Learnings from an aimless bike ride
I round the corner, blinded by trees to what lies ahead. Wind rushes by my ears competing with the clicking of the bike wheels as I idle alongside the back of the high school. A gaggle of kids, dressed in matching shorts and t-shirts block the path 100 yards up, and I debate whether or not to turn around.
“Bike!” The voice reminds me of the possessive pelicans who nearly ate Nemo. “Bike! Bike! Bike!” The cross country team makes a chorus of the word as I approach. I smile as they part to let me through, the volume increasing until I pass the last of them, at which point they begin to cheer. For me or for themselves—doesn’t matter. The sun is shining, it is 10:30am on a workday, and it’s my first bike ride in years.
As I pedal away, I think of the conversations the kids had, or didn’t have, with their parents that morning. About masks, social distancing. About hand sanitizer. The kids were packed together, maskless and laughing.
Later, the path becomes a straightaway that stretches to the horizon before fading into a haze of summer heat. On either side are flora of endless variety. A pond, punctured by reeds. Fir trees. Cat tails. Elm, birch, oak and maple trees, each 30 feet tall and dense enough to block out the world beyond. The crickets trill, a muted referee’s whistle without end. Between a sudden break in the trees, I spy a giant metal tower, outstretched arms holding power lines, standing tall with many others all in a row. Holding American society on their shoulders like so many contemporary Atlases. Most days, I know that feeling. Today, I hold only a backpack, a notepad, and a borrowed pen.
Mile 5. I stop just in time to avoid crushing a garter snake underwheel, watching it swerve urgently to get to the other side of the path. I look up to a giant pyramid. The largest of its kind in North America, a building they say is unsellable because of a high-five-figure monthly heating bill. I take a picture, but I don’t send it to anyone or post it online.
A half mile later, I turn around and head back.
On the return trip, I am less present to the infinity around me. My thighs burn as I churn out the miles. No matter. As I coast into the driveway, I know the trip has served its purpose. I am full.
I almost didn’t go; riding a bike seemed an indulgence when compared to my life’s work. Like many founders, I spend my days emptying myself in pursuit of a greater purpose. That’s what it takes to lead a company. It takes a pervading dissatisfaction and unfaltering perseverance. It takes a commitment to excellence, especially when you don’t feel like it. We glorify this part of leadership, the emptying of ourselves in pursuit of a greater purpose, our Puritan forebears looking down upon us, smiling.
But leading a company also demands creativity. And creativity requires something different. Accessing our creativity asks that we refill that which we so readily empty in pursuit of our goals. That we nurture ourselves, following our passions and odd notions.
So few of us do this. We keep ourselves on task, prevent ourselves from slacking, and then we look upon those blessed few “creative geniuses” with obtuse wonder, as we distance ourselves further from our own creativity with every box we check. Instead of filling our creative bucket with painting or literature or a wooded path, we double down on our disciplines and become one of the lopsided leaders hustling to wring one more dollar out of this process or that. There are so many of us, squeezing.
And maybe we get there. Maybe the single-minded squeezing works, and we optimize the process to its utmost. We feel justified then; until we’re lapped by some stupid little toy a college kid cooked up. Some “creative genius” who decided to give himself the space to tinker and follow a hunch.
Somebody who, maybe, took a bike ride.
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