achievement – what a fool believes . . . .

Cycling

I cycled the Katy Trail – at least part of it – last weekend with a couple of my best friends from college.

It was an interesting trip, and, as usual for these types of unusual experiences, highly informative. I learned so much. About Missouri. About my friends. And mostly about myself.

Central Missouri, at least along the Missouri River, is a beautiful, largely friendly place. For most of the ride we had the river on one side and bluffs on the other. The river is huge, much beefier than anything I’m used to seeing, and the bluffs are either exposed and looming or covered in vegetation and towering. Trailside trees make canopies in spots, tunnels in others. And when the river is away from the trail, fields of corn and soybeans cover the floodplain. The folks in the towns along the trail are welcoming. Very open and very helpful (with the exception of one intimidating general-store owner). And they love their Cardinals if shirts and hats are an accurate indication of such sentiments. . . .

Our ride went from Boonville to St. Charles, about 155 miles, with another 20-ish in side trips to Jefferson City and Hermann, over 4 days. It is the longest ride by far either of my friends have made, and so it tested them. It was easier for one than the other.

My first friend has arthritis and is significantly overweight, though he has been losing weight for a few months, and he did prepare for the ride by going on regular weekend rides in Chicago. He also drew the short straw on the rented bikes, getting the oldest and biggest and heaviest bike among the three of us. He struggled physically, slowing as the day and days went along. His arthritis affected him as he stayed in the same position on the bike for hours, and he spent a lot of the first couple days deep in the pain cave. He never complained, but it seemed to me that he often wondered if he’d be able to finish the ride. On the third day his rear wheel went way out of true, so we passed the bike around – when he was on one of the other bikes, his ride felt a lot better, which lifted his mood, and the fourth day he got a new bike, which made a huge difference in how he felt. It was so gratifying to see him finish the ride and to see in him the pride that comes with completing something that is really hard to do.

My other friend had the opposite experience: he was the nervous one going into the ride, but when we got started he was nearly euphoric with how manageable he found it. He’s been training consistently for nearly a year now, and he dedicated a large part of his training in the weeks leading up to the ride to the bike. That preparation paid off big time. He could easily handle the pace and the distance, and the confidence that bloomed the first day just continued to grow over the rest of the trip. He was very pumped by the end, and so excited that he started talking about other trips we could do.

As for me, I enjoyed the ride, but for different reasons than I expected. I always like spending time with these friends, and being with them for 4 consecutive days was no strain at all. But where I thought the ride itself might be the background for more vivid interactions with my buddies it actually became the centerpiece of the time we spent together. We pedaled probably over 17 hours, and over that time I became first aware and then deeply appreciative of the act of cycling in a way I’ve never felt before. I realized that being outdoors, in nature, moving myself through space, gave me a deep and profound joy that was even more satisfying because it was also unexpected. That I got to share that joy with close friends added to the delight.

I wouldn’t hesitate to reprise the experience, preferably with company and even more preferably with the specific company I had on this ride, but my biggest learning was that I can enjoy such a trip even if I made it alone. And I like knowing that.

Timidity

Ah, cursed timidity! It has been my bane for the whole of my life.

I am smart. Maybe even very smart. I believe I’m generous. Kind. I don’t take myself seriously even as I am serious about my thoughts and ideas. I believe in the importance of living life for our own individual prosperity (broadly defined, to include emotional and intellectual satisfaction along with material wealth) as well as for our collective benefit, not sacrificing one for the other. My instincts are usually spot on, and, despite the current evidence of this paragraph to the contrary, I am humble enough to know that my strengths make me no more worthy of preference than any other person out there.

My faults are many too.

I spend most of my time between my own ears, often oblivious to what’s happening around me. I can be short-tempered, even irascible to those closest to me. I’m indifferent about keeping a clean house and yard, and it can take me a very long time to tackle important tasks that don’t inspire me. And, worst of all, I sometimes use my perceptive powers to wound people where they feel most vulnerable.

The scales may balance in favor of the good me, but the outcome is not overwhelming. What might make it more definitive is if I marshaled my not insignificant capabilities and did something impactful with them. Something that would make the world a better place. And not just marginally either.

Like found a company that would help people all over improve their health by exercising and eating better diets.

Or advocate about how we might find common ground and collectively manage our communities so they serve the needs of more people in more depth.

Or develop a curriculum that teaches us life skills that can prepare us to handle our own affairs more effectively.

Or create a resource that helps teenagers and twenty-somethings manage their transitions to independent, fully-functioning participants in our communities.

