About four years ago I entered a sportive — one of those long cycling events where the route looks manageable on paper and completely different at kilometre ninety.
I went off fast. Too fast. Felt strong. Felt good. The kind of good where you start passing people and your brain quietly convinces you that you’ve cracked it.
By kilometre sixty I was in trouble. Legs gone. Nothing left. Watching the people I’d passed an hour earlier ride calmly past me.
I didn’t bonk completely. But I finished slowly. And the whole back half of that ride was a lesson I couldn’t ignore.
The riders who beat me weren’t the fittest people out there.
They were the most disciplined ones.
They’d done the ride in their head before they’d done it on the road. They knew where the hard climbs were. They knew how much they had and where they needed it. They didn’t look impressive at kilometre ten — but they looked very impressive at kilometre ninety.
🔴 The sprinter (me)
- Went off hard, felt great early
- Passed everyone in sight by km 20
- Nothing left by km 60
- Finished badly, slowly, resentfully
- Confused activity with strategy
🟡 The pacer (them)
- Started quietly, held something back
- Consistent through the middle miles
- Still running at km 80
- Finished strong, passed me twice
- Knew what they had and when to use it
I see this constantly.
January arrives and companies go flat out. New targets. New initiatives. Lots of energy and noise. There’s something almost intoxicating about a clean slate and the feeling of momentum.
Then Q2 arrives and things get complicated.
The initiative that launched with a fanfare needs more resource than it has. The target that felt ambitious in January feels punishing in June. The team that was energised at the start of the year is running on fumes by the middle of it.
And the business that started the year quietly — that didn’t announce much, didn’t make big promises — is still running at the same pace it was in week one.
You’re passing people instead of being passed. You have enough left to respond when something unexpected happens. You arrive at the finish feeling like you could do it again.
PTL isn’t a business that makes a lot of noise at the start of the year.
We don’t do big January announcements. We don’t set targets that look impressive on a slide and become demoralising by April.
We set targets we can actually hit. Then we try to exceed them.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not shareable content. But after twenty years, I’d rather have a business that finishes well than one that looks brilliant at kilometre ten.
The sportive taught me something else too. When you pace yourself, the second half is actually enjoyable. You’re not just surviving. You’re competing.
That’s what a well-run business feels like from the inside.
Not a sprint. A long ride. Paced properly. With something left for the climbs.
Nobody wins a long race by going flat out at the start. The ones who finish well are the ones who knew what they had — and when to use it.
Still have something in the tank?
PTL — twenty years of building something sustainable. One kilometre at a time.
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