When I was 14 I tried out for the track and field team at school just to try something new and different. It wasn’t difficult to make the team because the school was small. Essentially, anyone who showed up was put on the starting lineup. I played other sports like soccer and basketball, but I never took part in any pure running events. I wasn’t very fast, and I didn’t see the point in running for a very long time, so I found a middle distance: the 800-meter. A race that consisted or running twice around a typical track.
As in other sports, I was used to listening to the coach’s instructions. For the 800-meter, the coach’s advice was simple: stay with the pack; when you round the third corner of the second lap, break away and sprint to the finish. I thought that it was a strange strategy, but I also had no experience in this area so I should just listen to the coach. Certainly, he had to know what he was doing.
For several weeks I practiced running with two other guys, following the coach’s instruction. I would come up to the line, the starting gun would fire, and then, shoulder to shoulder, we muscled back and forth for a lap and three quarters. We plodded along, barely breaking a sweat. Then for about 125 meters we would run at full speed. Though I followed these instructions diligently, I never finished first. In fact, I never finished second either. I was third of three, so I was last—every time.
Every day we practiced, and every day I came in last. I knew I wasn’t a superstar, but I knew that I was better than last place.
As time passed, I thought the strategy was just dumb. Go really slow, stay next to the other guys, then run and pray you can beat them at the end. I didn’t understand it. I thought it was supposed to be a race. I thought you were supposed to go as fast as you could from the very first second—just like car racing. On your mark, set, GO! The coach’s strategy was the opposite, however. It seemed more like, “You can start now…if you want,” and then the runners would merely gallop, like friendly horses in a field of grass. All of this rummaged around my head, but I was too young and too inexperienced to question the coach, so I just listened and went along with the pack.
A school was allowed to send only two members to the county track and field competition. I was always in last at practice, so I was designated “alternate.” A few days before the county track meet, one of the other guys came down with the flu. The coach tapped me on the shoulder and said, “OK, you’re up.” It was great news.
I was so excited to go to the big meet that I begged my mother to take me shopping for a brand-new pair of shoes. We ran in cleats provided by the school, but I knew it was important to look the part of a star athlete before and after the race. In my family, new shoes generally only happened at the beginning of a school year. This was springtime, so my “old” shoes were meant to last at least five more months. Nevertheless, I convinced my mother it was a big occasion since it was a new sport and I had just made the team.
It took less than 10 minutes to pick out new Nikes, shiny and white with a baby blue swoosh on the side. Now I was ready for the track meet.
There were hundreds of people at the event. School buses were lined up all around the park. There were flags, signs, whistles, starting guns, and cheering—a lot of excitement and a lot of distraction. It definitely was difficult to stay focused on what I was there to do.
I was happy to be there, but I was also worried because I had always finished last amongst three guys. Now, I was worried that I might finish last amongst 20 guys, in front of all of those people cheering. I didn’t know what to expect.
As it drew closer to race time, I became more nervous. I watched guys from other schools gather around the starting line. Some of them were very tall and very muscular while I was a lanky, skinny kid. More and more runners came around and I was certain that I was going to be crushed in a pack of them. I was strong, but these guys were just big. I was convinced that there was no way I could survive next to them. I also knew if they were that big they had to be fast. Just by looking at them, I didn’t know if I could even keep up with them. The only experience I’d ever had was running next to two other guys who were about my size and a little bit faster than me.
Soon, the race official called everyone to the starting line. My mind was racing faster than I could ever run. I desperately searched for an answer as to what to do; partly to avoid the shame and humiliation of finishing in last place among 20 people, and partly because the competitor in me understood that this was a competition—that it was only about beating the other guys.
Everyone came to the line. The biggest guys huddled on the inside, closest to the field. I couldn’t muscle my way anywhere on the front line—I got stuck in the second row. I was very frustrated. My frustration grew to anger and then I made up mind before the starting gun was fired: “I’m not coming in last.”
“Bang!”
I could smell the puff of smoke from the starting gun and then all went silent. I put my head down and ran like a charging bull. I plowed into the thoroughbreds ahead of me. I squeezed in between two of them, pushing my way through, and then started running like a spooked deer. I was pure lightning.
For the first three hundred meters I heard nothing—not even my footsteps. I didn’t look back and I didn’t look to either side of me. All I saw were the white lines on the track. My arms pumped back and forth as I took the longest strides. I was solely focused on running as fast as I could.
I approached the four hundred-meter mark—the halfway point. I saw friends and strangers jumping up and down and waving their arms. I could see their mouths saying, “Go! Go! Go!” I started to get excited; I knew that no one was in front of me. I knew that I was leading. But, then, out of the big crowd on the sidelines, I spotted something strange. I saw my coach. He wasn’t cheering; he was laughing hysterically. I wasn’t sure what was happening. All of a sudden, all of the sounds came into my head. I heard the screams and the cheers and I could hear my feet digging into the track. I looked back for the first time and I saw that I was at least a hundred meters ahead of the entire pack. There was no one remotely close to me. I thought, This is great! But I also couldn’t understand why my coach was laughing so hard. I was very confused, but I just continued to push as hard as I could.
