I've had a couple people ask me for business advice lately, and I was taken aback by how little I know about business as I tried to come up with an answer. It didn't jibe with how successful Paleo Treats has been; you'd think I'd know more.   In 3 and half years we've grown from making batches in our kitchen and selling them at the 2009 CrossFit Games to being one of the bigger Paleo food companies in the business and selling not just throughout the U.S. but internationally on a regular basis. As I racked my brain for what "secret formula" there is for success, I kept coming up against the basics, nothing fancy, nothing exotic, just the basics.  They are summed up in my head as the pursuit of perfection combined with plenty of joyous work and just enough luck to get you over the occasional hump. Whether you're starting a business (and I recommend everyone start at least two) or starting a workout program or just trying to get through the holidays without eating every last cookie and piece of cake shoved into your face, success seems to come from those three things. First, the pursuit of perfection.  It's not whether or not you achieve it, but the pursuit itself that's important.  Aside from the obvious benefit of coming up with top quality products, it draws others into your circle who are following similar goals, who walk similar paths, and that leads to joyous work (more on that later.)  The old saying that birds of a feather flock together is just as true of folks seeking perfection as it is a bevy of quail.  It's a hard road, the path to perfection, and there are an awful lot of exits you can take.  It's much easier to stay the course if you're surrounded by good friends with the same intentions, and if you just put your head down and slog it out with them at your side you'll find that you hit what you thought were impossible goals and only notice it when you're a few miles beyond where you thought you'd ever be. One of my favorite stories about this can be found here. In the case of Paleo Treats we're after perfection in a Paleo dessert.  We haven't found it yet, at least not in any one dessert, although our Mustang Bar comes pretty close; I've heard it referred to as a "Paleo-gasm" (thanks Heidi F.)  Still, it's the pursuit that matters, and it shows up every time we see someone take a bite of a Paleo Treats sample; they always seem to expect mediocrity and are so surprised and stoked to find that the people that made this treat actually give a shit about taste AND health. The second key to success is plenty of joyous work.  I don't mean by this that you love everything you do; some tasks just suck and there's no way around it.  What I'm talking about is probably best shown in an old Gary Larson Far Side cartoon.  It's a picture of a guy wheeling a heavy wheelbarrow up a steep path in Hell.  It's hot, the wheelbarrow is loaded with bricks, he's scrawny and sweating, everyone around him is miserable.  Incredibly, he's whistling away, shown so cleverly in just a few musical notes and his pursed lips.  The Devil is looking on from the side of the path, and he turns and says to his minion, "We're just not getting to that guy."  Whatever else that guy did to get to the hot place, he understood the value of joyous work, of being able to be stoked with whatever you're doing, whether it sucks or not. We take that joy pretty seriously at Paleo Treats, so whether we're out hustling to sell cookies at a sample sale or rocking out newsletters or just shipping out box after box, we remember that joy is what YOU make, not the job you're doing, and if we're stoked to be doing whatever it is we're doing that somehow seems to translate pretty consistently into success.  I think that joy comes through every time we talk to folks, and maybe that's why I get asked for business advice; folks want to know not just the secret of success, but the way to make that success be so much fun. The final ingredient to success is a tiny helping of random luck.  Sometimes it's bad luck, and you learn some huge and awesome and valuable lesson by zigging when you should have zagged.  Mostly though, it's just a little good luck; knowing the right person, being in the right place at the right time, or just plain getting lucky.  This last "lucky" piece isn't something you have control over, although it seems that the more joyfully and the harder we work, the luckier we get. Still, there's that undeniable element of luck in every venture; the weather window that opens up at just the right time, the Oprah show that stumbles upon the Paleo diet right after we made a huge batch, the passing acquaintance from years ago you run into at the airport who is perfectly positioned to give you a boost right when you need it, the phenomenally gifted employees you hire who are better than you could have asked for had you designed their lives yourself. So that's it: The pursuit of perfection, joyous work, and enough luck to get you over the humps. That wraps it up for my holiday wisdom, feel free to drop us a line via email or phone. Cheers, NFH Paleo Treats

