Bound To Burnout?
Bound to burnout?
TDC
Kevin Cameron
SOMETIMES I WONDER ABOUT BEING interested in things. What if I awoke one morning and didn’t care any more? When I was heavily involved in racing, I discovered that this is a more serious question than it at first seems. It can happen, and when it does, it’s very puzzling.
Preparing for Daytona in 1971, I had worked straight through for a couple of days and knew I’d better sleep. That night I lay down on the bed and assumed the position. Nothing happened. I was just a horizontal, conscious man, thinking at a mile a minute about everything that wasn’t done yet. I tried the usual routinesrelaxing each limb piecemeal, thinking of other things. No sleep. This was offensive, I decided, a bad thing.
I had turned into a single-purpose device, and the only thing I was good for was building the motorcycle.
Now, “ride, sleep, awaken, repeat” is a romantic idea, all very well if it’s voluntary. This was not. I needed to sleep to find the energy to finish my work, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay miserably on that bed all night, hoping that resting had value even if sleep didn’t come. I got through that Daytona, but resolved afterward never to use myself that way again. Others I know have had similar experiences and have drawn similar conclusions.
Burnout can happen to anyone. The terrible thing about it is that it can destroy your desire to do the thing you love, so you risk losing everything. It is common in corporate R&D work. A tight, creative group of people works hard to develop a product. The deeper in they get, the harder they work, because their own momentum feeds on itself. The project is an important one, and being a part of it is a tremendous high. The lights stay on late and the team blows through its weekends. Families suffer, but no matter. Managers are delighted-this small group is getting the job done in record time, under budget. No one is whining about overtime. But everyone on the team is allowing his or her own motivation to be eroded away by too much of a good thing.
Yes, it’s delightful to throw yourself into your work wholeheartedly. Yes, it’s great to see progress, to feel the power of your own work, to hear your new engine fire and run on the dyno. Nothing else has any importance.
“Yes, Hon, gotta work late again tonight, no way I can make it to the kids’ school play. Sorry.”
Finally the project is done and there is wild celebration. Great job. Bonus checks are handed out. All shake hands and grin ’til it hurts. The savable marriages are patched up. Children learn to recognize unfamiliar faces again.
Then, something happens. One by one, key people begin to leave. Maybe some were unhappy all along, but they put aside their reservations in the irresistible momentum of the project. But others seem to be just fading away from the scene with no coherent reason. The unstoppable group momentum that made this project succeed mysteriously evaporates. With it goes the special knowledge that made everything happen. Those who remain are hardly equal to the task of finishing the details. To read about such a burnout cycle in detail, have a look at Tracy Kidder’s book about computer development, Soul of a New Machine.
This can also happen on a short time scale. Long after my 1971 learning experience, I worked a while as an AMA roadrace tech inspector. The typical schedule was to fly out to the races late on a Thursday, arrive in the wee hours, then open tech just after 7:30 the next morning. Fueled by coffee, I’d tech bikes all Friday. Then I’d wonder why I felt so down and dreary. In this depressive frame of mind, I’d decide that motorcycles were really adolescent devices and it was high time I did something else. What was the fascination, anyway? These feelings would puzzle and scare me.
The next morning I’d feel fine, my enthusiasm restored. Motorcycle racing was interesting again, the unique blend of technology and all the humane virtues of hard work, athletic skill and analysis. Everything was fine once more. What was different? A night’s sleep. Again, too much of a good thing worked to destroy my desire to do the things I’ve always done. Can’t let that happen!
During WWII, scientific and engineering teams were put together to work intensively on such developments as radar, the proximity fuse and atomic weapons. The highly successful groups were those managed by people who understood this burnout effect, and took steps to avoid it. There are a few people in corporate management who understand it, too. People lose their motivation and their energy unless there is planned, regular relief from the intensity. This can take the form of parties, cookouts, even just non-optional mental-health days off.
Yamaha found the same in their GP racing team in the 1970s. While it’s romantic to work fanatically around the clock, leaving no second of time unfilled with race-winning preparation, the fact is that people quit race teams that try to work this way. Crises have to be managed, but they must not become a way of life. Better by far, Yamaha discovered, to have enough people so the work can be finished before dinner, and so that every person has the evening free for other things. Doing those other things provides the regenerative power to keep people interested, and keep mistakes to a minimum. The airlines learned the same lessons. Flying, like racing a motorcycle, requires a person’s full attention. Humans cannot give full attention around the clock. Beyond a certain point, human performance suffers, like it or not.
Our interest in the things we cherish is more valuable than the things themselves-too valuable to lose. Pushing too hard, for too long, can damage or destroy that interest. Paradoxically, to get the most from ourselves in a given direction, we have to establish limits within which our motivation can flourish.
