Impetus of Effort
By Jon Greene
“It’ll be worth it… I think?”
That was the first thing on my mind as soon as my alarm went off at 4:30 a.m. I was set on a sunrise mountain bike ride and the goal was to do whatever it took to convince myself to get out of the warm bed. I hadn’t gotten much sleep. I would just go to bed the next night more tired.
The little sleep I did get was enough to give me some cognitive leverage over a recent conversation with a co-worker, one stooping below the standard required for productive communication. I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s say the conversation left me feeling both accomplished and ashamed.
Yet here I was again. Exhausted in the early hours of the morning from putting all my efforts into what I thought was a worthy recipient, some interpretation of what it means to work hard.
After all, the real victor in these situations is the one who gets to walk away from the conversation without ever feeling the urge to think about it again. I considered the results in my favor, but I certainly was not the victor. I was thinking about it again. I began to feel more and more like a loose piece of clothing snagged on a rough corner. I was getting too fixated on irrelevant details.
I often put this on display at work. For some reason, I am drawn into battles of intellect and the rigorous rapport that transpires from them. I busy myself with rebuttals, prolonging addressing more important matters.
I easily fall into spirited debates over the intent of a DFAR clause and its applicability to the matter at hand, but then come home and neglect the need for intentionality within my marriage and its applicability to my family.
I find myself working hard to gain the respect of a co-worker so that they trust my opinion when a question arises, but I forget the importance of gaining the trust of my son by taking him on the bike ride through the neighborhood that I promised him.
The point of this essay isn’t that work should be deprioritized in order to make room for life outside of work, nor vice versa. The reality is that both work and life require the highest level of effort we can offer.
That’s easier said than done.
I often find myself in situations where I end up enjoying one and despising the other. Days boil down into rhythms set in place by perceived obligations. Rhythms lull into complacency rather than curiosity. Rhythms look different for every person, but every person will experience this rigidity in some shape or form. It is part of life, part of growing up.
For me, these rhythms showed themselves as waking up, going to work, driving home, being a father/husband, going to bed, then repeating. Five isolated events that I was required to push myself through in order to get to the next day. Five days of this and I got to maybe do something fun on the weekend…
Maybe a mountain bike ride.
What a terrible, misleading, and fallacious concept, that at some point in life you “grow up” and your days get degraded into a system of fixed events with every possible opportunity for spontaneity stripped from them.
Yet, I believed it.
All of this was lingering in my mind from the night before as I lay in bed, trying to muster the effort to get out. I couldn’t quite make sense of it then. Even as I write this, I’m still not sure I understand. What I was sure of at that moment, though, was that I was ready to throw any unplanned event into the mix in a hazardous attempt to derail this rigidity as much as I could. The mountain bike ride felt unplanned.
That was enough reason to get me out of bed, so I rolled with it.
“Yeah, it WILL be worth it!” I convinced myself as I lay in bed while the snooze timer winded down.
It had been a few weeks since my last ride, and even longer since I had last seen a sunrise. I had to be home by 7:30 a.m. to lead an 8:00 a.m. meeting. If I could get to the trailhead by 5:30 I could summit at 6:00, catch the sunrise, ride a few trails for an hour, and be back home in time. Besides, I could already smell the coffee that I programmed to be ready when I walked downstairs, which was maybe the biggest incentive to get out of bed.
I jammed my bike into the trunk of my Honda Civic and prayed that it would be a smooth enough ride for my derailleur not to be bumped out of line. It was late October and there was a thick layer of condensation on my windshield, but my wipers weren’t working. I couldn’t afford a new wiper motor at the moment, which is the same reason my bike was jammed into the trunk of my car rather than strapped safely to a rack. I found a pair of my 2-year-old son’s shorts on the floorboard and started wiping the inside of the windshield just enough to where I could begin to make out the dotted yellow lines on the road.
“This will do,” I thought. I just needed to drive slowly, sip my coffee, and do so for the next 8 miles through town and up the mountain.
I arrived at the trailhead right on time. I saved half my thermos of coffee for the ride home. My reward for whatever this was that I was attempting to accomplish. It was pitch black out, and I could hear the faint hum of cars on Highway 72 about two miles down the mountain. There were plenty of people travelling to work at the same hour I deemed impressive for a morning bike ride. My heroic act was quickly humbled back down to reality.
Nonetheless, I locked in my front tire, adjusted my seat, and set a comfortable pace towards the top of Monte Sano Mountain.
The trail is a closed-off paved road inviting you into the shadows of the mountain. The darkness of the morning was paired with the motionless sea of trees ahead, masking the path ahead, fostering a sense of physical ambiguity that quickly blended into emotional. Where am I going? What do I want to get out of this?
The road was covered with two inches of fallen leaves. In all, it was a 17-minute ride up the mountain, with nothing but the sound of my tires pressing damp leaves into asphalt, like white noise drowning out anxious thoughts on a sleepless night. I had forgotten to put fresh batteries in my headlamp, and at this point, I sincerely regretted that oversight, particularly with all the fallen, rotten tree limbs hiding in the dim light. I’d also forgotten my headphones back home, my last line of defense to maintain any vibe I still had going.
Now I just felt like a guy on a bike riding up a hill in the dark that was covered in things that made it far too un-enjoyable, especially for an hour of the day best reserved for sleep.
I think I wanted a break from the reality of my life.
A sabbatical from my duties as a husband, father, employee…
I think that’s what I may have been after. But this bike ride through the cold morning air felt nothing like a break.
I thought back to a few articles I had recently read which told stories of thrilling adventures taken by people in a similar situation. Mountain climbs. River paddles. Cycle trips. Cave explorations. These people wrote confidently about how their troubles were left behind while they pushed through their expeditions.
