I was in line at the car wash when the issues started.
First, the Check Engine light turned on. Then the airbag deployment indicator illuminated.
The electronic display near my center console started flickering on and off. And my power windows stopped working.
It was as if my car was having a seizure.
I had a pretty good idea of what was happening. My alternator was failing, and my car’s electrical system was on its last legs.
My car still worked, but my options were severely limited. If the engine were to idle for a few minutes longer, I’d be done for.
I didn’t have the money for a tow truck. And I didn’t know who to call for assistance.
There was but one option. I had to get this hunk of sheet metal to the mechanic while I still could.
The first task was to peel out of the car wash line. Fortunately, I was far enough from the cashier that I could cut away without incident.
But that only started the adventure.
The mechanic was four miles across town, with a maze of city streets in between. I’d need to find a route that didn’t have too many turns. And I had to go just the right speed to glide through every green light without effort. For if I stopped – or braked and accelerated too much – the car might have died on me.
Fortunately, I knew this part of town like the back of my hand. So, the optimal route came to mind instantly.
There’d be one left turn at the next intersection, followed by a two-mile straightway, a right turn, a one-mile straightaway, two more right turns, and a half-mile jaunt down a highway access road.
So, four turns and two long straightaways. With five traffic lights mixed in for good measure.
It wouldn’t be the easiest sequence for a dying car to traverse. But it was a Sunday afternoon, and the roads were half empty. If I made it through that initial left turn, the rest would be attainable.
I turned out of the car wash entrance and made my way to that first intersection, gradually applying pressure to the gas pedal. The left turn arrow was illuminated ahead of me. But I was still hundreds of yards away.
Seconds felt like hours as the traffic light drew closer. Don’t change yet, I begged silently. Don’t change!
The light stayed green.
I barreled through the turn, pressing the gas pedal one more time as I hit the long straightaway.
The next three traffic lights were now my nemesis. I had to clear them in sequence without maneuvering my car too much.
It turned out I’d built enough speed to make that happen. Two miles rolled by without red lights, and I roared through a right turn onto the shorter straightaway.
I was about halfway through that straightaway when the electrical display went dark. As I cruised through the final green light at 40 miles an hour, I saw the speedometer needle go from 40 to 0 and back to 40, before cutting out entirely.
I was still going 40 miles an hour but in a mostly dead car. I had a mile to go and two turns to manage. And I could only steer and decelerate.
I could have given up then. But I’d come so far. I was determined to make it.
I guided the car to the end of the road, my foot hovering over the brake pedal. With the power steering now failing, I turned the wheel with force, making it through the successive right turns without incident. And I let the car glide down the access road until the mechanic shop came into view.
Then I turned into the parking lot and hit the brakes one last time.
I had made it.
Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.
This bit of wisdom comes from the pugilistic philosopher Mike Tyson.
The boxer infamous for biting his opponent’s ear and for getting a face tattoo might not seem like the best source of life wisdom. But Tyson is right.
We like to think we have a foolproof plan. We thrive under the illusion of control.
But inevitably, our best plans will get waylaid. And our reaction to that unexpected disruption will ultimately define us.
I wasn’t planning on my alternator going out while I waited for a car wash. The power failure hit me like a sucker punch to the jaw.
But I rallied.
I made a contingency plan on the spot. And I executed it nearly flawlessly.
As I reminisce about all this, one question above comes to mind above all others. How was I able to react so smoothly in a flash?
Some of it was experience. I’d just replaced my alternator months earlier, so I knew the warning signs of a power failure.
But much of it was innate. The quick, decisive actions I took were the product of something I like to call Efficiency Mode.
Efficiency Mode exists within all of us. It’s what steers us to the nearest restroom when our stomach starts acting up in public. It’s what shepherds us to safety when the skies darken and thunder booms around us.
Efficiency Mode brings out our best. It narrows our focus narrows and hones our decisiveness. It slows down time and enhances our ability to deliver optimal results.
But there’s a catch.
Efficiency Mode only exists in crisis. It only emerges when our plans have been waylaid. It only thrives when we’ve been punched in the mouth.
This leaves us with a conundrum. How do we handle the non-crisis times?
Do we carry on through life as usual, embracing the mantle of control while capturing only a fraction of our potential?
Or do we long for a rogue wave to knock us down, taking our efficiency into high gear?
The choice is ours.
The TV show Justified features plenty of colorful characters.
But few are as memorable as Bob Sweeney.
Sweeney is the fictional constable of Harlan, Kentucky. An awkward yet pleasant fellow, he’s played by the comedian Patton Oswalt.
Although his job is paperwork-heavy, Sweeney craves the thrill of big-time law enforcement actions. So, he always brings his “go bag” so that he’s “ready to jump” if the action gets heavy.
Many of us who have experienced that rush feel like Bob. We yearn for that next opportunity to use our “Go Bag,” because we know we’ll be bringing our best.
But the times between those times matter just as much.
If we can’t maintain excellence through the monotonous moments — when we can only top out at 80 percent of our potential — our crisis maneuvers will prove irrelevant. We’ll lose more in the balance than we gain in a pinch.
Yes, we need the plan and the ability to deviate from it. We need to throw confident haymakers and to rise from the mat when we take one on the chin.
When we master both, we will truly be in position to make an impact. But it takes a duality of commitment.
I’ve bought in. Will you?