I grew up in rural Kentucky, with many days spent at my grandparents’ dairy farm. In addition to the dairy operation, they raised corn, alfalfa, tobacco, soybeans, and beef cattle from time to time. This new blog series will take readers through the many leadership and life lessons learned on that farm and others from my early life. Those lessons have provided guideposts throughout my life and my career – and they are just as relevant today as they were (cough cough) years ago. This story is no different.
As I mentioned, I grew up on a farm. This farm spanned over 300 acres and had been passed down from generation to generation. The actual land was split exactly down the middle by an over-sized single-land paved road that connected a main highway to a small community and was almost 3 miles long – the farm was in the middle. My grandparents’ house was at the highway end and the milking barn about halfway to the end. If you’ve ever been to Kentucky, you’d know the bluegrass state is known for thoroughbred horses, bourbon, and hills. It just so happened that the dairy barn sat at the top of one of those hills and provided a scenic view of the surrounding pastures and crop fields. I mention this because that hill also provided thrill seekers a natural ramp that was more exciting, the faster you drove over it. The problem was that you couldn’t see over it to know whether anyone was coming up the opposite side. The road was used primarily by locals, so they were acutely aware that we had very large tractors sometimes pulling very large load of hay, tobacco, or corn. This made no difference. The thrill of the launch had too great a pull for some and they took the hill with the gusto of daredevil Evel Knievel.
On our farm, the cows were milked twice a day – 4:30am and 4:30pm. My grandfather got up every morning before dawn to drive the cows from the pasture to the barn first on foot and eventually with a four-wheeler. For nearly 45 years my grandparents did this routine – never taking a vacation, only leaving for short periods to show our cattle at the local, state, and national fairs. Their livelihood was also their lives. As my cousins and I got old enough to venture out on our own, we were given strict instructions. The youngest of us were to leave the house, go through the field staying as close to the fence as possible, and always be on the lookout for big clods of dirt. If one of the cows took a notion to chase us, we had a fence to climb and a dirt clod to throw. As we got older, we could start taking the road. It was both safer and not. Safer from being charged in the field, but now we had to contend with traffic. The same traffic that sometimes used the hill for a joyride. The barn was probably a quarter mile from the house and you could see the entire stretch from the back windows of the house. Now, before you start judging, you need to remember this was during a time when cars had two keys, round and square, when most of the time we road in the back of the truck no matter where we were going, and when by the age of 12, we had been driving for years. Life seemed simpler then.
Back to the story. When we left the house, sometimes we walked, sometimes we road our bikes, and in later years sometimes we took the four-wheeler. Instructions were clear. If walking, when you came up to the bottom of the hill, you were to take the ditch, walk close to the fence and listen for approaching cars. If on the four-wheeler, you were to take the ditch, getting as far off the road as safely possible, get to the top of hill quickly, and stay to the right (the barn side). However, when you were on your bike, you were to get off, stay close the ditch, and walk it up the hill. No matter your method of transportation or pathway, you had a plan. You could be completely aware of your surroundings, listen for possible danger approaching, and could take precautionary measures as necessary.
Leadership is a lot like that bike trek. You assess the situation, create your strategy and plan, and take the most direct route to the target. You get feedback along the way, you adjust, but you keep going until you reach the summit.
Let’s get into what that means in a practical setting. During a multimillion-dollar construction project, I was asked by the medical director to procure a $500,000 piece of equipment. I was new and at my prior organization, we had very rigid guardrails for capital purchases even for construction projects with a budget cushion. I was new and this came to me before I’d even completed orientation. So what did I do? I deployed the “get off the bike and walk” strategy. Instead of blindly pushing forward, I chose to get off the bike, pay attention to the oncoming traffic, and stay close the ditch in case of emergency. Getting off the bike - I familiarized myself with the purpose of the equipment, it’s position within the clinical program, and the total costs of purchase. I reached out the senior vice president for guidance, drafted an SBAR (complete with APA references), and informed the medical director of my progress. I ensured the SVP was aware of the medical director’s concerns about timing and his readiness to escalate. He was aggravated we were being slowed down for process and was ready to go to the CEO to get it approved (oncoming traffic). I reassured him that we were making progress and that I would let him know if we ran into barriers (anticipated traffic) and needed him escalate to the c-suite. I kept the summit in sight (procuring the equipment) but hugged that ditch (the SVP) in case the traffic swerved in my direction (medical director mood). I kept walking. A week later I had an approved purchase order in hand and the equipment was on the way. Summit reached. Had I stayed on the bike as I made my way up the hill, it would have been harder, I would have been at risk for falling over (I’m not very good on a bike), and the potential daredevil who wanted to jump the hill could have been taken me out.
Sometimes you have to get off the bike and walk.