I admit I’ve never felt inspired by these stories, but rather jealous. I’ve never bought into the idea that I could somehow make one problem go away by pursuing another. But I think this is exactly what I was trying to do, whether I knew it or not.
The quiet droning of my tires on the leaves began to feel less like a recess from reality, and more of a study hall for stress. From there and on, the slow minutes pedaling up the paved path induced nothing but frustration as I began to realize just how weak my impetus really was.
For the 17 minutes of my ride, I investigated further.
I decided that this recess I wanted, this “rest,” was much more complex than I wanted to admit. To make matters worse, the instruction on how to experience this escape from reality via adventure seem to be only provided by people who live a life I share little similarity with. They portray it as something I intentionally deprive myself of, as if I have the option to avoid the obligations that put me in this situation and yet choose not to.
Be it beauty, pain, love, or any other experience this world offers, the depth of rest and how we experience it is subjective to the individual. For me, rest is best experienced at the edge of exhaustion. This rest in the form of stillness is the very same rest that has been preached to me. Its message is one that chooses to defer the reality of responsibility, and I have no empathy for its ignorance. Besides, I had plenty of energy and no desire to “rest.” I knew the roots of my exhaustion to be far deeper than I had allowed myself to look.
One bend to the right, then one more to the left. I began to notice the faded pink sky off to my left, its appearance politely nudging me away from my cynical thoughts. I was a few hundred feet from the top of the road. A beacon of dark orange lights at the top of the hill convinced me to peddle just a little faster. The sunrise was revealing itself with each foot I climbed. The faded pink sky in the distance blended perfectly into a warm orange and red sunrise. The valleys and peaks of Monte Sano Mountain bathed in color and warmth as each tree, bush, and living creature began to wake the day. There were about 15 other people at the top all watching this same event take place.
Someone brought their mandolin, someone brought their camera that cost more than my car, someone brought their silence.
This had to be it. The “bliss” moment—as described by so many authors and poets—that I had been pedaling towards this whole morning. I stepped off my bike with my foot destined to meet the solid ground of this summit hoping for a revival upon impact. If not a revival, maybe a process of filtration by way of a few deep breaths? I stepped off my bike and completed both ritualistic attempts at manufacturing my own peace, a practice in which I had formally realized I would never be able to successfully partake.
Absolutely nothing changed.
I had thought I could somehow make my problems melt away, but I felt foolish now. I had tried to make up for countless hours of blatant negligence towards the many red flags of complacency with this one bike ride.
For so long I had been working diligently to categorize my efforts into two buckets. Things I will enjoy, and things I will not.
For endeavors I enjoy, the reason for moving forward is this: the outcome will be value added to my life. For things I do not enjoy, my reason for moving forward was painfully simple: I was required to, whether by title or mere existence. My motives were exposed down to their dry bones, and how very hollow they were. It was clear the issued lay within the catalyst, the impetus, of my effort…or lack thereof.
The level of satisfaction I got from doing anything was contingent upon whether I was successful. My current impetus of effort was solely based on obtaining recognition and respect. If I didn’t receive those things, my desire to exert effort was suspended until I found some other flimsy prize to work for. On the contrary, if I did receive those things, it only boosted my ego and fed whatever dissatisfaction I had for my job during the (inevitable) instances that I would not receive good news.
So, with failure being imminent, it was no surprise I was consistently dissatisfied.
I wanted an impetus that would stand firm against failure, against uncertainty, against the pride of accomplishment.
The more I thought about what this would look like in practice, the easier it became. The answer to my dilemma started with defining my impetus as the pragmatic response to a core belief or outlook on life. This belief needs no supplement of success to become or remain true. Thus, the initial force that jolts me into responsive action and keeps me moving through failure, doubt, and defeat is the impetus, and the success is the occasional result. Understanding this allowed me to see the value of natural competition, without letting a loss define the value of my efforts.
This rudimentary concept, while new in absolutely no way, would have to penetrate every decision I make. The fruits of this labor hid in the details that I had been ignoring, the moments in between that I often thought were insignificant.
Study every FAR clause, every number, and every email because truth and accuracy are important, whether it is you or your co-worker who finds themselves standing corrected.
Point to the truth, and not the fact that you are the one that found it.
Remember that you will often not be the smartest one in the room.
Always be learning. If you think you have finished learning, start to teach. Don’t withhold knowledge that will benefit others just to maintain a position of stature.
Play with your children and give them the attention they deserve. It may not appear this way to us sometimes, but they approach their play with the same strategy and goals as we approach our adult problems. In his 1955 book, You Are Special: Neighborly Words of Wisdom from Mister Rogers, Fred Rogers wrote, “Play is often talked about as if it were a relief from serious learning. But, for children, play is serious learning. At various times, play is a way to cope with life and prepare for adulthood. Playing is a way to solve problems and to express feelings. In fact, play is the real work of childhood.”
Their play may not be as serious as your work, but try telling them that. Besides, children see the world through such a unique and innocent lens, and they invite us to see it too through playing with them. It is a privilege and not a job.
Realizing all of this to be the first fundamental milestone for work of any kind was so freeing. It allowed my bike rides to stay just fun bike rides that kept me in shape. It allowed my work to stay meaningful for the right reasons. It took what once was an unreachable epiphany and simplified it to a common denominator for any situation in my life.
I hoisted myself back on my hardtail and headed down the path to where this all began. The sun was fully risen now and illuminating the hundreds of cars on Highway 72 pacing towards their offices. I knew I would be joining them soon. However, first I would enjoy the rest of my silent descent back to my car.
For the first time in many years, I felt content.
Jon Greene is a drummer, mountain biker, skateboarder, father of two, and procurement manager for Dynetics based in Huntsville, Alabama. This is his first contribution to Dead Foot Collective.
