Follow The Line
Lessons in Leadership from a Cycling Adventure in Armenia
Attacking the chunder-ous trail by following the line
Follow the line. How could that possibly be sage advice for any leader, let alone an adventurous one, for whom ‘following’ and ‘lines’ are not in the obvious leadership vocabulary?
Anyone versant in mountain biking lingo might get it. I am now proficient in such lingo (and will sprinkle my favorite terms throughout this story; they’re cool, and some are useful as leadership lingo too!) after nearly a week of shredding the gnarly trails of the Armenian Highlands, courtesy of UK-based adventure cycling tour company The Slow Cyclist (TSC). TSC is the inspired creation of Oli Broome, an avid British biker who, in 2009, cycled from England to Australia, making him a certifiable adventurist and ‘mad Brit.’ He revelled in the back roads, which allowed him access to landscapes and communities that remain elusive to the conventional traveller. He shared his enthusiasm for such travel with a pioneering group of ‘slow cyclists’ in Transylvania and hasn’t looked back since. TSC now offers trips in a dozen countries, hewing closely to its principles of sticking to back roads (that’s where the true adventure lies), supporting local communities (engaging locals as guides; dining in family homes; keeping a light and beneficial footprint), and supplying luxurious pillows to help ease road warriors into well-earned slumber.
I’d learned about TSC and this Armenia expedition the way I learn about most worthy things: randomly. I’d been musing to my brother about my desire to treat myself to a nice trip somewhere new-to-me for my upcoming significant birthday. He’d just read an article in the Financial Times about a cycling trip opportunity in Armenia. “Ever been to Armenia?” “Nope.” Done.
Five months later I found myself kitted out in padded cycle shorts, sturdy half-lid helmet and cycling mitts, on the cushioned seat of an electric mountain bike, pointed downhill in attack position on a chunder-y (rock-strewn) road in the middle-of-nowhere Armenia, wondering (in semi-terror) “What (the F-) am I doing here?” Despite my whole sidecar metaphor, and years of cycling in the bike lanes of The Netherlands, I am by no stretch of the imagination a mountain biking badass. Yet here I was, the lone Yank in the company of 6 other slow cyclists, all of them Brits, all seasoned bikers, and all fitter and more agile than me, including 74-year-old Jane, a badass biker if I’ve ever seen one. I suspect they all had individual moments of inner eye-rolling when my novice status became clear, though with chipper, upbeat Britishness they never let on.
After instructions on how to operate our electric full-squish mountain bikes – which pretty much went over my head, stunned as I was about what I’d gotten myself into – we shoved off down the chunder-y mountain road. I reminded myself of a favorite quote: “I like sufficient danger to put an edge on life.” I told myself that, while this was scary, it was far less daunting than being a female leader in an international school. I consoled myself that, if indeed I OTB-d (went over the bars), at least I’d shown up, faced my fears, been brave – and if I lived, would have an interesting tale to tell at Sidecar Summits...
Clutching the brakes, I carefully wove been stones and ruts, aware of the distance already growing between me and the front of the pack. Then came a reassuring, kind voice behind me: Jane. Calmly, she reassured me that I was doing just fine; that she, too, found this surface difficult; that she would stay back with me to keep me company. She gave me some pointers and helped me regain my equilibrium. (If mountain bikes had sidecars, I’d want Jane in mine.) Eventually, we reunited with our fellow cyclists who, it turns out, had also found this stretch sketchy and strenuous, despite their relative experience. (Phew! And – this is what Sidecar Rallies are all about: sharing stories from the adventurous road that is leading in international schools.)
As we set off again, I heard for the first time a phrase that would continue to echo through the coming days: Follow the Line. I was puzzled at first. What line? What does this mean? Surely not something as obvious as the line of slow cyclists. There was no clearly demarcated line on the dirty-and-gravel road, and if there were, conditions would have made it well nigh impossible to follow. What I eventually worked out is that imagination was called for here: that when faced with unpredictable conditions, with velocity carrying you forward and stopping not a viable option, you are well-served to set your gaze a little ways ahead and follow that imaginary line forward. The discipline of focus on that ‘line’ keeps one resistant to the distractions on the periphery. Indeed, as I got more comfortable with my bike and more confident with my technical abilities, I realized that what could have been perceived as obstacles in the road - big rocks, sudden crevasses, slick spots - became rather trifling blips, once I learned to focus on a spot just beyond them and follow the line through. (It helped that my bike had amazing suspension and resilience that made it feel more like riding a flying tiger.)
That’s the lesson I hope you’ll take away from this. That leaders so often find themselves in unpredictable conditions, with velocity carrying them forward and stopping not a viable option. Setting your focus on a point in the future, just beyond the current obstacles, can help keep you steady and upright. Those obstacles are likely to become blips in the grand scheme of things. And it helps to have a ‘flying tiger,’ which I’ll define here as a strong sense of your own abilities along with a reliable group of supporters, such as one can find in the Sidecar community.
By day 3 of my cycling adventure, it was much easier to get into a flow state of cycling, where I could observe the astonishing beauty of the Armenian countryside, rich with wildflowers, ancient monasteries, and Alpine landscapes. On the longer straightaways I could occasionally engage in conversation with Avetis, our multi-talented guide who combined a deep knowledge of Armenian history and culture with informed points of view on current world affairs, a wicked sense of humor tinged with irony, and a reassuring patience with my novice biking skills. On the final afternoon, I’d started to feel like the QOM (Queen of the Mountain), practically schralping those final trails and almost making it look steezy (stylish and easy). Well – this is where my imagination, fired up by the whole follow the line thing, was really kicking in. I’m not sure my fellow cyclists would describe me in quite the same way! Still, as we all flowed down that final stretch of our cycling adveture along a beautifully tarmacked road, I think we all felt a sense of exhilaration that can only come from having conquered chunder-y roads and personal doubts.
I’ll send out a Sidecar Dispatch soon with other updates, musings and plans for the coming Sidecar season. Meanwhile, I hope you all are enjoying summer adventures, whether relaxing with a cool drink and long straw or attacking virtual mountain biking trails, properly kitted out and ready to follow the line.
No matter which flavor of adventure you’re having, you’re all QOMs in my book.
Yours in sending it! (going for it with full effort, usually involving danger),
Bridget