You see, ambition isn’t my limiting factor. Nor is capability. I believe I have everything it takes to create something significant. Vision. Ability to build a roadmap to success. Building a strong team. Communicating value to customers, employees, investors. Making decisions to benefit all stakeholders.

Everything, that is, except the willingness to take the risks to actually try.

Maybe one day I will find the courage to make the attempt and sustain it. My history warns against it, but I haven’t lost all hope.

I’m usually not one to quote beer commercials, but sometimes we find eternal truths in unexpected places, so: One life. Don’t blow it.

Motivation

Whoever unlocks the secret to motivation will be incredibly rewarded for those insights.

I like to work out. I like to have worked out. But I often struggle to begin a workout. And I don’t have the slightest clue as to why that is. I’ve completed several marathons and half-marathons, Ironman and 70.3 triathlons, century and multi-day bike rides, and I’ve been training – save when I’ve been injured – for nearly 15 years.

And I still choose my bed or my sofa over my workout more often than prudence would dictate.

Meeting someone for a run or a ride is perhaps the best way to get me to the start of my workout. The terror that comes with committing to something I’ve not done before is another effective method. Absent either of those prods I’m just as likely to turn off the alarm or find a seems-like-compelling-at-the-time reason to do something else.

Perhaps it is as simple as genetic coding. We rest because we’re programmed to do so, to conserve our energies. Or maybe I’m just afraid or anxious or worried about falling short. Which is why, you’d think, that I’d be more determined to practice. If we ever needed evidence to show that we’re not a rational species I think our collective behavior around exercise would settle the argument: we know physical activity is critical to our health, and yet we seem to actively avoid it.

No, not always. But consistently.

And I feel tremendously disappointed with my choice when I bail on a workout. If the positive vibe post-workout isn’t enough motivation, you’d think the post-workout-shirking shame would do the trick. But no.

So what can get me to the gym day in and day out?

That is the more-than-one-million-dollar question.

Intelligence

It’s better to be smart than not smart, I suppose. But intelligence is still way overrated.

“He’s so smart.” “She’s very intelligent.”

Observations, perhaps, but meant to explain outperformance and convey expectations. Being smart is supposed to be the ticket to success. In a binary world, a world that demands the simplicity of an A or B choice, being smart is held up as the determinant of success. We all want our children to be smart, even more than we want them to be attractive or funny, kind or curious, even more than we want them to be happy. Not because we’re jerks. Because we think that if they are smart, they will be successful, and that their success will lead to their happiness.

Putting aside that there are many paths to happiness, and putting aside that assessing both intelligence and success are largely subjective exercises, being smart is nothing but one of several factors that affect outcomes. Even if we say success is excellence in a chosen area, intelligence alone is no guarantee that someone can achieve it.

Take me, for example. I am smart. Even very smart.

But I am not excellent in any field. In 30 years spent in the employ of different companies large and small I ascended to middle management. And I wasn’t held in high esteem in my later years, when I reached an age where my future potential was no longer as significant as the possible trajectories of others in my firm. I am an endurance athlete, but I’m not an elite performer. I have thrown pots for a dozen years or more, and I still have yet to create a single work that would be considered sublime. I don’t suck at any of those things. I’m just not excellent.

Being smart is almost certainly better than not being smart. But you need many other attributes to be excellent. Awareness. Determination. Curiosity. Organization. Focus. Commitment. Discipline. Prioritization. There aren’t many people who live at the intersection of all of those characteristics, so there aren’t many people who can be truly excellent. And as Malcolm Gladwell helpfully pointed out in his book Outliers, you also need luck.

Excellence is a complex brew, and we don’t do complexity very well. We want things to be simple. And obvious. And we’ve settled on intelligence as our proxy.

But we’re wrong. Not for the first time, and probably not for the last time either. But we are wrong.

My Daughter

My oldest daughter graduated from college over the weekend.

Such milestones prompt reflection for me. I couldn’t help but relive her birth, the delight I felt in her infancy, the mental and emotional turbulence of seeing her navigate her young life, cheering (and sometimes cringing) as she faced fears and tackled new challenges with varying degrees of success, balancing support for her with coaching and even discipline. I was better at the coaching and discipline, I’m afraid.

With some chagrin I admit that she emulated my study habits in her early academic career, procrastinating on homework and projects until she absolutely had to begin. As much as she was afraid of engaging with her work – afraid she wouldn’t measure up, I suspect – she couldn’t let her teachers down by failing to turn in something. I saw a lot of myself in her then: awareness of her talents, but unsure if they would really translate to excellence, and very much afraid to find out.