If you think you're not average, you're either an idiot or you're right. You're probably (and I say this with all scientific sincerity) an idiot. I spent most of my life thinking I was above average. Hell, I was. I was a Navy SEAL by the time I was 20. I sailed 5,000 miles of open ocean in a 22 ft boat by the time I was 24. I had traveled to 30 odd countries by 25, including one that was a no-travel zone for Americans. By 27 I had lived and worked in a war zone, at 28 I owned 3 properties in 3 states including a drop dead beautiful piece of land in Northern New Mexico, at 29 I owned a t-shirt company with shirts in 12 Nordstrom stores and was on a rapid rise to the top and by 31 I was bankrupt. It was a hell of a ride. Then came this fucking slump when I realized that despite my good (not my best, because I wasn't making them) efforts, unless I stopped living in the past and got back down into the thick of it where the blood and sweat and bile and hellacious effort was, I was going to be average for the rest of my life. An average athlete. An average husband. An average thinker. An average man. Does this sound familiar? It must, I see you everywhere, including in the mirror. I mean, there you are in the coffee shop, or the ice cream store, or the Whole Foods, or hell, the Vons. I can see you're average in the way you walk, the way you shop, the way you spend, the way you and your girlfriend dress. I'm not trying to be mean, it's just…well, it's just the law of damn averages. You probably have some kick ass backstory too, but now here we sit, lounging back on slowly sagging laurels, seeing just how easy it is to achieve a comfortable lifestyle and seemingly inexorably getting sucked into the mundane fucking existence we spent the first 30 years of life making fun of. Ironic, eh? The hell of it is, the path to beyond average isn't complicated, it's just hard, and more often than not these days I'm just not up for hard. I'll get all fired up about rowing the Channel Islands or trail running high peaks or climbing hard or surfing harder, but then morning comes and I go for an easy run, or work through a sweaty but not strenuous kettle bell workout. I'll meet guys in the street I used to know and they remember me as someone I no longer am, and while my ego is temporarily soothed by their remembrances, I know that deep down I'm not that same fire breathing motherfucker. Sure, occasionally I'll hang out with better men than me, and it's not like I've turned into a fat pussy. I can still charge hard, jump off cliffs, leap chasms, lift heavy, and shoot straight. It's just that those things no longer turn me on like they used to and I'm not sure what will. And that's the hell of it, because here I am, knowing just how much potential I have and for lack of action and clear direction it's being pissed away in Facebook and walks around the block with my dog. I know what turns my brain on, and that's discovering or creating new ideas and then implementing them, but even then it's only a half-way high, nothing like the old workouts where I'd come busting up from the deeps with lungs burning, the world closing in on me and the clock ticking away, launching out of the water in front of the pack. Maybe I need to find a tribe again. I've been lost and solo too long, a man without a group, without a source to check my actions by. Really, without a clear purpose or goal. Is that then what is missing from our lives, we lost souls? A simple purpose, a clean goal? Knowing the effort that goes into that and the joy in the effort I know it must be right. There is almost too much wisdom in the idea that the journey is the destination. The only question left is, do I still have what it takes to load up for that journey, and to move above average?

Running hard up a steep hill, no shirt on, sweat and saliva fly off an unkempt beard, breath hard and ragged and heavy. We pass a blind man going up, his stick held in front of him as he slowly climbs. The freeway roars to our right, impermanent houses stand silent to our left. We climb past well-kept gardens and aim for a gleaming work truck with wheels cramped to the curb, a white metal cloud of guidance. It falls away off our right shoulder. The road curves, the final stretch in sight. We press harder, driving our soles into the concrete, running out of oxygen, running up our physical debt, promising later payment if only we can please keep going, desperate to quit, unable to stop. The finish is ahead and the top flattens out inviting us to slow and rest. The ease is a trap for the weak, for the unprepared, the unwilling. We charge past. Forcing our legs to move, we ignore our acid muscles, we drive with our minds ourselves on to the end. Panting, we finish. Hands in the air, gut muscles clenching with beginning dry heaves, lungs throbbing, throat raw, we wander in small circles at the top. The manicured grass, the clean picket fence, the cracked concrete road all pass in dizzying order. We turn and walk down. Three more attempts at greatness call us.

