Along that journey the most challenging step was the transition from answering to asking questions. Answering questions well is what made me a good student. But asking questions is a different thing altogether. It requires the ability to recognize the unknown.

Asking questions is an act of agency. You get to decide what you think is interesting and figure out a way to investigate it. Asking questions, in many ways, is one of the highest expressions of freedom.

In our college we spend a lot of time thinking about how to prepare our students for the job market. This concern shapes our curriculum, informs investments we make in advising and career services, and drives a lot of our pitch to students and their families. Come here and get a useful degree that can land you a job and help you thrive in it.

That’s the general idea. Within it there are reasonable debates about how best to deliver on the promise. Some folks think we should focus on specific skills and capabilities, others (like me) argue we should focus on teaching students how to think, write, and speak. These viewpoints are not necessarily mutually exclusive. The tension between them is a feature of higher education, not a bug.

With technology ubiquitous in the workplace, students no doubt need some level of basic fluency in the tools of their trade. For a long time this meant understanding things like spreadsheets and databases. Then it meant knowing how to write some code. Now it means AI. But AI seems different in that you can’t ask Excel to think for you, but you can certainly use AI to avoid thinking.

Employers tell us that students need to use AI first and then humanize the output. This has some intuitive appeal—it’s likely reflective of the sort of work our graduates will be doing. But it also means bypassing the step where you go from nothing to something. That precious step requires novel thought and is often the most difficult. It’s akin to moving from answering to asking questions.

Teaching students to use AI first feels like helping them train their replacements. Specific jobs are always in flux (e.g., elevator operators and travel agents), but AI is currently displacing one critical genre—apprenticeships, as in junior copy-writer, fact-checker, production assistant, etc.

These are the sorts of jobs many of our graduates start out with. They get experience doing a thing, often poorly, in order to learn, improve, and move up the ranks. You need to be bad at something before you can be good at it. The trouble is, AI is eliminating the need to pay a human to struggle and learn. Claude can be just as bad at the job for a lot less.

This battle might already be lost, but teaching our students to bypass thinking and skip practice is the educational equivalent to an e-bike. It might get you somewhere, but it won’t make you stronger. At some point, the battery dies and the only engine you have is you.

We’ve stumbled into a dangerous race to the bottom—participating in our own obsolescence. We’ve surrendered our freedom to technology and hidden behind the job market for cover. But why trust the job market when all it really wants is profit margin? This is not a new argument; it’s been a critique of professional education for decades. I used to dismiss the critique, but now I find it much more convincing.

My introductory business class has gradually morphed into a class on how to achieve the Good Life. Yes, I do teach some spreadsheet stuff and other technical bits, but I all but forbid AI. Not because I don’t think it’s useful or relevant, but because my students need to first develop the muscles of individual thought, along with its beauty, blemishes, and happy accidents. Without such practice they won’t know themselves, what they want, or what they’re capable of.

It’s not that we’ll be replaced by robots, it’s that we will become the robots.

People at the aid station were understandably confused, and my own comfort with the decision confused them further.

“What? You’re just quitting?”

The norm is to tear yourself in two for a finish. I’ve done that many times and the consequence of that stubbornness still lingers.

People regularly ask me what I’m training for. When I tell them I no longer race, they almost always ask, “Not just for fun?” I bristle at the question. I’m starting to understand why, but I’ll save that for a future essay.

For now, I’m just happy to say I love running.

I love getting up in the morning and getting myself prepared. Some coffee, some food, and hopefully some evacuation. Things always go better when that happens before the run starts. I love tying my shoes, a double overhand and a double loop. Always. Nothing special here, just ritual, often with eyes closed and a deep breath. I love Rory’s excitement and the little dance she does at the top of the stairs. Sometimes Betty (Darcy’s dog) joins, and her dance is even better.

I love a climb and the possibility that maybe today I’ll be able to run every step to the top. I love running along the river and thinking about returning to all the swimming holes I go by. Over the years, I’ve maybe returned to two or three, but fully committed to all of them.

