The 200-meter dash.
It’s a spectacle of speed.
Contestants line up in starting blocks on the rounded edge of the track oval. When the gun goes off, they accelerate through the curve and then blaze their way down the straightaway.
The 200 is a forgiving race. Unlike the 100, it isn’t necessarily decided out of the blocks. The curve can equalize the field.
But the 200 can also be a defining race. So many track legends have found glory at that distance.
I’ve never run the 200 myself. After an ill-fated go at the 100 as a child, I moved on to cross-country in high school, and then distance races in adulthood.
And yet, I’ve found somewhat of a kinship with the 200 in my life. I tend to accelerate through the curve in whatever I pursue. And once I hit the straightaway, I turn on the jets.
This has been the case in multiple careers. It’s been true for me in college and graduate school. It’s even been evident with my running renaissance.
I’ve started cautiously in all these exploits, uncertain about what lay ahead. And yet, once the wheels started moving, I’ve picked up speed like a freight train.
I’ve added more and more responsibilities. I’ve filled up my schedule. And I’ve raised the level of devotion to my craft.
Such attributes are often lauded. Our society favors those who finish strong.
But what if I’m not finishing? What if the straightaway goes beyond the horizon?
Does the calculus change then?
There’s a lot of talk these days about burnout. And with good reason.
With all the changes in our world, the boundaries between our vocations and our personal lives have shifted.
If we’re being honest, there are no boundaries anymore. And this inability to recharge has effectively shut us down and boxed us in.
This is certainly a worrisome issue, worthy of our consideration. But so is its opposite number — the crash and burn.
We crash and burn when we wind ourselves up into knots. When we get out over our skis. When we set a pace we could never expect to sustain.
The crash and burn represents a cruel irony. Just when it looks like everything is firing on all cylinders, it all falls apart.
I’ve long been terrified of this outcome. My accelerant nature has made it a possibility — even a likelihood.
And yet, I’ve been unable to change course. I’ve found myself powerless to reduce the risk.
For taking my foot off the gas would welcome complacency to the equation. It would break the chain of everything I’d built. It would send me back in time, all the way to age 16.
In those days I was aimless. I was too timid to be a bad boy, but too unsure of myself to commit to excellence.
This all angered my mother, who saw my grades slipping and my motivation waning. One night, in a fit of exasperation, she called me lazy.
It could have been a label I just shook off. But, by the grace of God, I didn’t.
Being referred to as lazy lit a fire under me. A fire that’s burned for more than half my life. A fire that’s gotten me to where I am today.
There’s no way I could risk giving that up. I wouldn’t even dare give an inch.
At least that’s what I thought until recently.
It was a beautiful winter day in North Texas. One of those days you pine for during the searing heat of summer.
But I didn’t spend one-second basking in the sunshine. I stayed indoors all day, barely moving from my sofa.
Such do-nothing days are somewhat routine for many of us — particularly during a pandemic that has featured stay-at-home orders.
And yet, it was unheard of for me.
You see, for more than two years, I’d worn down my front door. Whether it was hot or cold outside, with blue skies or stormy ones, I’d walked or run at least a mile each day.
Somewhere in that process, I’d gotten a smartwatch. And I’d developed an unhealthy obsession with reaching the activity goals the device defined for me.
I’d reached them for 400 straight days when the sun came up on this winter day. And I’d decided the streak would not reach 401.
So, I sat the day out. And I took the next day — a workday — off from exercising as well.
I wish I could say that this forced siesta was relaxing. That it left me rejuvenated and prepared to take on what lay ahead.
But truth be told, I spent most of that time worrying about my first day back on the horse. Would I be able to bounce back now that I’d broken the chain?
As it turns out, my fears were unfounded. I was able to get back into the flow seamlessly after those two days off. It was as if the hiatus had never happened.
And with that revelation, two decades of my modus operandi went up in smoke.
There’s something remarkable that only the greatest basketball players possess.
It’s not the size or the freakish athleticism. It’s not their aptitude at shooting the ball while off-balance. It’s not even the ability to raise their game when the stakes are highest.
No, the greatest basketball players — from Michael Jordan to Kobe Bryant to LeBron James — they’ve been able to change speeds. They’ve had the ability to drive hard to the hoop or take things slow on the perimeter, depending on what the situation called for. Sometimes, they’ve even mixed both tactics to leave defenders in the dust.
These talents are awe-inspiring on the basketball court. But they needn’t be extraordinary off it.
As we navigate the marathon of life, we should alter our pace. We should maintain that burst as we sprint into new passions, vocations, or initiatives. But we should consider taking our foot off the gas now and then to preserve ourselves for the long haul.
This strategy is not without risks. There is a chance we could lose our momentum for good.
But the alternative is far riskier. We’re just not built for it.
So, let’s be bold, determined, and courageous. But let’s also be smart.
It will put us in a better position for success.