Ok, back from a 2 night 3 day trek into the deserts of Egypt. This odyssey began on the car ride to Adel's house from the airport, when he asked me what I'd like to do and I told him "camel trek". Having worked with camels a very little time in the US I didn't have much experience to go on, but from what I did have I was stoked to go. The first day we started moving around noon, taking a mini-bus (the preferred method of travel in Cairo for locals, these mini-buses run up and down the main drags with sliding doors open. You clamber in, pass your fare through the other passengers up to the driver, witness a few Arab-style yelling matches during your voyage as various parties disagree with each other, and pop off wherever you'd like) to Adel's friend Moussad, who owns 2 camels and a donkey. Moussad had the animals ready to go, so I hopped on and rode it up about 8 feet. The first day Moussad kept my camel tied to the back of his; they weren't sure how experienced of a rider I was and it ended up being a good intro to riding. There are three seated positions for riding. First was straddling the camel, as on a horse. Second was the usual Egyptian style of riding, where you cross your legs at the ankle in front of the horn of the saddle and rest your feet on the camel's neck. A welcome relief from the straddle method. Third, once on open/flat ground, was to sit side saddle, an enjoyable way to travel as you talked with another rider. This first day I found the ride to be jerky and lurching, but by day three I had begun to feel the rhythm and settle in to the gently swaying glory of the "ship of the desert". By the time we had walked through a warren of dirt roads and back alleys and past the pyramids it was already 4 o'clock, so we rode about another hour into the desert through what looked like a huge sandbox where bulldozers and earth moving equipment come to gather the majority of Cairo's building material before we stopped and set up camp in a windbreak. The camels were cushed (down position) and tied to a saddle, then A&M pulled off the saddles and laid out the camel blankets making them into the floor of an open air living space. The first order of business when making camp is to feed the camels, then to start a fire and make tea. Tea is a spartan and deliberate affair consisting of mixing, heating, tasting, adding sugar and then delicately pouring out a hot, strong, and very sweet tea into large shot glasses. Delicious. They had honored me with a huge stack of very thin burgers for the first dinner, brought out under the (correct) assumption that I would enjoy them. They cooked these over an open fire (wood was also carried in) and along with an incredibly stinky salty cheese (at first smell I thought, "Fuck it, I ain't gonna like it but I am going to eat it", ended up being well suited to the occasion) and a mixture of chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, and spicy peppers all eaten with pieces of fresh pita bread we feasted under the stars. By 6:30 the sun had set, dinner was over and I had a good handle on how the tea ceremony was run (slow, hot, and without end), so with the temp dropping and after a envious eye to Adel's thick abaya (a tightly knit and well crafted heavy wool robe) I made for the sleeping bags. I was the first to go bed, and as I drifted off to sleep under the stars did not realize that I would be the only one to sleep that night. Through their own culture and sensibility, they believed that 4 eyes were needed to stand a watch, and they were damned if they'd wake me up. So they didn't go to sleep. Upon rising in the morning I saw both of them by the fire and asked how the slept. They said they didn't. I asked why not. Adel said, "We didn't come here to sleep." Wasn't sure what to make of that, but it sounded pretty tough. Having gone without sleep before in my life due to various commitments, I fully appreciate the value of a good night's rest, but if they had made it to 37 and 48 years old and had decided to hold with a different philosophy then my own I was happy to let them. Adel is a devout Muslim, and prayed the requisite 5 times a day. I hazily recall his first prayer at 0430, the phrase "Allah hu Akbhar" being repeated over and over brought me out of a light sleep. Experiencing this devotion is impressive. As a non-believer, however, I'm just as glad I haven't dedicated my life to the Muslim method. After I awoke and had the "no-sleep" talk with the two of them, Adel decided that he would sleep after all, and laid down for an hour. I was hungry as I walked blearily eyed over to the still burning fire and Moussad. I knew we wouldn't eat until after Adel had woken up, so I was happily surprised when Moussad rummaged through one of the many bags they brought and came up with a plastic sack full of what looked like small red chili peppers but were actually dates. He proceeded to roast them on the coals, and they made an agreeable appetizer for the breakfast which followed. Once Adel woke up he made preparations for breakfast, which was a small wheel of pre-wrapped in tin-foil wedges of cheese, honey in a shallow bowl, a delicious concoction called Halavah (can be bought in the States under the name Halvah) and pitta bread to scoop it all up in, all finished up with 3 cups of tea. The first cup is sweet yet still carries the heavy astringent quality of the "dust" tea they make. The second cup is sweeter still, and the third cup, mixed with mint, is a superb finish to this ancient desert ceremony. The trash from our travels so far was thrown about the camp at random. Incomprehensible to me but seemed to be SOP for them. Indeed, all of