N2L micro-challenge: Seek a situation where you are definitely outmatched

We like to feel competent. But research shows humility helps you learn from mistakes, become resilient and eventually perform better.

Warmup

There came a moment Saturday, when I hoisted a ~55-65 lbs, metal chain onto my shoulders and began trudging around a grove of olive trees in the dry heat of Sparta, Greece, that I reached my 50/50 tipping point.

I was halfway through Day 2 of the Spartan Race Trifecta World Championship for obstacle course racing.

Day 1, we’d clocked about 4.5 miles, according to my watch.

Now on Day 2, I was heading for approximately 7.5 miles.

If I made it to Day 3, I was in for around 16.5 miles.

Our final placement in the championship would be determined by our collective times in all three races.

Each race featured 20-30 obstacles ranging from scaling walls and climbing a rope to throwing a spear and carrying super heavy things, like blocks of marble and buckets of rocks.

I was used to carrying heavy things in races.

But my God, not this chain.

Post

Last week, I wrote about the idea of attempting something very hard.

Something where we’ve got a 50/50 chance of succeeding — otherwise known as a “Misogi.”

The goal is to see what we are capable of when we know there’s a real chance of failure.

It’s human nature to want to perform well.

But if we constantly seek the safety of situations where we’re confident we’ll prevail, we’re at risk of being trapped by our own competencies.

I like how they put it here in the Harvard Business Review:

“If you believe that your talents are inborn or fixed, then you will try to avoid failure at all costs because failure is proof of your limitation. People with a fixed mindset like to solve the same problems over and over again. It reinforces their sense of competence.” (Source.)

It’s when we enter a zone of uncertainty, where we are humbled and are likely to stumble, that something new and stronger may take root. So long as we have what the well-known psychologist Carol S. Dweck calls a “growth mindset.”

Put another way, consider a plant. Leave it as is every year, and the leaves eventually will wither and die. But cut it back, make it work harder, and new growth will come.

Let’s just say my leaves got a healthy trimming this weekend.

The races

I entered the championship with three goals:

1. Finish all three races.

2. Place in the top 10 in the competitive heat of my age group (50-54).

3. Place in the top 5 of my age group. (Stretch goal.)

Making the top 3 wasn’t realistic. I knew this going in.

While I am ranked among the best Spartan racers of my age in the U.S. this year — and have come a long way from having never run more than a 5K fun run six years ago — the international competition is really stiff.

I’d be lining up with some of the fittest people in the world when it comes to overall respiratory fitness, strength and mobility.

Still, I wanted where I’d stack up. Mostly, I wanted to learn.

Day 1

I learned, once again, that I’m not fast!

I got walloped, coming in 9th out of 12.

The top women were quick and confident off the starting line. I was timid, watching my footing on the loose stones.

They left it all out on the course.

I held back for the first few miles, worrying about Day 2 and Day 3.

But then, I raced for a moment alongside a man who is blind.

People often say to me — “I could never do a Spartan Race.”

On this course, the para-athletes raced with the rest of us. Someone using a wheelchair. Several people were running these mountains with a crutch because they’d lost a leg. Some had use of a single arm.

They carried those chains and swung across obstacles. They were strong, resilient, adaptable and fast.

For a few moments, I was behind a man who is blind, running with his hands on the shoulders of the man in front of him. He was confident in his landing.

Right then, I vowed to stop worrying about my own foot placement. My ankles were strong; I’d been training them consistently.

I picked up my pace to the end.

Lesson: When we prepare, we are more sure-footed than we think.

Day 2

Now back to that chain. FYI - it’s even longer than the one in the photo above.

The first time I tried to lift it over my neck, I couldn’t do it. Ultimately, I had to crouch on the ground and duck to get it on my shoulders.

It was halfway around the loop, my knees and neck aching from the load, that doubt found its footing.

I might not finish these races. My Misogi could end today.

And then another female racer passed me panting, her arms cut up from the barbed wire crawl obstacle earlier in the race.

“Holy shit, this chain weighs more than I do.” She was laughing. “Let’s go.”

Her laughter loosened something inside of me. And then I laughed. I’m here in Sparta Greece carrying a heavy chain around an olive grove! WTF! And suddenly, doubt tripped, tumbling out of my head.

My time that day put me at 8th overall for the championship; I’d moved up a notch.

Lesson: Laughter is the slayer of doubt.

Day 3

Today would be the longest single run at 16+ miles that I’d ever attempted with roughly 2,759 feet of elevation gain and upward of 30 obstacles. More walls. More ropes. More of those chains.

It was hot and dry. Dehydration was one of the obstacles.

I started off in the back of the pack again, around 8th.

And then, we started to climb.

I am not fast. But I spent this past year training for serious mountain races: Big Bear, Calif. Mount Ogden, Utah.

For the first time in three days, I began passing other racers — women and men. I’d carried pickle juice and a Maui Nui venison stick in my hydration vest. The salt kept me from cramping.

At every water stop, I drank. At mile 10, I swallowed two Tylenol I’d stuffed in my pocket that morning. The aches from the chains receded.

I am not fast. But I know how to learn. And I’ve learned to manage the heat and cold in racing. I’ve learned to manage pain.

So, I didn’t stop running that day.

When we hit the final stretch, I rounded the corner in town beneath the watchful gaze of the Statue of Leonidas.

Little girls reached out their hands along the sidelines for high-fives in between the final gauntlet of obstacles. I stopped for each of them. They already are Spartans. I hope they’ll race one day.

As I crossed the finish line, I heard my wife Lisa call out from the crowd what I’d believed after Day 1 was impossible — “You are in fifth place overall.”

And with that, my Misogi was complete.

Lesson: When contemplating the strengths of others, never lose sight of your own.

Cooldown

I will never be the best obstacle course racer in the world.

Still, I’ve gotten better. A lot better. Those of you who’ve read my book NOT TOO LATE, know where this journey began.

And that is the gift of pursuing the the long road to mastery at my age.

There is always something new to learn, a reason to step outside my competencies and feel alive touching the sharp edges of what’s unfamiliar.

When life seems to be turning a corner toward endings, mastery and maybe a Misogi are ways to find a new beginning.

Thanks for reading. And as always, find something you love. Dig in. Stick with it when things get hard.

Wendy