Miles To Go.

360 respect for Someone that looks up to you

I recently read “On Raising Boys” and it brought out some very interesting points that I think apply to start-ups as well. One of the three key phases to development for a boy is having mentors in his teen years that are outside their main family unit, that have perspective, and come with authority in some field.  He can rely on this guidance to make important decisions outside of his direct family unit while building interdependence and confidence on his own.

Same goes for mentoring entrepreneurs.

I recently wrote about my mantra of Discover. Develop. Deliver. Which in very broad terms means I am always looking for young-at-heart entrepreneurs with fresh ideas. But equally important is the willingness to develop themselves  their product, the message, etc.

So here are some experiences I have drawn from mentoring lots of entrepreneurs over the years:

Know what you are mentoring to

Sounds crazy, but often the mentee does not know what they want out of the relationship. “Sounding board” is often the catchword for “ I need someone to talk to”. Rather than that generalization, I find I have always been more effective when we focus on a specialty need. It could be finances, business models, business development, partners, motivation, time management, you name it. But knowing what the mentee wants out of the relationship allows me to think on their behalf through the lens that they asked for guidance.

I don’t give personal advice when business advice is asked for- or vice versa.

I try to share my experience wherever possible. I tried this… I realized this…. I once had trouble with this… so that the entrepreneur can see things through another lens, and not be defensive about hearing “you should do this.. try this… break that. Entrepreneurs are tense enough; they don’t need an office parent telling them to eat their vegetables. I was reminded recently of one of my classics in this category: breakfast begins at 8. I work with so many younger entrepreneurs, who has a quite different idea of “bedtime” on “school-nights”. Rather than try to correct that behavior, I simply scheduled important meetings at 8am. They soon got the message that no matter what is done the night before, the bill is due in the morning. Here’s the link from Richard Dinan ‏ breakfast is at 8

And I try to help people discover the talents within themselves by asking questions. Lots of questions. Lots and lots of questions. Eventually, we run the table from vision to execution and are ready to make some bold decisions. Having what Covey called “the courage of our convictions” means all the available facts have been surfaced, and intelligent discussion held, and the best course chosen. It’s never a lock, but it sure helps to enter the rapids with some sort of thought out plan.

And, most importantly, I try to behave like someone whose opinion is often sought. That’s perhaps the most important lesson of all.

Work with a mentee that actually is coachable

Some mentees want window dressing: so-and-so is on my Advisory Board. Some want a sounding board, but have their minds made up anyways. Some are just lonely. To me, neither are a great use of mentor time.

The mentee that has a thirst to learn, a gift for presenting situations with options, a curiosity to experiment and learn gives the mentor a sense of usefulness that is so key. Good mentees have the elements of challenges or opportunities worked out in their minds, but often lack the confidence to make a decision or fear some blind spot they haven’t considered. Those are great examples of where mentoring can really help cut to the chase, or save some dead ends.

The biggest gift you can give someone is to beleive in themselves – AJ Joshi

If you are doing it to make everyone money, let everyone know. If you are doing it for charity, make sure it’s worth it.

 Ah yes, why do we do this. Mentors are rarely ever paid by the hour (though some coaches are, but I contend that is different). I mentor a lot of CEO’s and Founders where I own stock in the company and have quite a vested interest in their success. So by teaching them, I expect to add value to my position. Sometimes, the lessons actually shrink value in the short-term; but that’s why they are called lessons. The worst sin there is to repeat them. Good way to lose a mentor relationship.

But some mentor relationships are just plain charitable. While I have very little free time to take on non-commercial mentorships, sometimes I run across someone who I really believe in, and believe they could use my help. I guess the key point there is that both mentor and mentee know what the other is doing it for, and the ground rules are set and respected.

I’ve been told that time spent and value delivered does not necessarily correlate: you can do just about anything in two minutes… if you spent thirty years perfecting how to do it.

Ridiculously happy, no ticket required

Least it feels like it, every day.

No ticket required. No waiting in line either.

And no sense of outrage that followed… the last guys from Greenwich who won.

No ignorance tax, for those that don’t realize it’s all just states… generating revenue.

