A Failures Tale
3 Painful Life Lessons From Failure That Will Change How You See The World Forever
Commitment is painful, but if you are willing to risk everything you will gain the ultimate reward
It’s impossible to look away from a crash.
Maybe its the morbidity of human nature. Imagining that we too might fall victim to such grueling pain and playing out in our heads what those fleeting moments just before the hulking mass of metal meets its final resting place must feel like.
Because in the end we all must die and seeing what could be our demise is a rare glimpse into a future we all hope desperately to escape.
And perhaps this fascination with death is the reason we so ardently celebrate the extremes of physical human potential. Men sprinting at unbelievable speeds toward one another with the express intent to incapacitate their foe in hopes of gaining but a few inches on a field toward a goal that means nothing, but yet, everything.
Death and pain are captivating.
Not in the way that the first glimpse of snow-packed peaks in Colorado back-country brings you to tears from beauty, but from the inability to escape the magnitude of such basic human truth that there is pain, there is death.
Very few things in life elicit such raw emotion as pain and death and even fewer yet ride the razor's edge of self-destruction as beautifully as the world of skateboarding.
Only through the pain of commitment do we experience the reward.
Even if you’ve never been a fan of skateboarding, there is something remarkable about the risk of the sport. If you spend any time looking into the lives of professional skaters such as Tony Hawk, Jamie Thomas, or my absolute favorite, Rodney Mullen, you will find a lengthy list of severe physical injuries that have been a staple of their careers.
With dozens of concussions, broken arms, legs, femurs, and fingers between them, their injuries read like a monthly stat’s report from an emergency room. But for some reason, the imminent threat of injury doesn’t deter them. Even when it is guaranteed to happen.
And so the question must be asked,
“Why would anyone willingly place themselves in such immediate danger? “
Within the question lies the answer: The only way to experience the reward is through the pain of commitment.
Although most of our lives will take a significantly less physically dangerous path, this harrowing sport offers a powerful lesson about the value of commitment.
As a young kid I was obsessed with skateboarding. I drooled over the monthly CCS magazine that came to my house. It was the ultimate gear porn catalog with the latest Etnies shoes and Birdhouse boards. Every evening after school I slowly thumbed through its pages, meticulously crafting the perfect set-up for my dream board in my head.
Eventually I scraped together the $120 to purchase my first, bright orange CCS custom skateboard with Krux trucks and Bones bearings. I nearly shit myself with excitement when it finally arrived in the mail, feverishly clawing at the packaging like a 2 year old tears into a birthday cake placed before him in a highchair.
I quickly got to work learning my new deck, practicing manuals on the pavement of Cypress Point Ct, getting the first few scars on the heel of the board. It was magic, and I, a magician.
Eventually, my friends, Blake and James, convinced Naked Dave (James’ Dad) to drive us into Champaign to the newly poured concrete skate park. We made the 20 mile trip down the highway, riding in the bed of the teal green, early 90’s Ford Ranger. Something Naked Dave would probably get arrested for doing nowadays, but this was life before the new Millenium.
There was already a crowd of skaters working the park when we pulled in and I immediately felt the anxiety rising into my chest like a swarm of ants tunneling toward the surface.
These kids were fucking good.
Swerving in and out of the halfpipe, landing kickflips off the fun box at speeds I didn’t know were possible to achieve on a skateboard.
And so what is a kid to do when one of the older, wiser skaters, points, and tells you to drop in from the quarter pipe?
You do it.
No questions asked. Swallow the fear like a giant gulp of ice water and step onto the ledge.
Then you fall straight onto your fucking face and eat concrete while everyone around you cringes and makes fart faces, twisting their nose and lips into a Picasso, whispering “oh dammmnn” under their breath. The whole park goes silent as if to honor a fellow fallen soldier until the older, wiser skater speaks.
“No man, you have to commit.”
You have to commit.
Its the mantra that underlies every single aspect of skateboarding culture. It’s the credo of the sport. It’s all the matters.
Did you commit, or did you bail?
To commit means to accept the entirety of risk that surely awaits you as you enter into the unknown.
That no matter what, you are going to land with both feet on the board, whether you break an ankle or ride off without a scratch.
Its all or nothing, because anything less than fully committing to the moment is certain pain and danger.
Eventually, after three more brutal face slams and most likely a concussion, I learned how to commit to dropping in.
It requires overriding every single natural human instinct of self-preservation by putting all your weight forward and, like a deranged helpless soul hoping for death, leaning into the fall. Because when you hold back even an ounce of your weight, trying to ‘stay safe’ by keeping yourself rooted to the ledge, you fail every single time.
It’s only when you are willing to accept the pain of failure and commit fully to the process that you gain the reward.