Egypt (and the Middle East that I've seen) is blanketed to a more or less degree with the detritus of the modern age; plastic bottles, tin foil, old sandals, and anything no longer useful. When I made an attempt to pick up some litter they went along with it, putting it all into a small garbage bag which Adel then carefully carried to the other side of the windbreak and deposited on the side of the path. Rather than do the ecologically appropriate thing and insist on them conforming to my ways, I figured, fuck it, it's their country and if they want to trash it they can. This is the problem of the modern and pampered traveler like myself; do we impose upon other cultures what we "know" to be right, or do we allow them to make a mess of their own property and trust that in time they will come to the same conclusions we have? Is it even appropriate to think that a civilization older than ours (America being only a few hundred years old and the Muslim world having universities dating back 1,200 years) knows less than we do? With the food and drink settled until dinner (they only eat twice a day), we packed, saddled the camels and were off. The second day they decided to let me ride free rein, which increased both my participation and enjoyment tremendously. We walked in that slow and languorous mile-eating way camels have through the rest of the rough sandbox we had stopped in the night before, skirted the Cairo dump (a harbinger of the journey ahead) and spilled out onto a wide plain with a view of the ancient burial ground of Saqarrah and the famous Step pyramid in the distance. This day we would cover about 30 miles, and aside from a small saddle sore I would be none the worse for it. This was the best part of the trip; wide open desert, great long views and few signs of civilization around. There were the power lines far off to the West that carry energy from Aswan dam up to Cairo, and the fringe of civilization that exists on the edge of the Nile to the east, but other than that we were out of touch with the modern world. All that would change on the return journey, but for now I was totally happy with being in the desert with Bedouin and camels, carrying everything we needed with us. It was glorious. After about 3 hours of riding south we turned back to the north and began to re-trace our steps. With only a few days to be in the desert due to my frequently changing work schedule they had decided on an out-and-back trek. We re-entered the rough sand-hill area and began weaving our way through small wadis and roads that criss-crossed the whole area, evidence of human activity in the recent past. Incomprehensibly to me, the two men decided that a view of the pyramids from a different angle was worth a trip through (NOT on the outskirts off) the Cairo dump. It started off innocently enough, and in reality I think they just took a wrong turn and didn't want to admit it, but we began to wend our way around a huge canyon system toward the heaped up and steaming piles of refuse that mark civilizations everywhere. Gradually the piles of trash became bigger and bigger, the stench stronger, and the sounds of large equipment grew from distant groans and sirens to the close up high pitched beeping and deep growling of huge chunks of machinery as they plowed their way through, around, and on the trash of a city. Having not eaten since morning and having been in the saddle for 5 hours by the time we started at the dump I was not in the best of moods, and the change from tranquil and clean desert to the fucking dump began to arouse in me a righteous anger. I had to remind myself that, A: maybe we were lost and they just didn't want to admit it, which I could understand, B: I should have had more to do with planning, and C: This was, if I stepped back and looked at it, pretty goddamned funny. In any event I got much better at directing a camel through uneven terrain. We picked our way through the dump emerging after a full hour to a view of the pyramids from the east, a fact triumphantly expressed to me by a beaming Adel. I let him know in the most courteous of ways that I would rather not ride through a dump again, even to be graced with the most glorious of views, which this side of the pyramids were definitely not. Due to the nature of their construction, pyramids look remarkably similar from every side. He apologized, first blaming it on himself thinking I would enjoy it, and later on that day blaming it on Moussad's opinion that I must see the pyramids from every angle. While only a little over an hour long, this detour changed the dynamic of the trip enough that I decided that further camel (or any treks) with Adel would be discussed in much greater detail prior to departure. It was something I should have known and planned for and didn't, so I could really only be upset with myself. After breaking free of the foul stench and sight of the dump we emerged again into sandy hills, and climbed up them in search of a campsite for the night. Along the way we picked up bits of discarded wood for the night's fire, having used up all we had carried in the night before. As Moussad led us from potential campsite to potential campsite I determined to take a more active role in the expedition, and indicated that one windbreak was much the same as another after 7 hours in the saddle, so we settled down in one that hid civilization and the pyramids from our view and made camp again, following the same procedures as before. The difference came after night fell. Moussad had decided to take a two hour nap, and it was in the middle of this that two youths approached the camp out of the darkness. One had his