Everything I Know About Management, I Learned from Motorcycling

I will be more emphatic than the headline: the most important things about life, I learned from motorcycling. Here is what I have realized from riding.

It's all about risk management. That goes without saying. I must be decisive. You cannot dither out there. As on a motorcycle, so too in life.

What is crucial is how people in fact act, not how they should behave. When I am on a bike, I must try to predict how drivers around me will move. I have to scan the situation constantly.

If they swerve into my lane suddenly, I need to make room quickly. It doesn't matter if they were supposed to use a turn signal. I honk in warning or protest if I can, before the fact if possible but after the fact if necessary.

At an intersection with a light, I have the right of way if I intend to proceed straight, over the driver who is about to make a left turn. But if that car starts to cut you off, you cannot rely on abstract prerogative, unless you wish to suffer physically to make the point.

The same is true for anyone entrusted to be in charge. People are who they are: human beings, with the flaws inherent to all of us; each is an individual, with the foibles peculiar to herself. I would like to create a culture that is open and egalitarian. Yet I would be foolish to insist that everyone conduct themselves according to ideals and perform tasks pursuant to plans, so it is better to be realistic and include a margin of error.

The world is asymmetrical. That operates to the disadvantage of those on two-wheeled vehicles in general.

According to the law, a motorcyclist is entitled to the whole lane. Drivers do not hesitate to cross the white line to crowd me.

But in California, a motorcyclist also can "lane split" — ride between traffic (if it is safe, as when everyone else is moving slowly). Drivers detest that, and they tell me so. Although they frame it as their concern for rider safety, I wonder if it might be resentment as well: the bike is violating the norm of waiting in line for one's turn. It seems unfair, since everyone else is stuck, except of course any driver could turn herself into a motorcyclist.

People divide themselves into tribes. Then they divide again.

It's motorcyclists versus drivers. "Versus" is the right word.

Then there are Harley riders versus other riders, especially anyone on an imported bike. There are Harley riders who regard themselves as the real deal, with the leathers and tattoos to prove it, versus those whom they dismiss as posers who made a mid-life crisis purchase.

You can tell on the backroads. A few riders wave at any other rider coming the opposite direction. It's a gesture of solidarity, a shared pastime that constitutes a community. Some riders wave back politely. Other riders neither wave nor respond, depending on the brand of bike headed toward them.

People judge motorcyclists quite openly. I hold a job that is coat-and-tie expected. Underneath my riding gear, that is what I usually am wearing. I am amused, however, by how I am greeted at any office building where the dress code is exactly that. The guard assumes I am a messenger, if not a miscreant. If I reappear a moment later in professional attire, having ditched the racetrack hi-viz yellow jumpsuit, the receptionist is deferential and may not even recognize me as the same individual.

All of these dynamics play out in daily life. Hierarchies, distinctions, and discrimination — justified and not — abound. In the workplace, actually in all social contexts, people size you up. Whether by rank, responsibilities, or subtleties that you yourself are not quite aware of, we assess one another. We are sensitive about fairness: someone who has the ability to avoid a traffic jam vexes those who are stuck, no matter what.

Yet people are good-natured. They are curious. When I ride, fellow riders talk shop. Children and others who have always wanted to buy a bike ask questions. They are impressed by any answer.

"How fast can you go?"

"Oh, maybe 125 miles per hour."

As a manager, it serves my interest to assume people are well meaning. I remind myself to indulge people's interest in knowing more and to set aside my grievances as well as theirs.

Riding a motorcycle enforces self-discipline. Many an accident involves a single vehicle. That means more than anyone else, a rider's worst enemy is himself. You have to be calm and alert. If you ride angry or drowsy, you will meet trouble.

There isn't even much to be gained by losing one's temper toward the driver who cuts you off. The person may have made eye contact, even smiled. They saw you physically, yes, but it didn't register somehow, and they were negligent rather than intentional in their careless conduct. It isn't about them any more than it's about you. It has to do with roles, perceptions, and prejudices — that affect all of us. A motorcycle rider who takes a turn behind the wheel of a car has to make an effort to be more considerate.

Since everything I do in office is a public act, I compromise my effectiveness if I lose my temper. Even if I am in the right, observers will remember only that I yelled. I cannot even assert that I was correct in a dispute, without appearing petty.

Every now and then, on a motorcycle I suffer a moment of appreciation. I am inches away from enormous semi-tractor trailers, cars piloted by inattentive drunks, and so on. You cannot lose your nerve; you shouldn't venture forth if that is foreseeable. The same is true of leadership. It's never less than high-stakes.

The experience matters more than the product. I enjoy reading enthusiast magazines about new models. I see many vintage bikes I wouldn't mind acquiring. But it's more meaningful to be out on the road, improving my skills. After any commute, there are mistakes to review. On a good day, there are stories to tell.

Likewise, I have concluded as a supervisor that the challenge is not keeping up with new hardware or the latest software. It is user error that plagues us. I mean my own more than anyone else's. Professional development is key.

I usually ride alone. I value solitude.

The loneliness at the top is cliche. It is nonetheless difficult to anticipate.

Perhaps the best lesson about life is that it is a journey. On a motorcycle, I rarely take the fastest route. It isn't as interesting.

Finally, I wear a helmet. That advice is transferable: always wear a helmet.

We process the world through metaphor. For each of us, passions are how we understand reality. For me, riding a motorcycle has made me a better person.

PS For the fellow riders who are reading, my garage holds a 2001 BMW K1200RS, the last iteration of the lay down four-cylinder "flying brick," in chrome yellow; and a 1992 Honda Hawk GT 650, with an aftermarket Two Brothers carbon fiber pipe, Corbin seat, and "wave" front brake rotor, painted an authentic British Racing Green.

Photo: Jim Block