The Egg Doesn't Care How Fast You Want To Go

I was at the end of a long and productive day. That fuzzy time before bed. When you’re too tired to “do” something productive but still awake from that too late in the afternoon coffee.

So I was scrolling Instagram. As you do. And a multi-slide story caught my eye.

Okay. I have to stop us here. Confession time: this is where I would recount the story. It’s a good story. But I cannot remember it. And I can’t find it. I thought I saved it. Sorry.

The important part of the story I remember. It closed with, “Grandpa said, ‘The quickest way to what you want is slowly.’”

That kicked the shins of my soul. Not because I thought “slow and steady wins the race.” Well, I did think of it. But not the usual fable moral crappaloo. There was something under it. Low. Kicking my shins. But what?

The question sent me careening five decades into my memories. To eggs on spoons races. We used to play these games in summer school, when summer school was alternative day care and not just for the flunkys.

We’d line up, balancing a raw egg on a spoon. On the whistle, ten kids would shamble across the yard, a horde of drunken pirates chasing floating eggs.

Earline nearly always tripped first. And squeaked. Lucas would turn to see who fell and run into Deb, who smacked Lucas for knocking her egg. (I heard they married). Brian and Mikey sprinted ahead of everyone but always lost their eggs. Some of the girls would use two hands. Technically cheating, but they were slow. Frank slid on his feet, a slow-motion speed skater. He always finished. Last.

But Larry won every time. It wasn’t pretty. Or athletic. He moved one careful step at a time. Focused on his egg, aware but locked in. Until he crossed the finish line, egg intact.

Larry didn’t win because he was the fastest. He won because he was the steadiest. Not too fast. Almost too slow by the race’s standards. Steady. Intentional. Deliberateness won the race.

How?

Conventional definitions of deliberateness describe a calm, well-poised slowness or a rate demonstrating an absence of haste or hurry. But deliberateness is from the Latin librare, which means to weigh or balance. It doesn’t mean slow. It means weighed.

Slowness is a pace. A by-product of the weighing. Slowness is a residue, but not the thing itself.

Larry moved fast enough to win because most of the weighing happened before the whistle blew. Deliberateness wasn’t slowness. His weighing was both instinctive and careful.

Larry wasn’t doing anything new. He could walk. He could hold a spoon. He could balance an egg on a spoon. But how often do you need to run with a raw egg on a spoon? So he considered the parameters. Walk. Hold a spoon. Balance an egg on the spoon. Be the first across the finish. With an intact egg.

Walking, holding a spoon, balancing an egg. His life’s experience compressed from every second of his life. He’s not doing this consciously. Eleven years of living had turned this into instinct. He didn’t have to think about it. It was already inside of him. It was him.

Given what he knew, Larry could think about the new stuff. How do I run with an egg and not drop it? How should I approach this? Balance the egg on the spoon. How does it feel? He weighs this against his instinct and hypothesizes a pace. How to hold himself and the egg. What to pay attention to.

He builds his plan and steps to the line. Deliberation sets the action. He doesn’t have all answers but has a place to start.

At the whistle, he moves, the egg jitterbugging between tension and softness. The egg rolls. His arm shifts and gets back under the egg.

His movement confirms his instincts. And he corrects on the fly. The action feels slow enough for him to adjust, get feedback, adjust, get feedback, in a loop clean enough to build and keep momentum.

The others didn’t weigh at all. Larry weighed at every stage — pre-race, at the starting line, and during the race. This freed his conscious weighing to only handle what was new — racing while balancing the egg.

This is about intention, from the swirl of urgency. Real or perceived. Weighing the cost is always part of paying the price. If you’re going to build a house, you count and weigh the cost. If you’re going to start a business, you count and weigh the cost. Whatever you do, you count and weigh the cost.

Once you’ve considered the cost, acting is clean and swift. Because the cost is calibrated.

Without weighing, speed is impulse. Speed from prior weighing is a form of mastery. Deliberateness isn’t the opposite of speed. It’s the prerequisite for it.