face hidden with a black cloth, and as soon as Adel discerned they were coming to us he woke Moussad. Adel walked toward young men with the usual greeting of Salaam wah Aleikum, which was returned in kind. Hands were shaken all around with that peculiar limp grip common to the Middle East, and the four talked for a minute, with voices gradually growing louder. This being a common occurrence in Egypt I took no notice of it, but stayed behind Adel & Moussad ready to jump in and lend a hand in whipping the shit out of these two punks, as it became quickly apparent that they had nothing positive to offer our experience. This clarification occurred when Adel asked the one whose face was covered to uncover so we could look upon him, and the youth declined to be identified. With a quick hand, Adel reached up to grab away the covering, but the young man held it up. After a brief struggle Adel ripped the obscurement away and looked upon the now lit face. Soon after this, both men disappeared back into the night, and Adel proudly let me know they were bad men and he had sent them away. I stayed awake long enough to participate in the first of what I assumed to be many night tea ceremonies, and then, after offering my services as a watchmen and being roundly denied, again went off to bed to leave the two of them to stay up as long as they wanted. As before, neither of them slept until the next morning when I woke up. The monstrous wailing that is the sign of the call to prayer arose from the distant city, seeming to signify the awakening of the hordes. This is perhaps an over statement, but to one unaccustomed to an entire culture loudly proclaiming their faith at the same time it had all the sound of an impending battle. I stayed in bed through Adel's morning prayers, then we followed the same procedure of breakfast, tea, and saddling the camels for our return to the city. As we rode back I saw in the experience how my time in the saddle had increased my riding skill, and felt comfortable as we walked back through the dirt roads and alleys that before I had been led through, ending up at Moussad's door. Unsaddling and feeding the camels took all of half and hour, then Adel and I caught a tuk-tuk (3 wheeled covered scooter) back to his house, and I headed to my quarters for a shower and reconnection with the electronic world.

Got in yesterday from an overnight trip up to the hill country of Sri Lanka, an interesting and educational experience as well as being almost completely enjoyable. 23Jan. Kandy, Sri Lanka Dogs howling at midnight woke me, the experience of regaining consciousness under the gentle haze of a mosquito net was both pleasant and new. A small breakfast of eggs & tea and I was off for the day with Shaun, my guide for the day. We planned to do a 3 temple trek in the morning, then lunch, then a visit to Pinnewala elephant sanctuary followed by a train ride home. Although Shaun was a young dude and "hiking guide", he didn't seem to be in shape, and appearances were not deceiving: instead of the 3 planned temples we only managed 2. We drove to the first temple via tuk tuk (3 wheeled scooter), getting off for a look 'round and taking the first of what could have been interminable lectures on Buddhist temples & their gods, which are all mixed up with the Hindu gods. Oh well, nice to see the religions getting along. Shaun's English was weak, so there wasn't much for conversation. Hiked from that first temple through a bit of jungle, where S pointed out cacao, cinammon, breadfruit, jackfruit, clove, black pepper, tea, "long bean", mangosteen, papaya, durian, avocado, guava, and coconut trees! Sri Lanka has a wealth of spices and fruits growing wild throughout. We broke out into the open and wended our way along the dikes on the sides of extraordinarily green rice paddies for 40 minutes or so on our way to temple number 2, our final temple for the day. Lots of birds, apparently this is a bird watching paradise. Along the way we stopped for a drink of coconut water, freshly served in a cut-to-order coconut at a tiny roadside stand. We hiked up into a tea plantation, tea being grown on the hills and rice in the flat bottom land. Up in the heights you can see the ruggedness of this place and understand why the kingdom of Kandy was the last of the island's kingdoms to fall to European powers (the British in 1815.) Shaun propositioned me for a little bang-bang on the hillside after admiring the size of my cock as I was taking a piss break. Flattering, but I politely declined. Arrived at the second temple at the top of a long flight of stairs carved out of rock. Carved into the stone grounds of these temples are the provenance & patrons of each building and construction. After 6-700 years it becomes fairly weathered, but still interesting to look at. By this time we had apparently run out of morning, for it was into the tuk-tuk and off to lunch at a fairly manky roadside stand. Rice, curry, dhal, and potatoes all gently resting under the assault of flies feebly fended off with barely fitting lids and folded up newspaper graced my plate. Spicy and lukewarm, it filled my gut. From there we drove to the Pinnewala Elephant Orphanage, where around 100 elephants are cared for and displayed to the public. Shaun had not been there before, so was not sure of where the entrance was or really the best ways to enjoy the place. Aside from pointing out many of the plants along the way, and knowing how to get from one temple to another, he was not much of a guide, really. First we went to a milk feeding of two babies, a crowded and uninspiring affair (jostled by impatient Indians to watch elephant calves