I love ramping up the pace as home approaches or just walking it in if that feels right. I love sharing all this with friends. I love that I’ve been able to run with the likes of Ryan Hall and Scott Jurek and so many other heroes, but also to run with people trying it for the first time.

For a long time I had a pretty good sense of what each run would bring. I trained specifically, with structure and discipline, and prided myself on consistency. I relied on this sensation and often oriented my days and weeks around it. Now that’s gone. I’m old and inconsistent and each day brings what it brings. In fairness, that’s not completely true. I’ve got some experience with this body and have learned to listen to it (well…I’ve learned to listen better).

I’ve grown to love the uncertainty. How will I feel today? I can generally tell within the first 10 seconds, but some runs surprise me. I sure do miss the sharpness that comes with peaking for a race. Riding the razor, as Rob calls it. But that sharpness can cut you down at any moment with injury or illness. The peak of your powers is a precarious summit.

It took years of unwinding and reorienting my body to fill in some of these deep grooves—the persistent pain in my hips and knees, bone density loss. I now love being pain free. Not that I am all the time, but far more often than when I was racing.

I’m about to reenter the racing world this weekend at the Crazy 100. I’ll be pacing a friend, which is as close to competition as I want to be. I’ll be twitchy at the start and finish lines and probably at the aid stations too. That scene is now uncomfortable. But once I leave the Halfmoon campground with a dear old friend and embark on a wild adventure into the big mountains, I’ll feel that love.

Running. One step at a time.

In fairness, lobster is a particular dining experience so opting out could represent something more than just a taste preference. On the other hand, enduring an expensive ritual just to prove your New England bone fides is pretty silly. Who cares? It’s food and we all have different preferences. These preferences say nothing about our character (well…not exactly). Yet no one is ever curious about why I don’t like lobster…they’re more interested in what they think my dislike of lobster says about me. That’s their brand of winning.

Why do we, and families in particular, care so much about this sort of stuff?

An adjacent bit of weirdness is that my dad doesn’t actually like lobster either, though he won’t admit it. What he LOVES are the steamers (steamed clams) we always have to accompany lobster. This is sort of like enduring an entree just to get the side dish. In the nearly 52 years with this odd crew, we’ve never figured out how to manage just cooking steamers.

And don’t get me started on cheese with pie…

Bon weekend!

That’s a good analogy for the NBA super max contract. A player’s peak value would seem to come the instant before he signs it. Once signed, that player has about 127 hours to deliver a return. And that return must be championships and proximity to perfection in all ways.

Jaylen Brown found that out. Good enough to earn the contract, not good enough for the Celtics to want it.

The NBA presents a useful form of regulated capitalism that’s delivering competitive parity. It’s difficult to afford superstars and depth is expensive. Winning requires both, but you can’t have both. Unless both happen to be young, which makes for exceedingly narrow windows of opportunity.

If you push for both stars and depth, you pay a price. The second apron rule imposes a tax on teams that spend too much and it’s essentially become a hard salary cap.

Our US-version of capitalism could use something like this.

Amazon convinced the markets that revenue is more valuable than profit, allowing tech firms to make massive investments and hoard talent with stock option handcuffs. You don’t have to win, until you get so big that winning begets winning. What we end up with, for example, are Meta and Google owning about 52 cents of every advertising dollar spent, representing a giant tax on any firm who wants to advertise online.

In basketball terms, it’s like signing a full roster of superstars to super max contracts and losing year after year under the promise of future winning. Sustain this long enough, and everyone else either quits or gets bought (most often by you!). The second apron forces tradeoffs.

Public policy equivalents aren’t obvious—no single thing offers a silver bullet. The second apron we need, unfortunately, involves two mechanisms difficult to envision: a political system that incentivizes compromise and a regulatory state less vulnerable to capture.

Winning has always been difficult. It should be. But what should be more difficult is continuing to win.

I’m all for meritocracy, except for the kind that allows those who climb the ladder to pull it up behind them.

“More perfect” drives the first sentence of the preamble to our Constitution. It is the best brand positioning ever created. Two words, each amplified the other. Perfect allows for the belief that we are unique. And we are in myriad ways, both good and bad. More allows for the notion we can be better. That America is a promise not yet fulfilled. How can something perfect be improved upon? It makes no logical sense, yet we know what it means.