But commitment doesn’t stop there. It’s not a one time deal. It’s a vow you renew each and every day, that you are still willing to risk everything.
Yesterday you came out unscathed, maybe with just a few scrapes on your elbows or a wicked bad shin blast from missing that last turn on a double kickflip.
Yesterday doesn’t matter anymore. It only matters if you are going to commit again today.
And every afternoon as I ran home from the bus stop at the edge of the culdesac I renewed this vow. I felt a familiar smile wash over my face as I typed “7 5 0 0” into the garage door opener, seeing the sun pouring in on my bright orange beauty, dressed and ready for our date.
Although we’ve been married for more than a year, every day feels like our first encounter. I feel today the same bright-eyed wonder that I felt as I ripped open the packaging she arrived in so long ago. And as I step onto her for the first time today, finding my legs beneath me, I accept once again the pain and uncertainty of the unknown.
Sensing my timid touch, she whispers her reassurance, and I find my weight sinking deeper into my legs, my heels, and toes. Until once again I have given everything and am fully present to the moment.
Every day it becomes easier to get back to the place you were before. Learning to reconnect at a quickened pace and finding your center above the board.
Still, you must go through the process of recommitting yourself to the act. For every day bears a new challenge. Every moment a new experience. A chance to face the fear of the unknown.
If you are committed, the challenges are exciting, and the fear, bearable.
Perhaps today you will fail miserably, falling and twisting your ankle into knots like a neglected garden hose that lays lifeless in a pile outside your garage door.
But you don’t care. You push on down the grey, heartless pavement, gaining speed toward what could be your final trick of the day, or week, or year, depending on whether you land with both feet on the board or one foot bent up over your shoulder like a knapsack.
As you renew the vow of commitment every day, you accept this risk.
The potential for reward is equal to the depth of our commitment.
Once again I felt the fear building up in my throat as I stood against the rust-red brick wall outside the Mahomet-Seymour Junior High School, facing down that tormenting 3 step drop.
It stared at me, as it had all summer long, taunting me to try. Laughing at my insecurities. It knew I was chickenshit as I rolled slowly toward the edge.
Too slow.
The board barely made it down the steps, with me, falling forward to kiss the ground once again. I heard the steps laughing at me as I lay on the ground wondering if I could just stay here for the night. Perhaps, I thought, my mother would bring a warm, home-cooked meal to my deathbed and allow me to eat in silence beside my killer.
Eventually though, realizing the absurdity of this nonsense, I rose to my feet, with zero determination and shattered commitment. I gave in. And walking home that evening with my skateboard tucked under my arm, I knew that something had changed inside.
Fear had taken root and commitment began to wane.
Throughout that summer there would be many more attempts at the steps outside the junior high, but the commitment was never there. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. To break a leg, or an arm, or any number of bones that I deemed too valuable to part with. And in this unwillingness to accept the risk I reached a plateau.
There would be no more growth and no greater reward.
For it is the depth of our commitment that governs our growth and the value of our reward from the experience.
Please do not mistake my use of the word reward to assume that I am speaking strictly monetarily.
Rewards are a great many things. Be they depths of understanding and subtle nuances of experience, notoriety in a particular field, expertise in a subject or practice, levels of love and acceptance, or intimacy borne of vulnerability.
Our growth in anything, and consequently, the reward received, is determined by our depth of commitment.
When we merely dabble in a craft, we grow at a dabblers pace and receive a dabbler’s reward. Such was my reward for the commitment I made to skateboarding. Cut short by my fear of shattered bones and a toothless smile.
I would never go on to experience the thrill of carving a bowl at breakneck speed or launching out of a half-pipe like the infamous Tony Hawk. I would never learn to ollie down that damned stair-set or grind a handrail like my hero, Rodney Mullen. And I never deserved such an experience, because the hero’s reward is reserved only for those who make a heroic commitment.
Principles of commitment.
Commitment is the ocean between us and our dreams, and we are but a small wooden boat that has never been tested against the sea. As we slowly row out past the breakers in our helpless wooden craft toward open water, we come face to face with our fear. Trembling as we watch the beach fade away like a distant memory.
It is at this exact moment that we are tested.
Will we give in to fear and row back to safety, or will we trust ourselves to cross this ocean, risking everything in the process?
I didn’t have the guts for the ruthless world of skateboarding. I chose safety over commitment. I tasted failure and I trembled with fear.
But I found failure to be the birthplace of wisdom for I have uncovered many principles of commitment along the way.
1. Only through the pain of commitment do we experience the reward.
2. Commitment is not a one-time thing, it is a vow you renew each and every day, that you are still willing to risk everything.
3. It is the depth of our commitment that governs our growth and the value of our reward from the experience.
And finally, in the words of the older, wiser skater:
“You have to commit. Nothing else matters. ”