suck down huge bottles of milk in less than 10 seconds, which some tourists paid for the privilege to have their hands on the bottle whilst the handlers actually held it. Another example of the tourist industry's pastime of providing the least service for the most money), and then things took a turn for the better. Hiking up small rise we came upon the herd separated from us by only a thin line of scattered boulders imitating a fence. As we tourists stood gawking on one side the elephant handlers would come up and with a flicking gesture of their wrist indicate we should cross the line and come have our picture taken with the elephants, followed by the inevitable request for a tip. Really cool to be so close to the great beasts. Makes me want to work with them for a while, maybe at a sanctuary somewhere? From there I ambled over to a huge tusked bull, again taking a photo while standing next to him, tipping the handler after my 10 seconds of "glory." Knowing from the guidebooks that the herd would be led down to the river across the street, we hurried down to get the last seat with a good view, and from there, with a cold beer, I enjoyed an excellent scene of about 50 elephants trotting down into the water and then just enjoying themselves. The babies in particular offered many moments of gentle amusement as they rambunctiously played, holding each other underwater, bumping heads, play-mounting, and generally enjoying their childhood as kids do anywhere. What I had thought would be a 45 minute drive to the train station turned out to be around 5, so I was left with an extra hour and half before the train for Colombo arrived, in which time I managed to have a short religious convo with an Islamic fellow and took a picture of my "bench companions." Nearly a 3 hour train ride later in the 3rd class and I was back in Colombo just as dark set in. An enjoyable 2 days, much better than if I had stayed in the hotel, and I learned a ton about what not to do and how to get around easily and very cheaply in Sri Lanka. Useful for when L** & I return.

I wrote this up for a shooting forum, all of it applies beyond work on the range. These techniques are used by top tier performers around the world. In fact, every single professional performer uses all of these. They may call them different names but "the big 4" (Visualization, Self Talk, Goal Setting, Arousal Control) are unavoidable if you want to become the best. For the rest of us mortals, they help us become a whole lot better and they're free. Visualization: Lots of research has been done on this, basically your body doesn't know the difference between what you visualize and what you do. Whether or not you have time for the range you almost always have time to visualize. The more aspects you can include the better. What it looks like, (your point of view, what you look like from another's point of view), what it feels like from grip to stance, what it sounds like with ears on, what it smells like (smell is a direct connection to your lizard brain) and even what it tastes like will all build your training environment and allow you to practice the perfect shot or run. Self Talk: Pros talk to themselves, from Tiger Woods to elite military shooters. What they say focuses on the positive (nice shot, keep going, hands steady, eyes clear) and NOT what they're missing (darn it, missed that one, oh well, need to speed up etc). The more "I can do this" and "I've got this" you use the more it'll become true for you. It's not magic, it just makes the hard work you put in that much more effective. Goal Setting: From very short term (hit this next shot) to very long term (Grand Master in 5 years) you MUST have goals if you're going to make measurable progression. If you're serious you'll write them out enough times that they become burned into your brain. Arousal Control: This is what takes a bi-athletes heart rate from rockin' and rollin' down to shooting between heartbeats. Completely in the head. You can improve this with awareness, which must be constantly practiced. Read Enos. For wazoo out there techniques check out John Alexander and The Warrior's Edge. No longer in print that I'm aware of, usually you have to wait on Amazon for a used one to show up. One technique that is super effective is sometimes called 4-4-4: take 4 seconds to inhale, 4 seconds to exhale, and do that for 4 minutes (or as short/long as you have.) It encourages the brain to calm down and simulate relaxation patterns. Good to do if you have a time where you know you usually "freak out." Like before you shoot a match. These are the basics. Tons of books have been written about this, if any of you would like to work on your mental game post up what you've got and we'll make it helpful to the whole forum. Used to teach this stuff to fired up young dudes, am happy to use that experience to help you. Q&A ****, lots of folks start off super relaxed and then they fire that first shot and events spiral out of control, or at least beyond your conscious awareness, and that's the issue. Awareness of your mental state is critical to controlling what you're doing, whether you're shooting or talking to your spouse or running a hard race. You're heading in the right direction with more practice and experience. When you do practice, practice awareness. One thing you can do is try using "dots". You can buy a sheet of little dot stickers of whatever color catches your attention at OfficeMax or OfficeDepot etc. Paste those around the house (above sink, in bathroom, by the bed, at the front door) and wherever else you spend lots of time (steering wheel, desk at work etc.) Every time you see