Yes, that’s a short post, but certainly, one of my better.

What did you win today?

This is a popular post from my prior blog, revived for Miles to Go…I originally called it Herbert Sharpless Spencer and the 1,400 mile crawl across France. It’s true testament to the family traditions of gritty determination, hyperbolic story-telling, and wandering around aimlessly in the French countryside.

Legends die hard in the Spencer family, especially when they are based oceans away and told by grandparents that are beyond questioning. A trip through the French countryside with my father clarified a lot, and embarrassed no-one.

Herbert Sharpless Spencer grew up in a coal mine in central Pennsylvania, as this was all that was left by our forebears. By the time he was of an age he could lie about his age, he volunteered for what appeared to be a much cushier job: rifleman in the US Army’s Big Red One commanded by General Pershing. His proficiency hitting squirrels (for dinner!) at 50 yards with a .22 rifle qualified him for the job, no doubt. Compared to the strip mine, it must have seemed like a nice trade. Obviously never out of the county- let alone the country- Herbert arrived in St. Malo, France in 1918 and was promptly sent to the Argonne Forest to an area called St. Mihiel, where the Germans had been terrifying the French by their proximity to Paris. (Actually, :30 by car for us, but we were flying.) It was warfare at its worst, stagnant lines of barbed wire and trench lasting for tens if not scores of miles uninterrupted.

So Herbert is in France for not longer than a week, stationed in St. Mihiel for not much longer than a few days. He hears the all clear, rises out of the trench, and promptly takes four bullets in the legs, losing one completely and seriously maiming the other. He is given up for dead. But, of course, he isn’t. By his telling, despite what must have been excruciating pain, he bound his (last) leg with his shirt, fashioned two crutches out of fence posts and started walking as best he could.

He finds a stream, drinks profusely from the collapsible army issue cup (now a Spencer talisman) and somehow finds the will and strength to save himself. Powerful force, that self-preservation. Downstream, he happened upon a farm house, and mustered the nerve to knock on the door. It opened, and he came to a tough realization: he spoke no French. True to form, the woman spoke no English, and shut him out. I’ve been treated rudely and felt out of place in some far away places in my life, but nothing like that. And no, the French aren’t usually that bad. But Herbert kept walking to a monastery he called St. Michel and somehow pulled through.

I had been to St. Michel a few times, on the Normandy coast a few hours drive outside Paris. I had shared those experiences with my Dad, and was able to bring him there recently with my publicist Greg and his Dad Paul. The place is glorious, as I imagine has been for 1,000 years. It’s also too far for a recently maimed rifleman to crawl to if he starts from the Argonne forest, even if he did start in 1918. My dad came to this conclusion on his own. “Perhaps there’s another St. Michel”, I suggested.

We spent the next week looking, with stops at the beaches of Normandy and the streets of Paris, just the four of us finding precious experiences together and generally enjoying ourselves immensely. (view short film). The culmination was our journey was the Argonne Forest and a field outside a town called St. Mihiel where 86 years prior my grandfather was shown no great respect by a German machine gunner. After a picnic (Dad is now a pate aficionado) on the banks of the Meuse where Herbert may well have dipped for drink we made our way into town to inquire about. It was a sleepy place, not to much changed from back in the day, I imagine. We were directed toward the old town, where amongst classic French row houses and walled gardens, we discover a monastery. Apparently, it was the Army hospital during the war, and was adjacent to a wonderful church. The name, of course: St. Michel.

Herbert Spencer had crawled across town, not across France. But his wounds were real, as was his valor. I was moved to see his son and my father piece it all together. It was magic.

Largest on water cleanup- Ever.

News spread pretty quickly that the Shell Oil LNG platform destined for Long Island Sound sunk back into oblivion last week, likely for good. In its proposed form, it would have towered above all other structures on either side of that great body of water and inspired the curses of generations to follow. It should have been a procedural layup, with the interests of the Sound split between two states, both struggling with budget and resource constraints, and zero organized advocacy to oppose the revenue generating and cost saving proposal.

