A Car With No Brakes - My Life at Full Speed

Stuck In The In-Between, I Gained a Few Experiences and Saw My Friends

Today, I'm on a flight from Wichita to DC. My left arm engaged in a 3-hour-long elbow war, battling for control of the center armrest with my elderly seat-mate (no, I'm not going to let him just have it because he's old), my right shoulder battered by an array of passengers who crushed one too many ginger ale & Biscoff combos, now hastily bumping through the cabin with little regard for who's shoulder they rub their business on. All this is to say, today I'm in transit, and I mean transit in both the physical and the esoteric senses. This is the only time I can ever get words on paper, when I'm in the in-between, a space I'm coming to believe may be comprised of bliss and immense suffering. But John, where's all the AI content? I read your piece on Arcee and subscribed because I thought you were a male model and writer focused on democratizing Deep Learning concepts; why are you talking about people rubbing their balls on your shoulder 35,000 feet above Wichita? That is an excellent question. It's because you are reading my blog, and I'm not going to pretend that my work, thoughts, and relationships are separate experiences (though I will keep confidential material confidential). Life is too short for work to be a daily process of separating from yourself, something that, looking back, has caused me unnecessary time stuck in the in-between.

As I've noticed this in-between state impacting my life, I've tried to do the one thing I've been told never to do, merge elements of work and life. And you know what, it's pretty fucking sick and led me to one of the more memorable summers of my life, both personally and professionally. Last you heard from me, I was crashing above a pub in England (later inside a Chinese restaurant that, for some reason, had a ground-floor bedroom), but how I got there is a story worth telling, and while I'm not going all the way back to my days as an embryo, I will roll it back a few months.

It was a few days before the 4th of July, and I got a text from my long-time friend Aaron, who had recently moved to London; all the text said was, "Odds you buy a flight to London," so I bought one for the following day. As I'm learning about myself, this is not really out of character anymore; if you've ever taken a work meeting with me, you likely saw this mentality on display. Typically, I carry a 45-liter hiking backpack with me everywhere I go, and I keep it packed with 3 months of clothes and two passports; I like to think of this as a ticket to freedom; any minute, I'm a handful of credit card points, a backpack, and 4 hours from a new adventure. (Years later, as I lay on a $5,000 leather sofa, an Ivy League trained therapist who does not take insurance may point to this as an early manifestation of an avoidance behavior, but for now, I'll re-read On The Road, and we'll call it wanderlust.)  Regardless of why I ended up in London, I did, and I went clubbing with some friends for the week; smoked some classic euro cigs and generally took one of the first real vacations I've had in years. But as Sunday came rolling and my welcome in Aaron's spare bedroom started to come to a natural end, I hopped on the train to Cambridge; I told myself I would be an asset to the startup community (I still know I can be) and attempted to teach startups how to set themselves up for the American Venture ecosystem.

As I returned from another day of wandering into different dean's offices and trying to convince them that their students needed a simpler model for spin-outs, I realized I had an excellent opportunity to cross work and life again. I texted my friend Tom. Tom was the CTO of a major AI company and was responsible for shipping some of the leading image-generation models in tech history (Tom, remains the man). It turns out Tom lives not too far from the Chinese restaurant I was crashing in; we got a few beers and watched England advance in the Euros (a shock to everyone, given England has a sack of moldy potatoes for a coach). In a moment of sheer awesomeness, Tom offered me a spot in his guest room (which I took him up on for 1 night). We chatted about life and tech, and at that moment, I planned to spend the summer in Cambridge.

But life got complicated. I took one look at a mole on my leg and started to doubt whether I could enjoy my summer in Cambridge without getting it checked out. I debated if I should stay in the UK, and as I cranked up The Strokes in my headphones, I wandered Cambridge pondering my future. I ended up near the train station, grabbed a London-bound train, and then realized that the airport was just a few stops past central London; I avoided the ticket collectors and, about an hour later, found myself sitting in a cafe in London Gatwick, backpack on, passports in hand, staring down an opportunity to exercise my freedom to travel. Debating if I should go home to see a dermatologist, I went back and forth, lying on my backpack. I found myself staring at the flights go in and out, wondering if I should go east to Italy, wondering if I should go a bit further east, and finally take that trip to Mongolia, but in the end, I grabbed a flight to New York with a stop in Iceland. The flight to DC was too expensive, and New York was really the only viable option; as I sat on the runway in London, I texted my friend, Leo, asking if he had couch space in 7 hours. He confirmed the coach indeed was available, and seven hours later, that's where I slept.

Now, you might think this is the end of the story, but have another coffee and call this work (you found this on LinkedIn, right?) because the moment my dermatologist gave me the green light, I fucking turned life up a speed, and I mean that in the most literal sense. As some of you may know, I was an investor in a company called Brev dev, and my boys Alec and Nader sold their company. Still, I never got to celebrate in person, so I texted Alec and Nader from the runway in DC, informing them that I'd be in SF soon and needed a couch. Five or six hours later, I was on Alec and Nader's couch; we hit the equinox, drove around in a VERY SLOW manner in my friend's new Porsche, and ate Mexican food. I took shots of mezcal when apparently I should have sipped (eh, who could have guessed the guy that lives on other people's couches for fun would shoot, not sip) and then slept on a LOVESEAT for four-ish days.

As my lower back deteriorated into shards of bone from days on a loveseat, I decided I should listen to my mind and figure out where to go next as well as do my best to avoid the loveseat for another night. Well, I listened, and all I heard was Willy Nelson and Waylon Jennings making a ruckus deep in my soul. Those old fucks took me way into the West; sitting in that living room in SF, I knew I had to find my way onto the open roads, a place I'd always felt peace. With my 2010 Acura MDX 3,000 miles away, I was a man missing his wheels, so I wandered down and stared longingly at my buddy's Porsche. In a horrible turn of events, I was not gifted a Porsche, BUT there was a beat-to-hell 30-year-old Chrysler LeBaron that had 11 previous owners and was three times totaled. Naturally, I tried to buy it.

The owner was a neighbor and a mechanic; he left the door open in order to allow me to see how I felt about my potential new car. I'll tell you what, I felt something alright, nausea; it smelled worse than 100 passing crotches on a flight to Wichita. Still, I was going to buy it for less than $2K, but the breaks were shot, and while I love the ability to go fast, I cherish the ability to go slow; needless to say, I passed on the LeBaron. The moment I realized the breaks were shot, I called an Uber to the SF airport, looked at flights, and then wandered to the Hertz counter; they hooked me up with a 4x4 Tacoma pickup. I synced up the Bluetooth, tossed on Willy and Waylon and just started driving East, as far as I could go. Well, I got a long way from SF, 2000 miles away, actually.

Over the next six days, I made it from SF to South Dakota, found myself in the Middle of the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally (500,000 bikers), saw my thermometer match my speedometer at 104 deep in what will remain an unnamed Western desert, ended up in the ER in rural Colorado, had adaptive cruise control save my life, and a few other ups and downs, but these stories are for the next article, you've now missed lunch but finished my Substack, so read on and next time I post, I'll fill you in - John