that dot, just pay attention to what you're thinking, to your awareness. This is practice, and it's not restricted to the range. When you do this you're building a habit of awareness that will have implications well beyond your shooting game. Now, when you're at the range you can run a few drills of awareness, shooting as fast as you can for a mag to amp you up and then doing a SUPER SLOW mag change and bringing your awareness back. You can also color a dot onto your hands where you can see it when you bring your gun up to bear, just something to remind you to stay aware. I'd wish you good luck, but I tend to believe that folks who work hard get the luckiest, so good work! ****, these techniques are commonly used by top tier Formula One racers. It's funny, you'd be hard pressed to find top competitors or performers anywhere in any discipline who don't use the big four or some variant of them. They work so well and are so natural in the evolution of high level activity that once you know what they are and look for them you'll find them *everywhere.* The Four Quarters I used to race (running) and would specifically use goal setting to plan out how to run. I broke the race up into 4 quarters and called them horse, boat, heart, and home. The horse, or first quarter, I viewed as if I was a jockey and riding a super powerful horse, one that I'd have to pull back on the reins a bit in the beginning so I didn't blow it out. It was a reminder to me to pull back on my pace a little, because almost every pace feels good in the first quarter, even the one that will murder you. The more experienced you get as a runner the more you realize that no one wins a race in the first quarter, but lots of people will run that as if it's the most important one. The boat quarter I thought about the way you drive a boat, especially one with a slipping throttle; you know, you can put it at full speed but especially in anything other than glassy conditions it'll slip back down a few notches if you're not constantly and firmly tapping that throttle forward. That idea reminded me to keep checking my speed as I ran, to maintain the solid pace I'd set in the first quarter. The heart, or third, quarter was always my favorite. I saw a military recruiting video once where they showed a bunch of guys running on a beach, obviously a hot day and a hell of a run. As they went along you could see the pain and sweat and struggle in each of them, and the narrator read out a line I'll never forget: "There's nothing quite like running to make a man reach deep down inside himself and see what he's made of." That's what the heart quarter was for me, the time to reach down deep and hold the pace I'd already set. For me, the third quarter is where a race is won. It's where everybody wants to give up, it's usually in a place where the fans don't go so nobody's watching you, and racers are far enough away from the finish line that they figure "a little rest from the pace" is OK. It's not, not if you want to win, and if you want to win you've got to set goals. The fourth quarter is where they make movies, it's the one where you're running home. While physically it's the hardest quarter because you've already expended so much effort, mentally it can be the easiest; you're close to the finish, you usually start to hear the roar of the crowd, and you know that even if you charge and blow yourself out you'll be done soon. Those four quarters are super helpful in physically demanding races, and it's a good concept to think about and use when you're shooting your various stages. Is there anything like it that you use?

Tell them it's me.  Phone 71B, location 2 Crew (B).  November 2011.  Somewhere off the coast of Oman I sit in a same-ness institutional room, opening my mind to the full circle encompassing darkness and light.  I have sat here all over the world.  The tan walls, the don't-give-a-shit mattress, the white sheets and thin soft blanket on a bed not mine but for now.  Training in Arkansas, waiting in Nicaragua, a tussle in Alaska, a Noosa Head spaceship ride direct from the beach.  Here I am again, wondering what I should do with my life, forgetting until I push back Burton's black dog night that I'm doing it.

Arrives this wild and pure kernel of spirit fire in me, slips it out in heavy weather, in big wind, in the hiss of heavy wooden poker chips sliding off the table, when my corporeal being falters, when my true spirit rises.

I have begged for it to show, I have forgotten I had it in me.  On a cold mountain in the Tetons when all I wanted was to be safe and comfortable, with no quarter given from the merciless earth it was unremembered in sick fear. 

Sometimes too late, after a confrontation with one in a long line of alpha males who won't admit wrongness, sometimes as unnecessary as a warm ejaculation waking me from sleep. What is this spirit that seems at times to be of ultimate importance, exquisite joy, and at other times like torn plastic floating on the ocean, a useless and unwelcome reincarnation of its former self?

I return to the moment, relieved of conversation with utlanning, strangers of my own culture.  The waking sea falls away at every horizon, the ship's white deck high off the water, dark clouds heavy overhead, warm drops of rain flecking my shirt.  The wind rises, the sun sinks away blood orange.  Tricked by genetic response to rain-dark-anger, my spirit awakens yet I am already safe.  Rage, sublime joy, a tempest of emotion, an uncontrollable belief in self all sear through my veins.  Another decision made, another poor action conquered, my weakest self beaten again, raw fluke, genesis inevitability.