The phrase is effortless, yet the promise is relentless. “A republic, if you can keep it.”

It’s also a great substrate for inappropriate takes, loosely inspired by Nick Wright’s on how to make NBA players give a shit about their all-star game:

1. How do we feel about match ups between colonizers and their former colonies? If we apply the oppressor/oppressed framework, should we allow players for former colonies to commit any foul they see fit? Should the colonizers have to play with fewer players or some other adjustment to account for historical atrocities? Or, do we go old school and let the colonizers raid the former colonies of their best players?

2. What’s the best settler-colonial match up? Belgium vs. DR Congo? Netherlands vs. South Africa? A US vs. England match would be a yankee doodle dandy!

3. And speaking of the colonial legacy, how the fuck does the UK get three teams? England, Scotland, and (though they didn’t qualify) Wales.

4. Are rivalries better among countries who’ve fought wars? Does the rivalry intensify or fade over time? The US-Iran case is most recent—those poor Iranians got harassed by US officials in multiple ways. But since few Americans support the war, I’m not sure a match up on the pitch would be all that pitched. France-Germany seems like the ultimate example. Central players in two world wars and each a football power with multiple World Cup wins. Argentina-England is another hot one—the hand of god on the heels of the Falklands War. Amazing.

5. The alternate kits are an out-of-control cash grab. Colors not on your flag should be banned, except for the Dutch and Kiwis.

6. I went into this World Cup cynical of the expanded field. It seemed like most things in sport—another cash grab. But some of these underdogs won me over. When Curacao scored the early equalizer against Germany in their opener, it was delightful mayhem. Then I learned only one Curacao player was actually born there. Sigh. But it’s complex…

7. And then there’s the Cape Verde run, which is wonderful…and I’m loving the story of 40-year-old Vozinha and his mom’s visa, but I really don’t care about how many Instagram followers he’s gained.

8. Just call them ad breaks.

9. FIFA’s power to erase stadium names is impressive. Hard to fathom those enormous contracts the likes of SoFi and Gillette signed for naming rights couldn’t capture the potential for an event like this. Brand management tip - embed your logo in the stadium structure.

10. The US team feels a bit like Wemby. This might just be the most we ever like them. If they get really good, they will likely become the least liked team in the world.

Enjoy the knock out rounds!

I’ve never really formulated a viewpoint. It didn’t seem all that important. I have a strong sense of the versions of masculinity I don’t like; they were on full display last week on the White House lawn. I also reject the notion that masculinity is inherently bad or predatory. Labeling it as toxic is unhelpful.

Both the UFC and the SJW frames are zero-sum versions of masculinity, meaning they require any gain to have an equivalent, offsetting loss. Most sporting contests are zero-sum. Outside of sports and other competitions, zero-sum thinking generally reflects a lack of creativity and an obsession with power.

Positive-sum thinking, alternatively, considers the possibility of expanding the pie along with how the pie is divided. It envisions a world where self-interest and other-interest can exist without conflict.

Masculinity should embrace positive sum. And so here is my working theory of masculinity. I hope you can help me refine it.

1. Men have operated from a position of power for much of human history.

2. Some of this power is arbitrary, some is socially constructed, and some is based on biological characteristics.

3. Whatever the source, this power has been abused and all too often is used to violate and suppress women (and others). There are also important examples of it being used for good.

4. The greater your power to influence the lives of others, the greater your responsibility to create conditions in which more people can flourish.

5. Given all this, men are obligated to create positive-sum outcomes for as many people as possible, especially those with less power.

Or put in a single sentence: Masculinity is the commitment to positive sum outcomes, especially for anyone less fortunate.

Okay. That sounds nice, but it’s pretty abstract. What should it look like in practice?

