Life Wired

This morning before church started, I was once again answering the question of why I use my time away from the office to spike my adrenaline. I get that a lot.
Just so you know, I wasn’t always this way. In 7th grade, Brittany Campbell (my junior high crush), offered her accompaniment on a Six Flags ride—as long as it was the big one [back then, the Scream Machine]. She rode it but with my buddy, Kevin, instead. On a trip to Hershey Park, I got sick, because Kevin wouldn’t let me get something to eat until I rode a single loop metal coaster.
Fast forward almost 20 years, and there isn’t a metal coaster too big or too fast for me. I’ve conquered the world’s tallest bungy, the world’s ninth-rated white water, the world’s largest human swing, and a whole new world of adventures—many you can’t even try in the States.
What changed? Is it all attributable to my cousins Zach and Noel introducing me to the best of Darien Lake? Is it the unchecked exploration of a home school grad meeting the world? Is it the OCD in me trying to cross off as much of the goals list I compiled in high school? Maybe. I think it’s more than that—and it’s more than one singular motivation.
One, I think entrepreneurship has shown me the highs of conquering unknowns, of the reward with the right risks. My job requires high doses of adrenaline almost every week day. I almost never get deadlines measured in weeks. Many times I wish for timelines measured in days or even hours. Auction advertising as dropped on my desk can be a high stakes game of million-dollar assets wagered against newspaper cutoff times and the limits of printing technology.
Over the past five years I’ve built a tolerance, I guess—or just an enlarged adrenal gland. So, my job enables my extracurricular addiction to The Rush.
Two, I’ve accomplished more before my thirtieth birthday than I planned, more than I hoped—maybe even more than I dreamed since picking a college major. Book? Check. Lucrative job? Check. Big-time award? Check. Mortgage? Check. Ministry impact? Check. Movie-quality sex? Check. Ryanmobile in the driveway? Parking brake up, man.
Because of my jester personality, none of that grants me credence and very little respect. Even the sum can’t get me taken seriously. So, if I can’t live among the adults of life, I might as well nurture the Peter Pan in me. I can be the kid in everyone else that they can’t free. I can have the stories. I can own the tee shirts, the Youtube clips, the “Ryan, tell them about the [adventure of the day].” It may not be legacy or legend, but it’ll make for an interesting obituary.
Three, I’m a pessimist. My teachers wrote about it on my grade reports. My parents chided me for it for years. My wife can concur, Doctor Conners. I like stability, comfort, predictability. It could have lead to a safe life, I guess. I could have wallowed in beige and warranties. But just a touch of self awareness put a bad taste in my mouth. I wanted more than that. Still do.
To have more of that—and to help people I love to share in the more—I have to push past my comfort zones. I have to chase my fears of heights, flying, speed, and a lack of personal control. I have to conquer the literal and figurative ledges over which my toes hang. I find vendors and venues that convince me of their inherent safety but offer those moments of doubt to pound, those second-guessing voices to scream. I try to capture those moments on video or photo to remind myself of the victories—to remind myself to live in the moment, to take chances, to balance my heart and my head.
So, I won’t deny it all might be crazy. It might not even be practical. Maybe, though, if you’ve read this far, it at least makes sense.