Looking for proof of existence I forget I live in a vapor of faith, that I breathe it in every time my chest expands.  I step once, twice, into space.  My self pulses, an explosive oval thud, the terrible heat only burns brighter my fire.  I fly.  I am gone, here forever.

Letter to a friend: ***, There's nothing I have experienced that's anything like being on a stormy ocean on a small boat, out of reach of all mankind, reliant totally upon self and the fickleness of the sea gods. Not all the nations in the world with all their resources can do anything to affect the course of one boat out in the ocean when Nature, that uncaring and sublimely beautiful bitch, decides to wake and scream. 2 miles, 10 miles, 200 miles are all the same when you're in it, when wave and wind work together to manifest all that is creative and awesome in the truest sense of the word, showcasing ancient forces unknown and unknowable to those not willing to risk their most precious asset. There is no sound, no taste, no feel, no color to match the uncaring fury of Homer's ancient wine-dark sea.  Nothing.  Having that memory as mine I cherish it, nurture it, look in on it cradled in the cloak of my mind like my own yellow white candle of intense experience when I wonder, "Have I lived?" "To be truly challenging, a voyage, like life, must rest on a firm foundation of financial unrest." Any kind of unrest, the uncertainty, the unknowing of the outcome has proven to me to be the key to a meaningful voyage.  Storming up a pass in Patagonia, sailing through heavy weather, even out on those long runs when the Muses decide to smile with their terrible brilliance, to ask with flashing eyes and sharp teeth of steel for more than you think you have to give, when you just don't know if you have it, when there's no guarantee for greatness, when you have to reach and fail and reach again to leave this plane of experience for the next. That moment of flight, that moment when the breaks turn your way, when the energy starts to run through you, when the follicles swell and the hair stands erect, skin crawling, lungs stretching and expanding, legs strong and unstoppable, feeling the strength flow through you from the sky, that's the moment of physical reassurance that you're still alive. Reaching that, that moment, never seems to come from a state of knowing, a state of confidence that all will be well.  Remembering that uncertainty is necessary for inner victory we each pursue it in our own way; combat, physical action, mental peregrinations, all are built on the base of unknowing so important to the human condition of fleeting satisfaction followed by unfulfillment. We live incomplete in order to enjoy all the more those ephemeral moments of satori gained by our own efforts, knowing that it can't, it won't, it shouldn't last.  It's why we do what we do, and it's awesome in its simplicity and impermanence. "[The wise man] does not have to walk nervously or cautiously, for he has such self confidence that he does not hesitate to make a stand against fortune and will never give ground to her.  He has no reason to fear her, since he regards as held on sufferance not only his goods and possessions and status, but even his body, his eyes and hand, all that makes life more dear, and his very self; and he lives as though he were lent to himself and bound to return the loan on demand without complaint.  Nor is he thereby cheap in his own eyes because he knows he is not his own, but he will in act in all things as carefully and meticulously as a devout and holy man guards anything entrusted to him.  And whenever he is ordered to repay his debt he will not complain to fortune, but he will say, "I thank you for what I have possessed and held.  I have looked after your property to my great benefit, but at your command I give and yield it with gratitude and good will.  If you want me still to have anything of yours I shall keep it safe; if you wish otherwise I give back and restore to you my silver, both coined and plate, my house, and my household.  Should Nature demand back what she previously entrusted to us we shall say to her too: Take back my spirit in better shape than when you gave it.  I do not quibble or hang back: I am willing for you to have straight away what you gave me before I was conscious--take it."  What is the harm in returning to the point from whence you came?" -Seneca, On the Shortness of Life. Love especially the "Take my spirit in better shape then when you gave it."  Such a great way to live, and look at life. Charge! NFH

To stormy nights, cold mountains, the wine-dark sea, and smoky campfires.  We are a different breed.

This from a former client of Lee's: A fellow pilot and friend Robert Gannon just finished a 10-year exploration of the world in his Cessna 182, crossing major oceans. What he says is true: "The one thing I have observed [about flying a private airplane around the world twice over a 10 year period] is that if you will keep stepping forward and keep moving toward what you wish to do, you'll get up to that door that everyone said you couldn't get through. You knock and it will be open and someone will say 'Come on in, no one ever comes here.' -Bob Gannon AWESOME!