The gun went off, and I took off.
I felt my feet glide over the crushed gravel. I felt the air rushing by my ears. And I saw the pack of runners behind me.
It was my first Cross Country race in high school. And for a moment, I thought I might win it.
But then I felt my breath get heavy and my brow get sweaty. And I saw the hills up ahead.
There was no way I was going to keep this pace up.
I tried to fight the inevitable for a bit. But then a cramp emerged under my right rib. So, I slowed down and watched the pack whiz by me.
Now, I was on my own, plodding my way through the hills in a slow jog. It was a miserable, helpless feeling.
But then, something dawned on me. I’d run this course several times in practice. And I knew it better than my competitors.
I remembered that the circuit ended with a downhill, followed by a long straightaway. If I could take off on the downhill and maintain that momentum, I’d likely catch some of those runners who had just left me in the dust.
I followed this plan to perfection, passing startled runner after startled runner down the stretch.
And while I didn’t finish the race first — not by a longshot — I found myself beaming.
I had made something out of nothing.
I earned something valuable that day. Namely, a primer in race strategy.
You see, I had started the race thinking that effort was my key to success. But as I crossed the finish line, I realized that discretion mattered more.
I only had so much energy to give. If I kept going for it all at the start, I’d run out of steam before I reached my destination.
But if I conserved effort early on, and throttled down later, I’d be in good shape. I’d get the most out of my energy reserves, making it to the finish line in one piece. And I’d likely score a decent placement.
So, I started replicating my race strategy in subsequent contests. I would wait until the downhill to let it fly. And I’d use that momentum to pick off runners down the straightaway.
I never tired of seeing the panicked look on runners’ faces as I sped by them with the finish line in sight. It became my sole race motivation.
Eventually, this approach led to hardware. I medaled in the state championships.
But that turned out to be my final Cross Country race. I didn’t rejoin the team the next year. And I stopped running entirely for a time.
By the time I returned to the sport, I was a seasoned adult. I had gained much in maturity and wisdom. But I’d lost my grasp on strategy.
I would go into races with maximum effort and try to hang on for 3, 6 or 13 miles.
Surprisingly, I got away with it for a time. But eventually, my performance plateaued.
By this point, I was training with experienced runners. Many of them had coaches or had coached others. So, as big races approached, strategy conversations would percolate on our group runs.
I took these conversations to heart. I reconsidered how to race, how to pace my training runs, how to fuel, and how to recover. All of it would impact when I crossed the finish line.
Yes, going smart was better than going hard. It was just as it had been during my high school days.
But this time I was primed to remember the lesson. Maybe.
Most of my mornings start the same way.
I wake up and head out for a pre-dawn run.
Where I run from and how long I run for can vary. But my approach never does.
The days of me taking off like a racehorse are over. Even in training, I commit to going smart.
But something strange happens when I head home after my workout.
I shower, change clothes, and head to work. And in the process, I forget everything I’ve just practiced.
Yes, I approach my job, my errands, and other aspects of my day-to-day with an unrelenting tenacity.
I am dogged. I am determined. I only believe in going hard.
This ethos has paid dividends. It’s helped me build a career — twice — and live a fulfilling life.
But it’s also worn me down. It’s caused mental and physical fatigue. And sometimes, it’s led me to spiral.
All of this is tragically inevitable.
You see, going hard is an asset in certain situations. When we’re making a name for ourselves, we don’t get to choose when to give our best.
It’s full throttle all the time. It has to be.
But at some point, our ticket to the summit betrays us. That all-out grit becomes our undoing, sending us sliding down the mountaintop.
It’s our responsibility to see this demise coming. And it’s our obligation to change tactics to protect ourselves.
For our own preservation, we must switch from going hard to going smart.
I’ve figured this out in my competitive running career — twice. But in the world outside of running, I’ve missed the boat. Repeatedly.
I’m afraid I’m not the only one in this predicament. But it needn’t become manifest destiny.
Early in the COVID pandemic, I did something incredibly common.
I went online and ordered an outdoor furniture set.
I envisioned this furniture sitting on my patio someday. But what I didn’t envision was how I was going to put the set together.
So, when some boxes arrived at my door — filled with parts and a page of instructions — I knew I was in trouble.
At first, I tried to solve this problem by going hard. I followed the instructions the best I could, putting more and more effort into the project.
But I quickly realized I was in over my head. I didn’t have power tools and had no concept as to whether I was doing this right.
Flustered, I pivoted.
I hired a handyman, who put the furniture together in less than two hours. His work remains intact on my patio to this day.
I hadn’t thought much about that situation until I sat down to write this article. But it proves the value of going smart.
If I had doubled down on going hard, I might have gotten that furniture put together. But I likely would have injured myself or melted down in rage during the process.
The toll of going all-in would have been heftier than the benefits.
Fortunately, I never faced that toll. I made the smart move instead.
I can take something from this experience. We all can.
There are times when it makes sense to take a step back. To consider other options than Try Harder. And to calibrate our efforts accordingly.
Navigating this nuance won’t be easy. But it will be beneficial.
Much like runners, we’ll conserve our energy. We’ll maximize our performance. And we’ll likely be happier than we otherwise would have been.
Going hard is a means to an end. Going smart is a path to sustained success.
Let’s follow it.