Here are three examples from familiar contexts:

At the bar…

You are hanging out with friends at a bar. You notice an acquaintance making unwanted advances toward a woman who is clearly trying to disengage. Rather than staying silent or doing something performative, you quietly pull him aside and say, “Hey, I don’t think she’s interested; let me buy you a beer.” Because the message comes from a peer and is delivered without threat, it can be persuasive. You use your power within the group to influence a peer and help someone stuck in a bad spot, and give your male acquaintance a graceful way out with the drink offer.

With your son…

You notice your son parroting derogatory comments about girls’ appearance that he’s likely picked up online. Instead of simply punishing him, you explain why comments like that are harmful, look for chances to model respectful engagement with women, and demonstrate what accountability looks like whenever you make mistakes yourself. Identifying a teachable moment is positive sum.

At work…

You notice a junior woman on your team is routinely interrupted in meetings. Her ideas gain recognition only after others repeat them. Rather than staying silent, you redirect the conversation back to her contributions and later ensure her ideas are fairly attributed during promotion discussions. You don’t simply use your power to speak for her, but you create a culture in which good ideas—and the people behind them—are more likely to be recognized.

These examples are common, but that’s the point. Embracing positive sum can be mundane and routine.

There are many flavors of masculinity and I appreciate the folks trying to figure this out in public. What’s your version? What’s missing in the theory I presented here? Whatever version feels right to you, can positive-sum thinking exist within it?

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Why is it bullshit?

First, I attribute my weight loss and subsequent athletic ascension to my effort and determination. I tell myself I was able to overcome my body. The truth is much more likely attributable to simple genetics and luck. My genes kicked in when they did, and off I went.

Second, my mythology of self hinges on the notion that I don’t have any talent. That all of my success is attributable to out-efforting more talented people. That can’t really be true either, because the fact that I can focus and persist is a talent in itself. More mundane details like my high Vo2 max, high hematocrit, height, positive ape index, pain tolerance, durability, and many other factors are all critical components of talent. This no talent myth is really just vanity.

At the end of the day, our self-concept is something of a conspiracy theory. We interpret a set of life experiences in a specific way to support a specific story of who we are. All data supporting that story is accepted and amplified; all data refuting it is discounted or ignored.

This isn’t necessarily bad.

My own conspiracy of self is useful. It creates a motivating feedback loop and helps me believe that I can effort my way through problems. But it has limits. Sometimes effort isn’t the right answer. Relationships and over-training taught me this. Effort can also create a sense that you deserve a certain outcome because you worked for it. That’s a recipe for resentment.

The conspiracy theories we believe about ourselves can also create dangerous blind spots. Most of us are at least tempted to believe that our success comes from our own hard work. But did you choose your parents, or where you were born … or when you were born? None of us did.

Sometimes you need to let go of who you’ve told yourself you are in order to make progress—to find a better version of yourself. One lesson of meditation is that the self is just another sensation; a thought like any other thought. We give it special powers and can be lured into believing it’s some sort of fixed entity.

But it’s not.

It is something we conjure ourselves. What you feel is real, but the story you tell yourself about that feeling might not be true.

Understanding that distinction is wisdom.

Sampras represented precision and perfection. Tall, fit, graceful, reserved, classy. Agassi was punk rock, a bricklayer with a racquet. Brash. It was country club versus strip mall, and I always rooted for Agassi.

But Agassi’s game and style were the antithesis of how I carried myself. Sampras was quiet and respectful and always poised. I tried to play like Sampras and act like him, too. Agassi’s neon headbands and acid-washed kit were a bad idea then and are a bad idea now. I had no interest in looking like him or acting like him. But there was something about his game. He played every point like he was trying to overcome something. Something deep inside. You could feel it though the TV.

I was a heavy kid. Not really fat, but fat relative to the other boys playing sports. I dreaded shirts and skins, and teammates called me Jelly Belly. In third grade I remember my parents telling me—with some confusion—that I had been selected for the all-star soccer team. I had no idea what an all-star was. Neither did my folks. I turned up to practice feeling like an outsider and the other boys seemed equally confused. But I stuck with it and over time I learned that the super athletic guys weren’t so tough. When things didn’t go their way, they would often give up. I sensed an opportunity and learned I could compete by being consistent—by always showing up.

