The joy of being unexceptional

Finding value in being average at things

(Photo: After completing my first virtual (and very slow) 5K in 2020)

My arch-rival in high school was a bass player named Dan Antunovich* who went to the school across town.

We were in the same year and had the same bass teacher who traveled all over the city teaching bass to burgeoning young jazzers like Dan and me.

I’m not sure if this was his teaching style for everyone, or if he was just quick to notice my competitive streak, but our teacher was constantly telling me about all the fantastic things Dan was doing. Every week, hearing about all the amazing things he was accomplishing, Dan became a 16-year-old demi-god of bass in my mind. Fueled by combative fury, I strove to match his every achievement bassline for bassline.

Dan learned Teen Town? I learned Teen Town as well.

Dan learned the slap solo to Silly Putty? I learned the slap solo too.

I turned every casual remark about Dan from my teacher into a call to arms for whatever new song, skill, or musical goal I would master next.

*names have not been changed so if you’re reading this - hi Dan! I just googled you and it looks like you’re doing great!

As I got older, I realized my teacher knew exactly what he was doing in turning my musical growth into a competition. He had apparently noticed early on that whatever I was told I couldn’t do, I would just dig in my heels and do it anyway.

Case in point, about a year into studying electric bass with him I told him I wanted to learn upright bass. He refused, saying there was more I needed to master on electric first. I debated with him for a few minutes, nodded politely when he wouldn’t budge, and set about teaching myself upright bass anyway. When he saw me tucked away in the bass storeroom at school plucking away on the upright with the awful technique of someone figuring it out for themselves he sighed and said, fine! I’ll teach you!

I’ve always striven to be the best at bass.

If I discovered something I couldn’t do, I wouldn’t rest until I’d figured out how - especially when seeing someone else doing it activated my competition mode. Usually, the best way to motivate me was to simply tell me something was too difficult for me. Tell me it’s impossible, well, now I’m really not going to stop until I master it.

Whether it was a bebop jazz head in thumb position, a set of lightning-speed chord changes, or a Swedish fiddle tune absolutely not written with the hand positioning or size of the upright bass in mind, I’d just keep at it until I nailed it. And through competitiveness and sheer force of will I pretty much always did.

Which was why I was so surprised when I didn’t immediately get good at running.

I’ve always been surrounded by runners. Really, really good ones who do impressive things like run ultra-marathons. I think it might be something to do with the kind of people I enjoy the most in life. The slightly crazy ones who don’t let common sense, struggle, or pain get in the way of their steadfast determination of reaching a noble goal.

I first tried running when I was living in London, and I expected to suck at it for a few weeks, and then get really good at it like all my friends - mastering it like the musical skills I’d accomplished in the past.

Friends, I tell you now, that was not the case.

I’ve been sucking at running for about 15 years now.

My first few years in London were shaped by repeatedly starting, quitting, and restarting various jogging programs designed to motivate me out the front door and zooming toward an impossible-sounding goal. Every time I restarted, bursting out the front door in my new running gear and filled with optimism, I expected something in me to change, transforming me into the next Paula Radcliffe.

Such a transformation never transpired, and I would then quit after a few weeks of puffing my way around Hampstead Heath, frustrated that I wasn’t fast, couldn’t run very far, and didn’t seem to be getting any better.

It took a really long time, but eventually, I realized it was ok to be a bit shit at something, know you’re not going to get much better, but keep doing it anyway. An understanding that hit me, somewhat ironically, while out on a slow jog.

Running is such a convenient exercise, requiring just a pair of decent shoes (and a good running bra if you’re.. ahem… somewhat front-heavy) to get started. I love that you can do it anywhere in the world, stepping out of the front door of your house, the venue, hotel, or tour bus, to just… go. There’s no need to find a gym, organize transport, or book in for a class.

In 2020, having the goal of a virtual 5K to work towards gave me weekly structure and kept me sane in the new pandemic-gig-free world. Running also reduces levels of stress hormones like adrenaline and cortisol, which helps me feel less anxiety, balances my monthly hormones, and improves my skin. Pounding the pavement or trail is the time I think through important decisions and process complicated situations or emotions.

For all these reasons, I eventually came to accept that even if I wasn’t the best at running and never would be, there was absolutely still value in doing it.

Recently, I’ve realized there’s even more to it than that.

Being objectively unexceptional at running but doing it anyway has taught me to appreciate the journey, over the outcome. I’m never going to be the world’s fastest runner and my PRs are not measured in times or distances but, rather, in getting out the door when I don’t feel like it or running to the top of the hill instead of stopping halfway to walk.

In this social media and data age of metrics, analytics, and outcome-driven goals, it’s good to have something that reminds me of the intrinsic value of the journey itself.

Running means literally ending up in exactly the same place you started from, and every time I step outside, lace up my shoes, and go for a run even though I know I’ll never be the best at it, I’m reminded that sometimes the goal isn’t to beat someone else, obsessively track and better your scores, or achieve something remarkable.

Sometimes the entire point of doing something is simply in the doing itself.