The Follow-Through

Bumpy. That’s what yesterday was.

Yesterday we hit our first real pothole. A big one. In fact I think I’m still in the tossed-up, post-wheel strike, pre-jolt-landing state.

I’m still feeling the free fall and wondering if I’ll break something on the return back to solid ground.

The day started well, with a pancake family breakfast and a couple hours of quiet to prepare for the week ahead. The kids were driving Otis, their John Deere around the back-in yard (as Max calls it), and helping to weed, trim, and clear winter’s debris from around the house. I was at the desk in my office, feeling good about our newest pitch deck and the fact that Barb was on the road and in route. I was feeling at ease, on a smooth patch of road. 

Then wham.

Or really wham, wham in the form of a series of texts.

Barb was having some issues. The first text came in around 1 pm from Andrew - the amazingly gracious chauffeur who has bravely been the first Barb driver and the carrier of our chariot both from there to here and from an idea to a real, moving thing:

Just a heads up, I'm gonna call Greg first thing tomorrow because we're having issues with what I believe is the chassis battery - got stuck at a gas station this morning trying to start the engine after we refueled. Finally got it working with some local help but based off what we read online it sounds like the instrument panel, headlights, and the starter are all connected to this same battery which might explain why there's an issue with all of these not working. I'll see if there's anything Greg can talk me through tomorrow to fix it but may need to take it into a shop if I'm still having trouble.

He first mentioned the headlights and some gauges not working two days ago but was working around them okay. Things were now escalating. The RV not starting started to make me sweat.

Then a few hours later, the next text came in:

Quick update - new issue has come up where the RV isn't shifting properly and a "do not shift" light has come on and locked us into 5th gear. We're going to just try to coast at a low speed and get to Oklahoma City about 200 miles away, but definitely think it will need to go to a shop when things open tomorrow.

Shifting happens to be crucial. (In both driving an RV and a startup journey, I’m so learning.) So this is getting serious and I am getting scared.

I send good vibes, because what else is there to do when I’m helpless and thousands of miles away and freaking out because so much of my energy and business and finances and life depend on that RV’s ability to remain solid and on the road?

About an hour later, I also send AAA because they are stuck in Shamrock, Texas. They are attempting to charge the battery and hope it works so they can make it to Oklahoma to make Andrew’s girlfriend’s flight home. 

I hope it works so I can make it through this trip.

Now, I fully expected to need some roadside assistance at some point. I was just really hoping the ‘point’ wasn’t at here at the beginning. 

Pot holes are a normal part of it, but I have to be honest that it’s a tough one today. I’m not feeling so good about this all at the moment. I just keep seeing the stalled RV on the side of the road, and the expenses piling up against our minuscule budget, and the responsibility of all I’ve taken on, and I feel beat down. I feel tired. 

I feel like giving up.

While this is all taking place, we’ve been watching the Masters. A sport built on the ability to calm inner turmoil, read the environment, and put your hard earned skills to use. I’m sitting on the couch panicking about the RV while watching the pros tee up and knock the ball into the cup time and time again.

Sometimes they do it with magic and fist pumps: A hole in one at 16. An eagle at 12. A tremendous run, like Paul Casey’s, with a series of back to back birdies and eagles. 

Sometimes they don’t do it so well: A missed par putt. A hooked tee shot. An epic water battle like Sergio Garcia’s that puts you suddenly 15 strokes behind.

And other times, like with Patrick Reed, the champion, they just keep their cool and knock each hole back, shot by shot, green by green.

Come what may, no matter how it looks, they hold their singular focus and make that ball roll into the hole. 

When the Masters end and we are headed home, I start to really unravel, tears and fears and all. 

My husband listens patiently to my worries and honest admission that maybe it is all too much, and then he says this to me:

”It’s not easy, and success may look different than you thought, but what is so important and impressive about you and this journey is that you are following through.”

That’s it. What I need to hear and what’s really true about this moment and this experience. 

What matters is following through. 

Shot by shot, pothole by pothole, bump by bump, our job in building something is to simply commit all the way through. To keep going, so you can see it to the other side, whatever that may be and however different it may end up. It’s about keeping on. 

Because here’s the thing, whether you’re going for an eagle putt or going 10,000 miles for mothers, you won’t know which shot or which leg is magical until you’ve reached the end. You can’t tell in the middle. And if you don’t follow through with your stroke—or your mission—you’ll undercut your chance of success and remove the possibilities. You have to ride it out.

The best you can do is to stay calm, brace for the landing, and see it through. 

Update: The next text came in around 8 pm: Barb needs a new alternator. It won't be cheap and it's a set-back for Andrew that I feel really sorry about but here's hoping it fixes all the electric glitches and gets us back on the road quickly.