It won’t kill you, but not doing hard things just might. Hold that thought.

Recently I wrote “Forget Everything You Know,” in which I described practicing static balance on a dirt bike. This exercise involves keeping the motorcycle vertical without dabbing a foot to the ground, all while stationary with the engine off. It’s something I’d learned to do on a trials bike many years ago. I don’t ride moto-trials any more, but I recognize the tremendous contribution trials skills make to any type of off-road riding, and even to low-speed maneuvering on the street. I also recently wrote about wanting to improve my single-track riding (“I’m Not the Man I Used to Be”); this was the larger motivation for tackling static balance, which is a component skill I can work on in my back yard without hauling a bike to faraway wilderness.

Static balance isn’t easy, even on a tiny, featherweight trials bike. It’s obviously much more difficult on taller, heavier machinery, though accomplished riders can demonstrate it on gigantic ADV bikes. Knowing I’d been able to pull it off in the past, and knowing even harder versions are in fact possible, helped me muster the wherewithal to take on the challenge of re-learning it on a full-sized dirt bike.

As I described, I might as well have never had any past success at this task. I struggled from the outset like any tyro would, unable to avoid dabbing for more than a second or two—which is to say I didn’t avoid it at all, since it takes that long to simply lift ones foot off the ground and immediately put it back down to stop the fall instantaneously in progress. I was seriously intimidated by what seemed like an utterly unscalable wall upon which I couldn’t find the very first foothold, but I was also determined to be patient, non-judgmental and curious rather than giving in to my sense of defeat and giving up on the project. I incorporated some hacks to make progress easier, I took breaks to rest physically and reset mentally, and I stuck with it for much of an afternoon. By the end of this session, I could static balance for a full minute at a stretch, reliably and efficiently. Although I was doing so with the benefit of my hacks, I still felt considerable pride in my increased proficiency. I was also shocked at how much had changed in a relatively short period of time, given my abysmal initial performance. I actually felt excitement about coming back to this black art and building on my success. It wouldn’t be a chore, but rather a fun new game. A brief check-in the next day confirmed my confidence.

Sounds like a happy ending, right? Lest you imagine my life is charmed or I’m preaching down from some lofty plane where my efforts are always rewarded with grand results, here’s what happened next. First, a whole lot of nothing. I allowed one thing after another to get in the way of a second practice session, knowing full well how quickly learning can evaporate without frequently repeated application. Weeks passed, and I was predictably unable to simply pick up where I left off once I got around to it. Emboldened by how I’d made so much progress relatively quickly with those initial hacks, I started Session Two with less of them. For example, static balancing is easier with the bike facing downhill on a slight grade, but I began on level ground this time. I realized it’d be more challenging, but expected to adapt steadily, if not immediately, and eventually reach an even higher level than before. I imagined seamless layers of progress, with each feeling equally difficult as I kept raising the bar to offset my ever-increasing ability. If starting on level ground made the task as hard this time as it was the first time on a decline and I merely applied the same degree of perseverance, I’d finish this round further along than where I’d ended the first session, right?

Of course not! That isn’t how human beings actually learn or acquire skill; progress is never made on a nice, even upward slope, especially after a lengthy hiatus. I not only didn’t advance at all with the bike on level ground, I never lasted more than the second or two that counts for absolutely nothing, like the tare on a scale. I’d seen hints of progress within the first 20 minutes of Session One, but after twice that long in Session Two, I wasn’t one bit better. I gave up trying to do without some of my hacks and recreated the original setup in which I’d previously succeeded, but nothing helped. I was concluding—or trying hard not to conclude—I’d really learned nothing at all and that first session had been a fluke. After another hour, I lost hope and quit, demoralized. Perhaps I’d worn myself out by trying to climb too quickly and just needed to work at a less ambitious pace after some rest. Whatever was going on, I recognized I was only wrecking my mindset by pressing onward in vain.

If I’d let other things get in the way of Session Two because I felt a little cocky, I procrastinated on Session Three for the opposite reason: I was afraid of more failure. Still, I knew the longer I waited the worse it would be. I finally got back out on a day I’d reserved for just this purpose, non-negotiably. Using the original, fully hacked setup, I was again unable to avoid dabbing as soon as I lifted a foot. Instead of promptly going to a dark place, I went to YouTube and rewatched the video I’d found helpful before Session One. I noticed a body position detail and realized I’d forgotten it at the start of Session Two. When I moved my weight lower and further forward, compressing the forks an additional inch, my center of gravity dropped a tad and I was able to start adding seconds between dabs. However, this also required more muscular exertion in my arms and legs—exertion I’d learned to reduce over the course of Session One by gradually standing more upright as my balance improved. In Session Two, I’d begun with this taller stance, rather than working up to it. This time, I didn’t skip what proved to be a necessary step, and I was again able to make progress. I also didn’t begin with such (literally) high expectations, hunkering down both physically and mentally. By the end of this round I could stay up for a minute sometimes, but not consistently. Fatigue had set in and I decided to quit before I went backwards. I’d lasted two hours, including numerous breaks.