Now the legend of how that didn’t happen continues to grow, just as quietly as it snuck up on everybody before the battle began.

Begin with Leah Schmalz, a delightful director of legal and legislative affairs for Save the Sound, a program of Connecticut Fund for the Environment who began the opposition eight years ago with meager resources and virtually zero platform to get the word out. She picked her punches wisely.

Then, out of no where, Kayak for a Cause jumped in, ostensibly because ”Save the Sound” had the brand that most directly fit the core values of the organization. But as KFAC learned more, both organizations realized the symbiosis of their existences. What followed was a virtual marching band of support for Leah and her work at STS. When STS needed to get the word out, KFAC designed an “on the water clean up” over 14 miles of sound. When STS needed a platform to gather more supporters, KFAC was there with a stage, a microphone,and a tremendous crowd ready to listen. When STS needed promotion during a crucial state senate vote, KFAC rallied its 10,000 donors to flood the capital with expressions of concern. And when STS needed financial resources to back up Leah, KFAC was there with five figure support, year after year.

Was is most amazing, perhaps, is that all of this was started with nothing, and done for love: One simple bet, and a few guys redirecting the proceeds to charity became an annual tradition along the Sound.

It’s now hard to fathom that KFAC has always been an entirely volunteer organization which somehow fields a crew of 500 committed souls every year to manage the logistics of a modern day Normandy with a beach party at the end. The leadership and organizational talents of this group are stunning. People like Shirleen Dubuque and Steve Showalter organize provisions, supplies and people with sublime, 11th hour hijinx. Kim Beaumont at DownUnder and Dave Haddox from Purdue have likely trained hundreds of kayakers to be safe enough to make the voyage. Tad Jones worked stage miracles for years, packing thousands of people into legendary beach parties that rallies the troops around the charities. Patrick Sikes was a master magician at logistics. Amy Rule and Kathy Foreman wrangle hundreds of volunteers to do undesirable work details at unmentionable hours. And Adam Uhrynowski and Brian Russell have this magic touch capturing the whole thing on film for us to replay over and again in the long winter months of  frozen water.

All of this energy was harnessed and directed to something good, for years on end. And then last week…

“In sending a letter to the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission requesting to vacate their certificates, Broadwater has signaled that their proposed floating gas plant is finally dead,” said Leah Schmalz. “Eight years ago, the citizens of Connecticut and New York recognized that this proposed project was not good for our environment or our livelihood,” Schmalz said. “It took years of fighting, partnering with federal and state officials on both sides of Long Island Sound, but now we can say that the health and safety of our Sound will not be compromised by the proposed industrial complex.” More here

Years ago, another KFAC treasure named Morley quoted Pete Seeger  in “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” from the stage, as she had witnessed KFAC grow from dozens to hundreds and then thousands.

I’ve been surprised by some good things happening in my lifetime. Sometimes quite suddenly.

Imagine a big see-saw, with a basketful of rocks sitting on one end. That end is down on the ground. At the other end, up in the air, is a basket half full of sand. Some of us are trying to fill it, using teaspoons. Most folks laugh at us. “Don’t you know the sand is leaking out even as you put it in?”

We say, that’s true, but we’re getting more people with teaspoons all the time. One of these days that basket of sand will be full up and you’ll see this whole see-saw just tip the opposite way. People will say, “Gee, how did it happen so suddenly?”

Us, and our little teaspoons.

Leah Schmalz is now working on controlling emissions and ecoli bloom from the Bridgeport harbor. Kayak for a Cause launches for its twelfth year on July 21th. And Long Island Sound is that much nicer because they do what they do.

"Play responsibly"

I’ve been trading everyday phone calls and emails with the developer that built our new family home. The experience hasn’t been perfect, from my perspective, but I acknowledge the guy probably has plenty other things going on besides the faulty control panel on my Kohler steambath.

Turns out, I was right.