And then it happened.
My body started to get heavy.
I was going into the third turn and I now heard feet behind me. I turned and saw two giants twenty meters away and the pack was twenty meters behind them. I thought, No problem. One last turn and I’m there, across the finish line.
My body got heavier and heavier. It was as if someone had poured cement into me. My legs weren’t following instructions from my brain.
As I approached the fourth and last turn, the two Clydesdales passed me.
I could see the finish line. I continued to dig and push forward but I couldn’t catch the two front-runners. They moved farther and farther away from me. The heavy feeling turned to pain in an instant, and my legs started to burn. Nothing I could do would make me move faster.
I now heard the pack behind me. I could hear their feet pounding and scraping and I was certain that I was doomed. I now understood why my coach was laughing. He knew what I was just coming to learn the hard way; that you can’t run a long distance in a full-out sprint.
I could hear the pack approaching and thought this would be an ugly, embarrassing lesson if they passed me. I had gone out on a limb, broken rules, and tried something different, only to come in last place, again. Somehow, at that moment, my legs loosened up a bit—just enough to push that last fifty meters.
I crossed the finish line, alone, in third place.
As I fell to the ground, on the side, in the grass, the remaining pack of runners crossed in unison.
Friends and strangers came over and congratulated me. Third place got me a ribbon. I should have felt great, but I was too young and too immature to hear anything other than the few voices that said, “You’re crazy.”
My coach, still laughing, led the chorus with, “What were you thinking?” Somehow, my coach led me to believe that if I had run the race his way, I could have won, despite the fact that when I ran his way, I was always in last place. As an adult I understand that he was a moron and a lousy leader, but as an insecure adolescent, the message being driven into my head was: “Just follow the rules and go with the flow.” I should have been happier with my outcome but, as is so often the case, there are always critics who are there to rain on our parade.
Sullenly, I grabbed my duffle bag and walked up into the stands, near the top of the stadium, to be by myself, to look at the track and think about how I could have run a better race.
As I sat there staring at the track, a very tall man in a sweat suit came over to me. His jersey showed a logo from the university’s track team. He sat down about three feet away from me. A long minute passed and then, without any introduction or small talk, he simply said, “Hey, man.” I turned to him and asked, “Me?” He nodded and said, “That was the gutsiest thing I ever saw. Good for you. Keep at it.” I smiled and then he got up and walked away. I couldn’t believe it. A university track athlete was praising me. He actually liked what I did. It was awesome; I felt redeemed. I thought, Forget the critics. I know what I am doing. I’m good at this.
What a great feeling it was. I was now so excited to get home and tell my parents what I had accomplished.
Still wearing my cleats, I opened up my duffle bag to retrieve my running shoes. What did I find? Nothing. They were gone.
As I’d attempted my heroic, lunatic dash on the 800 meters, someone had stolen my brand-new Nikes. While everyone was watching me, no one was watching my bag. I hate thieves.
Now, instead of telling my parents that I had won a ribbon, I would have to explain to them why my new shoes were missing. A fun night would now be a night and maybe several days of consternation over wasted money.
What’s the moral of the story?
Sometimes life sucks.
It really does.
It’s filled with nonstop nonsense.
And business life? It’s worse.
It is a life of never-ending challenges. It’s up and down. One minute you are crazy, the next you are an inspiration, and then, in an instant, you are at the bottom again, holding an empty bag.
What have I learned about business from the dead and dying? I learned that being an entrepreneur is not about freedom; it is anything but. Many people start a business because they don’t want to answer to anyone. In reality, when you own a business, you answer to everyone. You are accountable to every single person within your sphere of influence around that company; the customers, the suppliers, the creditors, and your employees. If you give up a typical corporate job for the life of an entrepreneur, you are trading one boss for hundreds of them.
The dead and dying have taught me that to run a small business one must be absolutely comfortable with a life of uncertainty.
So, why do it at all? Why work every day for what might amount to very little financial return? Why bother to go up against all of the odds of failing companies? Because sometimes doing nothing is worse. The very idea of creating something new, building a team, and sharing your service or product with the community is exciting. It’s a new life force. When done properly, it can build and grow and be part of many different communities. In some instances, it can exist for decades. Just knowing that you can create a living entity that shares your beliefs, values, and ideas with so many different people for so long is very exciting—even exhilarating.
The dead and dying have taught me that we should fight for the vibrancy of life as long as we can. Life is hard but it doesn’t mean we have to suffer. And, if we are suffering, it doesn’t mean we have to die. There is a vibrancy of life that exists in every person and every business. Look for it and make it resonate throughout your entire community. And, if you need help, call me.