Some of my favorite memories of time with her were very stressful. She demands much energy at the best of times, but when she had a school project due, well, anxiety ran very high. Still, once we had a plan, we worked well together. She’s always been able to focus on the task at hand once she settles on it.

CLB Graduation Steps 4 Blog Our work together started with her fourth-grade California history project. We made a model of a gold-rush settlement called Squabbletown mostly out of popsicle sticks. It took many steps – we had to make the ground, paint it, add foliage, build and assemble the buildings – all of which we crammed into the weekend before it was due. Naturally.

She started off the same in middle school. Her project then was to build a model of an Egyptian sarcophagus. Again, multiple steps of designing the coffin, finding materials, painting, assembling, and writing a narrative. All of which we crammed into the weekend before it was due. Same with a model of the Parthenon.

And then she parted ways with my own middle-school self (that extended through my college graduation, and, to be honest, beyond). She found that the stress of delaying her projects affected her much worse than the thought that she might not deliver an acceptable product.

In seventh grade she started planning her projects, finishing them well before their due dates and enhancing her happiness greatly. She stopped needing my help. I had been the training wheels for her academic bicycle ride, and, as is the fate of parents throughout time, I was sidelined to her developing competence. And as much as I hoped for that transition, as much as I ache to see her blossom into all of her abilities, I miss not the uncertain and underconfident little girl (though I loved that little girl fiercely) but rather the tangible value I provided that she needed then and doesn’t need now. I have to admit that I’m a bit adrift, searching for the things that she needs from me now. The challenge is no longer hers, but mine, and I’ve not built all the habits or mastered the skills that will tell me what those are. But I do strive, because I believe that she needs me, even if I don’t know exactly how.

Watching her become not just more capable but also more aware of her talents and more sure of her efforts has been as gratifying and as satisfying as anything I’ve ever done myself. Seeing her pride in her success, watching her with the friends who adore her, hearing the professors who praise her, it’s all so affirming. Of what she’s done to this point, but also of the efforts of her mother and me. Accepting her hard-won diploma (magna cum laude, no less – please forgive me) was a milestone for her.

And for me. And I hope there are many more milestones ahead.

Pride

Pride has a bit of a bad rap, I think.

It’s inclusion as one of the 7 deadly sins seems excessive. I mean, murder doesn’t make the cut, but pride does? Taking satisfaction in something you’ve achieved is not only incredibly human – isn’t achieving something of which we can be proud one of the prime motivating forces within each of us? – I think it’s constructive. Achieving something that makes me proud puts me in a great mood and adds to my confidence to strive further still.

I concede that, like everything else we do, pride has its seemly limits, and it’s grating at best and infuriating at worst when you have to interact with someone who is full of himself. Using a parallel to sister-sin gluttony, I can eat one, two or even three Oreo cookies without harm to anyone while granting myself an enjoyment. If I eat 100 of them, however, I’m not going to enjoy it, and pity anyone who has to see me vomit them up or deal with the mess that makes.

I am conflicted about pride though. I am a father to two daughters, surprisingly different from one another, and yet each spawns in me a feeling best described as pride. They are both remarkable people: thoughtful, responsible, funny, capable, with only a shared talent for creating untidy spaces to mar their perfection. And I revel in all of it.

But I have rarely, if ever, told my children that I am proud of them. I worry that my pride in them actually diminishes them.

They are not my creations, so why should I feel so much satisfaction as they reveal their brilliance and wit and humanity or as they accomplish amazing feats of intellect, reason, creativity and generosity? Only half their genes come from me, and even in that I’ve just been the vessel from my own parents and grandparents and theirs too. While I’ve had a hand in raising my children, helping them through a variety of experiences, teaching them skills and knowledge and sharing my perspectives, what I’ve contributed to their development is nowhere near half of what they’ve absorbed. There’s no denying I’ve had some influence, but even if that influence is one of the most significant in their lives, it’s still responsible for just a fraction of the persons they’ve become. A village really does raise all children.

There is only one person who directly experiences the pleasures and pains, triumphs and humiliations and decides how she will absorb them into her personhood, who reads and observes and tries and adjusts and chooses what to believe and when to shed that belief in favor of something else more true. And it’s not me. So when I feel that swell of pride, I also feel that it’s fraudulent. Sharing their joy, reflecting their own pride to validate their feelings – those feel legitimate. But taking pride myself in their achievements? It may not be deadly, but it does feel wrong.

Kinda sinful, I guess.