Session Four took place the very next morning. After less than ten minutes of struggling, I could stay up for over a minute without much drama. I sorted more details about body position as I experimented—intentionally and unintentionally—with variations, and after another half-hour I could repeat my success reliably several times in a row with my wheel turned to each side. Initially, I was most pleased with long durations, but it was an even greater boost to both my confidence and my performance to deliberately shorten these and show I could do it again and again. When I started having more trouble instead of less, I stopped to rest. I didn’t wait for exhaustion to creep in. When I returned to the drill, I couldn’t replicate my earlier level of proficiency, so I called the session over—but also still progress, since I’d achieved that proficiency in less time than before. Maybe it’d be best to do shorter practices more frequently, stopping right when I began to fail. Would learning a hard thing happen faster if I were not as hard on myself?

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I tested this theory by trying again later that afternoon and was amazed and thrilled to find I could get up and stay up on the very first attempt. Two more successes followed without a hitch. After turning the wheel to the opposite side, I needed two tries to get up and stay up, but could then repeat my performance several more times without interruption. The temperature had risen markedly, however, and I quickly felt its impact on my energy level. Satisfied with the day’s results, I stopped after only fifteen minutes. The next morning, muscle weakness was the limiting factor. My legs were still shaky, recovering from the day before. Going forward, I’ll aim for 15-30 minute sessions, repeated three times a week, with my hacks subtracted in very small increments until I don’t need any of them.

This story isn’t meant to be a tutorial on static balancing, but rather an illustration of the process of approaching a formidable skill challenge, with attention to the psychological hurdles involved. Clearly, one of these is finding the sweet spot between pushing and resting, in terms of intensity, duration and frequency. While perseverance is definitely required, it’s surprisingly easy to overdo, which ends up being counterproductive. This goes against the grain of many people’s inner drill sergeants, mine included. Much learning consolidates during rest periods (especially sleep), so taking breaks can actually facilitate learning, rather than being an avoidance of it. On the other hand, it’s certainly possible to use breaks as an escape, inviting distraction and destroying momentum.

Tending to such “comforts” as hydration, blood sugar and body temperature isn’t weakness or self-indulgence. Comfort is a necessity at the outset because the distraction of discomfort makes it extra hard to find the signal within the noise. While there’s certainly value in upping the degree of difficulty during practice sessions so we’re better prepared for unplanned challenges on actual rides, it’s also true that if we can’t do something while we’re physically comfortable we’re sure not going to be able to do it when we’re physically uncomfortable. We’re not “making excuses” when we notice our performance is being negatively affected by the need for water, food, rest or a temp reset; these are basic cause-and-effect issues we must address. Yes, we might have to push through sub-optimal conditions on a ride, but we don’t “get better at” being dehydrated by depriving ourselves of water. In fact, becoming more keenly aware of such factors and their impact during practice sessions will help us recognize—and take seriously—the same things sooner when we’re out on a ride.

Patience beats pressure, curiosity beats self-criticism, and the most durable gains are made one millimeter at a time. Haste is always detrimental. Because I was writing up this experience, I took copious notes along the way. These proved helpful in analyzing what was happening and reminded me of insights that had vanished shortly after their arrival, but I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed these benefits if I hadn’t been composing a column about my journey. Note to self: take notes. The most important takeaway from all this may be the fundamental necessity of simply putting in the time. Schedule plenty of it; it’s the main difference between inability and ability. There’s no way to know how much will be required, and it can’t all be done at once. I’m currently thinking it’s better to do short sessions often than long ones far apart, although more continuous immersion may be necessary at the outset to get oriented, and longer sessions may become advantageous as stamina improves. Progress inevitably includes setbacks, which we must accept as perfectly normal, not cause for dismay. Setbacks can even be highly informative if we don’t surrender to frustration and discouragement. Rather than insisting what we’re doing should work now because it worked the last time, we need to figure out what we don’t realize we’re doing differently—it wasn’t the laws of physics that changed.

Back to my initial statement. Attempting something hard can feel impossible. The tedium of repetition and the pain of failure can feel unbearable. These feelings are usually illusory. Sure, I can’t flap my arms and fly no matter how much I persevere, but riding skills are learnable. No skilled motorcyclist was born with such abilities. Regardless of their natural endowments of talent or athleticism, they had to practice to become adept at those specific actions. The more we do hard things, the more confident we feel in the face of challenges in general; such exercise increases mental toughness and resilience, along with physical capabilities. Avoiding hard things deprives us of both skill and confidence, which bodes poorly for our survival in difficult situations, on or off our bikes.