Seems Brandon won the Connecticut Powerball lottery earlier this month, and it all came out today. For those that don’t know it, our new nhometown of Greenwich does not see a lot of suffering. In fact, if there was ever a town that did not need a lottery winner, that would be ours. If there is an Occupy Greenwich Avenue movement starting soon to decry the inequality of the 1% winning a lottery designed for the 99%, consider this: the town is full of rags to riches stories. It’s just that they usually involve numbers that come through a Bloomberg terminal, not spit out for a dollar at the local BP station. Luck is random, and this proves it, again.

But the BP station is where Brandon and his two boyhood buddies went in equal (I surmise) on a dollar bet that pulled a lump sum of $100,000,000. (Powerball markets it as $254,000,000 but that’s a 30 year payout into a black hole of tax policy no one in or out of Greenwich should take a bet on). I was recently told by an EO leadership swami that you can’t control the world, you can only control how you react to it. This is a good example of that.

He has been sitting on this news for the past three weeks. In the meantime, he has been responsive and professional about the various punchlist fixes he owes at the house. We knock something out every few days. And that says a lot about Brandon; old school, honest and possessing a genuinely good heart. I spend a lot of time thinking about Trust, and have written about the Heuristics of Trust , actually more than once. I’m not sure who bought the ticket, but the fact the three shared it also says a lot about their Huck-Finn like trust dynamic ($.66 would have bought out the others a few weeks back).

Today, they came clean and told the public. They had formed a trust, and will give a large amount to charity. They don’t strike me as the type of guys about to go on a race to the bottom and be deeply in debt 5 years after winning. It will probably not change their lives all that much, but that’s an outside view at this point. All I can say is, it has not changed my friend in the past three weeks.

That is a good story. Good on you mate.

Miles Sharpless Spencer with 24th kid, Byrdie

Back in the day, commoners would from time to time approach the lord of the manor and “claim kin”, hoping to reap some of the benefits of those that lived “inside the walls”. Needless to say, those living inside the walls were very comfy and pretty skeptical. It usually took very good data, a lot of money, or a big @#$% army to convince people you were legit. For example William the Conqueror started out as William the Bastard, until he set matters straight in 1066 at the point of a spear.

These days we can prove more with data.

First is the growing power of ancestral research because of the web (and the Mormons, thanks for the hard work!). I’ve spent some time on Ancestry.com in the past year poking around my family history. We have a lot of legends that have been passed down through the years, but not a lot of it based on verifiable facts. Thanks to web 2.0, I have now traced Spencer males back to 1728 with birth and death records, census data, and Sons of the American Revolution documents and guess what: the family actually did a good job of remembering the lineage without writing much of it down. My great grandfather did have 24 kids. He did have his last when he was 74 years old. And he did have a wife ~40 years his junior. Apparently, with his spare time he ran a farm in Central Pennsylvania. His great grandfather a Joseph Sr. may have fought for the winners in the Revolutionary War (still confirming). And his ancestors came from England. (More to come after the DNA is complete).

Second is the power of  social networks to access additional, related facts nearly instantaneously. My dad, aka Big Art, and I had spent the previous 5+ years trying to piece together rumors, family legends, a bit of travel to the continent in an effort to verify anything about our heritage. The we logged on to Ancestry and used the other trees to quickly piece together draft documents, immigration papers, and baptism records we had not otherwise found. suddenly, our knowledge was no longer in a silo.

Third is the burgeoning business of DNA. 23andME  tipped off a fascinating journey in mapping the human genome. With the simple swab of a cheek, I will be able to confirm not only who we are related to, but also what anomalies I may be exposed to. Sergey Brin of Google realized he prone to Parkinsons by mapping his DNA this way. I can’t imagine what I am prone to. But with the results, there is likely undeniable truth to my ancestral claims, whatever that might be.

But perhaps the biggest point for me is this: like it or not, we eventually become our fathers, more or less. That is perhaps why I have been so fascinated with the Visualize Health/SelfAwareness project, where connected devices inform us of the health and wellness trends of ourselves and our loved ones. Through the power of Web 2.0, Social networks, and DNA we can all know what our baseline data is, as well as the trend. It’s up to us where to go with it.

