On Running, Tech, and Faith
I ran my first 10k race on Sunday. It was not my first time running 10k, but it was my first time running it “officially” — masked at the starting line, distanced and sanitized.
I woke up excited at the possibility of beating my goal. You know those moments in life when you just KNOW something can actually happen? Everything falls into place… the spaghetti you ate last night was perfect, the sleep was deep and undisturbed, you forced some fuel and hydration even though you weren’t hungry or thirsty, you planned and prepared, and the weather was just right.
I did beat my goal (by quite a bit), but in the come-down from the excitement, it’s humbling to realize that the things under my control were necessary for success, but not sufficient. If the weather had been super hot or super cold or super rainy… if the course wasn’t flat and the roads weren’t wide… all my preparation would mean nothing.
There is something quite freeing in that. I love running because it lives at the intersection of my worlds: the quantitative and the spiritual. I love metrics and math. I love wearable tech and measuring cadence and heart rate variability. But, I also love the supernatural element of resilience and revelation… the moments of unexplained joy or an extra burst of energy. There is beauty in the way that one small muscle in your hip can teach you about both your fallibility and determination. “You are wonderfully and fearfully made.”
An approach to running is not just about running. During the 10k, I thought a lot about my work and the parallel journeys I’m on. I’m a non-runner who became a runner. I’m a public sector servant who became a tech company VP. I’m things I never thought I’d be, and I’m at risk for burnout on the roads the same way I’m at risk for burnout in the office. (Or rather, my dining room, since that’s my office now).
My oldest friend and I strategized over the phone the night before my race. He reminded me that you need to go easy…painfully easy…in the first bit. You will WANT to sprint; you will want to work off that adrenaline. You will see people passing you, and you will want to compete with them at that moment, but you need to stay slow.
You need to have faith that your time is coming.
If I had obsessed in 2018 about the competition we faced as a company, I might have missed the windows that opened in different spaces later that year. Now, in the final miles of my work race, I don’t even consider those 2018 companies competitors anymore. Some aren’t even around. Just like in the actual running race, I passed the same folks who bolted in the opening miles about 3-quarters of the way through. Many were walking. Some were panting. I was floating. The competition I had in Mile 5 was more elite than the competition at the beginning. Companies we considered heroes have stayed that way, but they have also become peers.
When you love data, it’s tempting to be obsessed with your metrics. This is true in my running, but it is especially true in my work. If we are overly obsessed with the data, we lose the humanity. If I am looking down constantly at my watch to check my pace and make sure I’m on track, doing all the mental math that comes with this habit, I won’t be looking up at the glory of my surroundings. The real estate that the metrics take up in my brain pushes out the meditative rhythm that running can produce — a blank slate where you can connect with the spirit that is moving you. In the same way, I help people every day who spend 90% of their time deciding between a bar or a pie chart and 10% of their time connecting the data to the people.
The mechanics of the body are rational. Lactic acid makes your muscles tired, etc. But resilience is other-worldly, and we all have those times we can look back on and say, “Wow, that was a miracle.” Our challenge is to harness the power of data science and elevate the complexity and mystery of human stories.
