This morning I was listening to a podcast which discussed the life and writing of Adam Smith. For those who haven’t come across him, Smith lived nearly three centuries ago and his most famous book, The Wealth of Nations, would later become the impetus for free-marketeers everywhere. While the book said many different things, the message that most took away was of the “Invisible Hand” of the market. The result of the Invisible Hand was that external regulation or factors should be dispensed with such that the market could best do its work unmolested.
I might argue with Smith’s conclusions or, more correctly, the conclusions that noted free-market economists such as Milton Freidman would later draw from the book. Notwithstanding my objection to Freidmanism, the overarching thought I had while listening to the podcast was the fact that almost three centuries after he lived, Adam Smith is still remembered. He has, in a way, achieved immortality by creating something enduring. Not a bad outcome, if you ask me.
I’m fortunate to have met some impressive people over my time. Serendipity and good timing have meant that I’ve been able to talk with some leaders in the business, political and sporting arenas. These interactions have given me pause for thought and made me reflect on fame and its highly temporal nature. I often wonder how many of these big-noters will be remembered in a century, let alone Smith’s three.
Recently I’ve had a couple of interactions that have focused my mind on this issue of legacy. As many readers will know, I’m a runner who has a weird preoccupation with running stupid distances out in the mountains. My chosen sport, ultramarathon running, is very much a niche activity. While it has grown significantly in recent years, it is still on the edge and, frankly, is a pastime that very few take part in and even fewer actually care about.
A couple of months ago while travelling for work, my son and I caught up with a couple of friends, R and M for dinner. Nothing particularly noteworthy in that. That couple are, however, very much big noters when it comes to our niche sport. R is arguably one of the top two or three professional runners in the world and spends half her time racing the circuit in the Northern Hemisphere and half back here in NZ. M is an elite-level runner himself and follows the circuit as a media personality.
It would be safe to say, therefore, that these two could leverage that fame and let that go to their heads. They could be arrogant and entitled and see mere mortals as underlings with little to offer. I’m pleased to report that nothing could be further from the truth. These two are accessible, friendly and inclusive. They celebrate anyone and everyone in the little niche that they’re at the top of.
Indeed, a couple of years ago after M had done one particular ultramarathon, we saw an example of humility. After putting him to bed to recover, R came back to the finish line and cheered every single finisher over the line. This is someone who races at the very highest levels globally cheering tail enders over the line in an obscure race on the West Coast—all class.
On a previous occasion, while I was racing in an event on Northburn Station near Cromwell, M called in to see how everyone was doing. 110km into my race I was having a pit stop to refuel and refocus. Wanting to lend a helping hand, he helped change my socks. There is nothing that screams “I’m just part of a community” than touching someone’s feet after they’ve been running for 16 hours.
Now it would be easy to say their humility is related to the fact that we’re followers of an exceptionally niche sport that, frankly, no one actually cares about. But I suspect there is something more at play here, a genuine humility that understands we’re all just human beings trying to make our way in the world and that, in a century or two, it will all be forgotten.
Contrast that with another athlete in our sport who is perennial first place in the toxic aggressive rankings. This individual wins many races, but always has the habit of crossing the line with an ultra-aggressive style that screams “Yes, I do think I am better than everyone else here.” Indeed, often he talks about everyone elses’ weaknesses and his ability to do better. It’s like he thinks his success or, more importantly, others’ failures, actually matter.
Running is just running. No more or less. We’re not securing Middle Eastern peace (now there’s a relevant theme for our times) nor finding a cure for cancer. We’re not splitting the atom nor inventing the printing press. Similarly, even the individuals who might achieve those more important aims (or already have, Gutenberg and Rutherford I’m looking at you) had both successes and failures. They will be (or were) individuals just making their way in the world.
No one is as good as they think. Related to that, no one is probably as bad as they think. We’re all just randoms doing our things. Be like R and M and stay humble. It’s better for everyone.
“Humility is not thinking less of yourself, it’s thinking of yourself less.” – C.S. Lewis
So to that end, those who believe they are the best, or superior to others, risk losing their potential for growth and self-improvement by not remaining open to new knowledge and experiences.