RollFast WingDing: One sweet ride

I learned a few things about entrepreneurship from my buddy Dave Buckenheimer and my RollFast Wing bike — but bear with me first: this is a hell of a wipeout story. Let’s start with our Moms.  Both were from the laissez faire school of child rearing, as in… break your arm falling on the swing? Get bit by the bunny in the pet center out back? Burn yourself making a funeral pyre for some unlucky ants? All fine, just be home for dinner. It’s amazing how much we learned by simply breaking, bleeding, and wailing our way through our play-filled youth. Bike wrecks were the highest form of this adolescent art form and Gailey Boulevard, a steep switchback that ran from our house down into town, was our particular proving ground. It was also where Dave lived.  One afternoon,  I called and let Bucky know I was headed his way;  he said he’d meet me at the bottom. I hopped on my trusty Wing Ding Rollfast and hit Gailey full steam.

The Wing Ding was my go-to bike. I liked its simplicity. It had only one speed: fast. And it could brake really well, allowing me to execute perfect fishtail skids. Gailey had no traffic whatsoever, making it a relatively safe ride. The only wildcard in the equation was pig iron, a waste byproduct of the steel mills downriver in Pittsburgh. Sometime, somewhere, someone saw fit to cover Gailey with this metallic stuff, vaguely reminiscent of blown glass beads, Generally smooth to the touch, some of it was sharp as a blade if cracked. This would become meaningful very shortly.

I was halfway down Gailey by now, although the Wing Ding was nowhere near top speed, mainly because the loose pig iron made me plenty careful in the hairpin turns. Trees zipped by, I passed the last of the four homes and picked up speed after the last of the hairpins. I was running flat out when I saw Bucky near the base of the Boulevard. He had a weird look on his face: a dropping jaw and the beginnings of a slow motion scream worthy of a Bruce Lee death sequence. He was pointing at something.  My feet locked into the pedals of the Wing Ding, my hands on the padded handlebars my brother had been working on lately. Garage Note: when a gooseneck handlebar is loosened to do custom work, you still have handlebars that can make a variety of turns no problem. But if you lift the bars straight up, they slip right out. Not an issue when you are working in the garage; definitely an issue when you are flying down Gailey Boulevard.

I actually thought I had a shot at pulling out of it. The handlebars were now high in my hands, separated from the steering column by at least a foot. But the wheel hadn’t turned at all and I was coasting below top speed. If the wheel stayed straight, another 20 feet and I could bail with minimal damage. Bucky was rooting for me to pull off one of the great saves in Beaver, PA Biking History.

That fleeting hope was done in by a loose piece of pig iron redirecting my tire. That was all she wrote. The wheel lurched to a 90* angle that I was powerless to correct. I was ass-over-tea cups, still holding the handlebars, still clueless as how I got that way. My brother knew, however — he’d been working a chopper conversion for an upcoming Evil Knievel jump off the Spencer swimming pool, and neglected to mention the job was only half done.

Gailey Boulevard met me with all the hospitality one would expect of loose asphalt and scrap pig iron greeting an 8 year-old in shorts, a t-shirt and packing a lot of velocity.

According to Bucky, it was the most spectacular wipeout ever. I missed it:  my head hit next and I was out. Bucky picked me up and helped me to his house. When I came to, his sister Amy was using a tongue depressor to remove a piece of pig iron the size of a quarter from my knee. I passed out again.  We still practiced baseball that afternoon and when it got near dark, Mrs. B  gave me and the mangled Wing Ding a ride home.

Here’s what a mangled –but exhilarated — 8 year old can teach entrepreneurs:

1. Go full out on something you love.
2. Fail once in a while. It won’t kill you.
3. Get the h*ll back up and do something else, and let the scars remind you a bit.

Unlike a lot of kids today who are practically wrapped in bubble-wrap, we grew up active participants in life, with an amazing sense of adventure. That carries on today, informing my entrepreneur experience.  I only wish more kids- and entrepreneurs — would behave with the same abandon. Most of what I observe in today’s kids is an awful lot of video consumption and precious little actual contact with anything else.  If that continues unchecked, Video Thumb will become will be our main body part in 10,000 years. If anyone reading this is still around then, remember, you read it here first.