In my next life, I'm going to be a trail runner. But in this life, I'm walking, hiking, scrambling . . . not running.

Don't get me wrong - I love to walk. But sometimes, I wish I had a runner's knees and a runner's will. I wish I could be the one that passes mere walkers on trails, my feet barely making impressions in the sand and gravel.

I wish I could be Matt Carpenter.

Carpenter, from Manitou Springs, is a world-class runner whose times in high-altitude races have become legend. He excels on rough, rocky trails that pierce the clouds, like the Barr Trail, where he holds the record for the Pikes Peak Marathon at 3 hours, 16 minutes, 39 seconds.

Carpenter lives near Pikes Peak and trains there, and it seems to me (although I can't prove it) that he watches the mountain so he will know when I am hiking on the trail. He does that so he can lace up his running shoes and breeze by me and, for extra measure, breeze by me again on his way down, before I reach the top.

His easy gait makes my hiking stride look positively leaden. He flies. I plod along. He runs. I walk. He is a bird. I am a (insert name of slow land mammal here).

In my more rational moments, when I'm not being reminded of my speed on the trail, I console myself with the memory of leisurely hikes where I savored every overlook, stopping to shoot photographs that now decorate the walls of my house.

But often when I hike, especially on a long or steep trail, I try to channel the quiet, dedicated runner. To a kind of "what would Matt do?" mantra, I push myself up the trail, reminding myself of the slogan of the running club he co-founded: "Go out hard. When it hurts, speed up."

Sometimes, you have to summon that extra effort when you least expect it. Several years ago, I was invited to join a local hiking club on their weekly trip. Its members were all women, ranging in age from around 35 to nearly 80. They were hikers, friends led by Peggy Parr, a Colorado Springs woman in her 70s who was somewhat of a hiking legend.

I didn't know what to expect, but Parr assured me that since we hadn't met and she wasn't sure of my fitness level, she planned a hike that was "just for fun - nothing too difficult." Later that afternoon, after post-holing nine miles through thigh-deep spring snow, we all stopped to catch our breath and rub the blood back into our wet, cold legs.

We had indeed "gone out hard," and when it was over, we were left with soaked hiking boots and a sense of accomplishment.

Parr led us through the deep snow with humor and authority and not a lot of chatter. "I don't like to hike with people who talk," she told me once, in the same tone of voice she might have said, "I don't like to hike with people who smell bad."

She enjoyed the pure physicality of hiking. Her speed wasn't in the Matt Carpenter realm, but her silence on the trail allowed her to concentrate and put on the miles.

Through the years, as Matt Carpenter has passed me on Barr Trail and treks through deep snow have reminded me of Peggy Parr, I developed my own method on the trail. It's not Matt Carpenter-fast and it's not Peggy Parr-silent, but it's a steady, comfortable pace that has served me well with trail runners and trail builders, friends who kept records of each hike and groups of strangers with a common interest in a destination.

Last summer, I signed up for a group hike sponsored by the Continental Divide Trail Alliance. The hike was advertised as "easy to moderate."

The group was varied in age and ability, and we didn't know one another. About a mile up the trail, an older hiker began to struggle. "I just can't make it," she confided in me, embarrassed. We weren't running, but the man who led the group had left her far behind. I stayed with her, and together, just 15 minutes behind the others, we arrived at the high point, a wildflower meadow just below tree line. She was awed and a little surprised at her stamina and before we parted ways, she was already planning her next hike.

Without knowing it, she had embraced the essence of Matt Carpenter's slogan. She had walked, slowly, one step at a time, but when it got hard, she pushed harder.

"I didn't think I could do it," she said. "Now I know I can."

Deb Acord is the author of Bike Colorado's Front Range, Happy Trails and Colorado Winter: Activities, Trails and Tips.