Consistency became a part of my identity. I prided myself on being predictable and reliable. I never wanted to be another problem the coach had to solve. My best performances I don’t really remember, probably because they were somewhat boring. Things went according to plan. How you practice is how you play. Or as one coach used to say, “Potential is something you lose with.”

In almost every sport I tried, I was good, but not great. The excess weight I carried eventually fell away, but the internal narrative as an outsider persisted. To quote my teenage daughter, I was, “on the outside of the inside.” Close enough to the top dogs to know that I would never be one of them, at least that’s what I told myself. Years later, when I began to compete as a runner, I finished second place in a bunch of races and adopted the self-deprecating moniker of “fastest-loser.”

The irony I’m trying to grasp is that my own version of Agassi’s fury became my motivation to be like Sampras. I was maniacal in my pursuit of consistency. And it pains me to admit that after nearly 52 years with this body, I still struggle to make peace with it.

There was—there is—a rivalry inside of me that might never be settled.

I felt clumsy descending and a little bit afraid of falling. This often means a fall is imminent, but I worked through it and soon found some flow. Down the trail a bit—marching toward me—came a cadre of folks clad in yellow shirts, olive drab pants, and white hard hats. Wildland firefighters, most likely Hot Shots, getting in some training on a drizzly morning.

Seeing this crew also filled me with gratitude—gratitude for their very existence, their commitment to keeping wild spaces and communities safe, their willingness to work under the harshest of conditions with extreme risk. I felt grateful for the rainy June morning and what it might mean for the coming fire season, and I wondered how the Hot Shots felt about it.

Midlife is challenging. We arrive at a stage we knew would come, yet never expected. Just a few short years ago, life felt like a bit of a treadmill, albeit one with twists and turns. But the grade was steady and I was ascending within what I thought were pretty fixed guardrails. Then covid came and my marriage ended. That forced changes I didn’t think I was capable of, and on the other side of it all, I’m living a life I didn’t know existed.

And it took work to get here, not just a tincture of time. Meditation, journaling, a cycle of anti-anxiety meds, therapy, a complete reorientation of my relationship to work, and several other identity shifts. I became a single-parent, developed new skills, let go of old habits, and developed a new framework for life. Through it all, I somehow chose to build rather than destroy.

I glossed over a lot of detail here, but the thread tying together the rainy run and life-altering stuff is gratitude. When I feel gratitude I feel good. And I’m thankful that connection comes somewhat easily for me.

My last bit of gratitude today is for Mark Twain, who said, “It’s easier to stay out than get out.” And to myself, for my ability to trust that if I keep lacing up the shoes, especially when it’s raining, good things will likely happen.

I get why. Sort of. Much of our social, political, and economic systems are premised on growth. Growth is assumed to fuel increases in standards of living and drive economic prosperity and power in a competitive global economy. Growth is often the rising tide that makes various social policies affordable and successful.

But don’t most environmental challenges, including climate change, derive from overpopulation? More people means more pressure on limited natural resources. It’s not something folks like to talk about because the policy implications get dicey—who should be having kids, how many, and under what circumstances?

And if AI actually does eliminate jobs, might producing fewer workers actually be a good thing? It seems like something of a natural reset. There’s a lot of anti-capitalist talk out there right now—most of it critiquing wealth inequality, concentration of power, and unbridled growth. These are valid criticisms, though we’ve yet to see any viable alternatives. And certainly not ones that could function at the scale required.

Perhaps population decline is a chance for capitalism to figure out how to deal with de-growth. Fewer workers means more competition for those workers, implying higher wages and better working conditions. On the other hand, those workers are also customers and taxpayers. Reducing both of those will cause problems.

What role could technology play? So much of technological innovation is aimed at efficiency and eliminating jobs. The elimination part fuels profit margin, but the same force could be tuned as an adaptation to a declining population. How do we produce the same products and services with fewer people…for fewer customers?

Getting from here to there won’t be easy; we’re not set up for changes like this. But people built these systems and people can change them. Despite the challenges, a world with fewer people might just be the world we need.