Rolling the Tyre

Doing stuff, whatever it is, work or play, has always felt a bit like rolling a tyre along by hand for me. Picking it up and getting it moving are always the hard part, but once the momentum’s there, whatever I’m doing starts to come naturally. It’s finding that initial motivation and energy that’s difficult. Stopping is a challenge too, and starting again afterwards is always just as hard. Still, sometimes you’ve just got to crank the engine manually to get the fuel pumping.

As I sat on the front balcony on a warm, lazy, Saturday afternoon, I found myself pondering these same old thoughts yet again.

In the garden next to me stood an old oak tree, a tyre swing hanging from a rope tied to one of its branches. I remembered playing on it as a child, but it had long since been disused as I’d grown older, forgotten and neglected like so many other pastimes.

I began to think about the many projects that had never developed beyond initial ideas for me. The vegie garden in the backyard, for one. Growing, cooking, and sharing the literal fruits of my hard work and care held a wholesome, old-fashioned kind of appeal. Still, it’d mean time, consistency, and some homework on my end, and besides, weren’t there more exiting projects I could take up instead?

But I figured it didn’t matter what it was that I started with. If I managed to get one tyre rolling, then perhaps it might see the others attached to my vehicle start to turn in unison.

So, I stood up, went inside, and dug out the scrappiest old rags I could find and changed into them. Heading out into the backyard, I wasted no time ruthlessly ripping up the well-established mat of weeds that’d colonized the long-ignored garden bed. The following day, I returned with an assortment of newly purchased seeds. As I set to planting, the thought of that first crunch of home-grown lettuce hung in my mind, as well as the smiles on friends’ and relatives’ faces as I gifted them an extra bundle of celery, bag or spuds, or handful of spare tomatoes.

As weeks followed, tending my garden became less and less of a chore. I found this retreat into a simple pastime oddly meditative, and as shoots started to grow into stalks, I began to feel a sense of pride and hopefulness. The momentum seemed to be moving me now. I no longer needed to force myself.

I found my newly energized thoughts returning to the tyre swing out front, and what it’d inspired that afternoon a few weeks back. The garden wasn’t the only idea I’d let stagnate in my mind’s filing cabinet for far too long.

I loved my music, that was certain, but being a spectator and not a participant had never quite felt like enough for me. In my cupboard there was an old, splintering, out-of-tune guitar, but the six-stringed instrument had always felt like too common and predictable a choice. I wanted something with a bit more groove to it. It’s humbler yet oomphier brother; the bass.

A few days later, armed with a second-hand axe I’d procured, I began plucking along to some slow, rudimentary, online tutorials I’d found. At first, I was frustrated with my slow, delicate fingers not taking to task as quickly as I’d hoped, but with the heavy hum of each note, I kept reminding myself that even the greats like Flea, Steve Harris, and John Deacon all had to start somewhere. Fifteen minutes of practice one day turned into half an hour the next, and a full hour just half a week later. Now I was rolling two tyres along instead of one.

As I spent more time each day caring for my vegie garden or in funky jamming sessions, the tasks themselves seemed to come more and more effortlessly. I felt stronger, sharper, and bouncier in my newfound vigor. That wasn’t to say there weren’t dips in my motivation on some days, but my satisfaction with what I’d cultivated seemed to instill a habitual discipline in me, a desire to maintain the good thing I had going.

But still, the list of filed-away dreams continued to resurface whenever I looked out at the old tyre swing. Something bigger, bolder, and scarier raised its head from the shadows of my mind – taking up a combat sport. The benefits had long appealed to me, fitness, confidence, discipline, composure, and a desire to push myself harder. As inspired as I’d long been by the prowess of martial artists though, taking that first step into their world deeply intimidated me. It felt like I’d be kidding myself.

But, as I remembered the dividends my determination had paid thus far, I did my best to steel myself in the face of my fears. I researched a number of styles, their methods and philosophies, eventually settling on Brazilian Jeu-Jitsu and signing up at a local academy not too far away.

My nerves were like charged wires when I entered that first session, but as I stepped out onto the mat, I tried to remember the tyre. The hardest part is starting, try to just get past that, I thought. I stumbled repeatedly as we went through the motions, my joints and muscles aching ever more intensely with each punishing fall. I felt every bit the fool I feared looking like. But I’d made my decision at this point. In the face of my doubts, I kept coming back, hoping I’d eventually get the hang of it by simply sticking it out.

As the weeks went by and I kept on tending my garden and plucking my bass, I also continued making my trips to the academy for one humbling grappling session after another, feeling sore and embarrassed the next day. Yet my muscles were growing, my fighting spirit was becoming emboldened, and my reflexes saw me snaring the advantage more and more frequently. Though small, I had something to show for my work, and where once there’d been fear and avoidance, there was now ambitious determination, resilience born from simply sucking up my imagined humiliation. Yet another tyre had been set in motion.

One evening, as I sat on the front deck, my fingers calloused, my forearms grubby, and my shoulders aching, I once again gazed over at the tyre swing. It hung static, but then as a gust of wind wafted though, it swayed, moving on its own from just a little force. I smiled, thinking of the distance I’d covered just from giving the tyre in my mind that first push. Starting had been hard, but the rewards gained had given me the energy to keep nudging it along so that it stayed rolling.

My garden was thriving, impressing not just me but the happy recipients of the many extra vegies I was growing. I’d been plucking along to my favorite songs for enough time that I’d grown bold enough to answer an ad by a local smalltime band hitting the pub circuit who were in need of a bassist. For every session that saw me grappling with another similarly skilled fighter in the ring, I was now more often the one coming out on top.

As I sat there, fondly looking back on the progress I’d made, I realized I’d also gained an appreciation for commitment itself. Seeing how motivation followed action had given me the confidence, drive, and optimism that I’d brought to each new task, each of these being more momentum behind the rolling tyre. Even the once difficult act of picking it up and getting it moving no longer seemed such a daunting effort with anything new that might beckon.

So, to any who’ve read this story who still find themselves scared to take that first step, I’ll leave you with this: give yourself a push. The tyre may feel heavy, stubbornly resisting as you fight to lift it up off its side, the road ahead may seem long as you start to get it rolling, and there may indeed be obstacles that will cause you to stall and fall flat, but once you’ve begun, you’ll soon find the strength to keep going. Once you’ve taken that first step, your journey is in motion, a dream unfolding, whether you’re cultivating it, composing it, or grappling with it. So long as you can pick yourself up, from scratch or from stumble, there’s nothing holding you back but yourself. All it takes is a push to get the tyre rolling.