider.

Then I offered to switch bikes.

Within minutes, the entire story changed.

Suddenly, I was the one fighting for every foot of elevation. Every pedal stroke felt heavy. The bike resisted me constantly, as though the mountain had become steeper beneath my tires. Meanwhile, Christine rode my bike toward the top with ease.

By the time I finally reached the end of that four-mile climb, I was drenched in sweat and nearly dead. Christine was hardly out of breath.

At the top, I flipped both bikes over and spun their back wheels.

Mine kept spinning for several minutes.

Hers barely completed two rotations.

The rear wheel had been rubbing against the brake caliper the entire time. It was creating relentless resistance—mile after mile, pedal stroke after pedal stroke—yet neither of us could see it while she was riding. From the outside, the bike looked fine. Christine looked fine. The only visible evidence was that she was moving more slowly than I was.

And because I could not see the resistance, I almost mistook her struggle for weakness.

I made a quick adjustment, got the wheel spinning freely, and handed the bike back to her. Just in time for the descent, the bike that had seemed so difficult was suddenly perfectly fine.

She had not changed.

The resistance had.

That ride taught me something I do not want to forget: we are far too quick to judge people by their pace when we know nothing about the drag on their wheels.

We see where someone is on the mountain, but not what it has cost them to get there. We compare distances without comparing burdens. We call one person disciplined and another lazy, one successful and another broken, as if everyone began at the same trailhead with the same equipment, the same weather, and wheels that turned equally freely.

They did not.

Some people are pedaling against trauma they cannot yet name. Some are carrying grief, depression, abuse, disability, poverty, addiction, shame, or a nervous system that has spent years bracing for danger. Some inherited stable homes, healthy models, useful connections, and second chances. Others inherited chaos and then were condemned for not knowing peace.

Sometimes even the person who is struggling does not know what is wrong. Christine did not make excuses. She assumed the problem was her. She thought perhaps she was using the wrong muscles or simply was not as capable on a bike.

How many people have done the same thing with their lives?

How many have mistaken hidden resistance for a personal defect?

From the outside, people see only the person with an addiction who lost his home. They see the person released from prison who cannot get a job. They see the employee who cannot seem to get ahead, the parent barely holding the family together, or the person who keeps falling back into survival. They see the outcome and build a story about character.

They do not see the brake caliper.

They do not see the record that closes doors before an interview begins. They do not see the untreated wound beneath the behavior, the night spent sleeping in a car, the cravings being resisted hour by hour, the applications sent into silence, or the enormous effort required just to appear “normal.” They see someone moving slowly and assume that person is not trying.

But if we switched bikes—truly switched bikes—would we be doing any better?

It is easy to feel strong when our own wheels are spinning freely. It is easy to preach discipline from level ground, to lecture resilience from safety, or to call someone weak when we have never carried what they carry. What looks like an ordinary mile to us may be an uphill battle against constant, invisible friction for someone else.

This does not mean people are powerless. It does not mean choices do not matter or that every obstacle can be solved with one quick adjustment. It means compassion should come before conclusion. Curiosity should come before condemnation. Before asking, “What is wrong with this person?” perhaps we should ask, “What resistance are they fighting that I cannot see?”

Sometimes people need encouragement to keep pedaling. Sometimes they need treatment, accountability, opportunity, or a safe place to recover. Sometimes they need someone willing to stop comparing speeds, get off the bike, turn it over, and help find the source of the friction.

A person’s position is information. It is never their worth.

The mountain does not tell us who is better. The summit is not a throne, and the valley is not a verdict. Where someone stands today cannot reveal the full distance they have traveled, the weight they have carried, or the courage it took to make it this far.

So before you judge the climber who is falling behind, remember the wheel that would not turn.

You can see their pace.

You cannot always see their resistance.

And grace begins with the humility to admit that if you had been riding their bike, you might have struggled too.