Career Cruise Control

You can't be at your professional best every day. Set a few things in motion and you can sit still all day

There comes a time in every man's work life when it all gets to be too much, and you feel like you have to reevaluate the whole shmeer. You'll know it when you feel it.


It hit me this morning. I've had it. I'm tired. My head's not in it. And I know there's just one cure: I'm going on cruise control.


This is not about just cutting back the act a little, easing off the accelerator a bit. It's a whole different way of operating the vehicle. It's not really important what gets you to the cruising point.


Me, it was a couple of 12-hour workdays on the road, ending with psychotic binge behavior on the streets of New Orleans. Yeah, I know now that I should have gone home a little earlier last night. Skipped that last cocktail with Rafferty. I love him, but the guy's a bozo. He never knows when enough is plenty.


So we're out at, like, 2 a.m., when nobody else is around but complete losers who don't know when it's time to call it a day. We're screaming at each other in the street, because I want to go back to the hotel and he tells me I'm a wuss -- and nobody tells me I'm a wuss, so naturally I have to get another drink to prove him wrong.


Pretty soon, you know, it's 3 hours ago when my head hits the pillow, and now I have to wake up and get on a plane and be back at corporate by 3 for a meeting with Hoover, Roover, Maslowski, and the bean counters from Boston. I'm screwed, is what I'm thinking.


Cruise control is the only answer. Because, hey, we're not just talking about momentary malaise or temporary disgruntlement. It's a deep, way-down need to let go and let the machine do the work. I've been pushing myself like a frog on speed for months now, and if I don't step back and chill my jets for a while, I'm going to end up like green mush in a blender. And we don't need that.


There are several simple steps to achieving high-quality cruise control. I'm going to walk you through each of them, and then I'm going to let you go, because what you're reading here are the last sentient thoughts of a man who's about to put his feet up on the wheel and kick back for a while.


One important preface: Before you engage, purge your mind and heart of all guilt, all reticence. Everybody goes on cruise control now and then. It's simply an appropriate way of moving down the road, that's all. And it's not a friggin' vacation, either. You had one of those a couple months ago, and came back to a basketful of trash and 6,000 e-mails.


Screw vacations. They're work engines that encourage the buildup of sludge. Real players take them, sure, and come back in the worst mood imaginable, because while they were out of the loop, they lost the control that it takes them days to reestablish.


No, you're going to be basking on autopilot while giving every appearance of having your pedal extremities to the metal. Of making sure the work is being done while you're braising over a nice, slow fire, cooking out the juices slow and easy.


And the time to implement the plan is when you need to do it, not when it goes down smooth with the rest of the gang. It's an emergency plan, my friend, and don't you forget it. Cruising is not an optional deal. It's mandatory. It's inevitable. It's life and death.


Now, let's get down to it.

Step 1: Put on the right face.

You don't want anybody looking at you weird when you're on autopilot. Your face should be neutral. Not up. Not down. Not too far in or out. Thoughtful, not brooding. Ready to hear, sure, but loath to act quickly.


Anybody who looks at that face while you're locked on and rolling should think, Hey, the guy's got something going on; I'll come back later. Unless it's your boss, who should, if you've got the right face, be thinking, Man, I've been working this dude too hard. He's way deep in the zone. I'm gonna let up. Work on the face. Or face disgrace.


Step 2: Check the road ahead.

It has to be clear. Not totally devoid of activity, because there is no such thing, except maybe at night, and at night you like to do a different kind of cruising, right? But there has to be good space between you and the other solid objects hurtling down the highway.


That speech that could come up and bite you in the ass? That's not until next month. The marketing meeting with Schoendienst and the executive team? Two weeks away. The budget crap that has to be put to bed so that 2006 operations are secure? Mid-December.


Got an eye on everything like that? If they get nearer than they are now, you may have to abort your deal or alter your course in some way.


Step 3: Turn it on.

Have the positional situation nailed down? Lots of space in front and to the left and right? Good. Now you're going to turn on the cruise control.


There are two buttons that do the job. The first activates the function. The second sets it. Turn the first on by going outside your office and talking to your assistant. "Hold my calls unless it's Mr. K.," you will tell that person, whom you trust and employ to protect you from the elements. You may also add, "Send inquiries about finance to Brewster, office issues to Martinson, and requests for information to Murphy. Flag me only on the really big stuff."


What? You don't have an assistant? Really? Hmmm. That's going to make cruising a lot more difficult, but not impossible. Of course, you could take the coward's way out and skip to step 4, but just the thought of that makes me sad. You can do better than that, can't you? Suck it up and get as creative as only lower middle management can.


Start by looking around. Surely there's a person sitting at a desk somewhere whose job it is to answer phones? Someone with whom you are on excellent terms, or could be? Someone who, by the way, does not work directly for your boss and who won't, therefore, be forced to bust you in a pinch? Right.


Now, strike an informal deal to have this person catch your incoming, as described above. A bottle of peach schnapps may settle the matter. Two tickets to Six Flags. A nice dry salami. Just about any form of the great schmooze is acceptable, in fact, as long as it doesn't require you to engage in behavior forbidden by Human Resources. There you go. Congratulations. You have acquired an adopted assistant for the immediate purpose of establishing your cruise control.


Step 4: Set the speed.

You have to get the vehicle to maximum rate so that it can move fast without moment-by-moment control from you. If it needed that, you'd be driving again, wouldn't you, Sparky? And you're done with that for a while.


So reach out now and ask everybody you know everybody who has to listen to you or just might want to -- to do whatever they can to make personal action by you unnecessary for a while. Go ahead. Get out there. Wander down the hall to talk to Lassiter about doing the heavy lifting while you're pursuing an altered form of forward momentum. It's called delegating, and if you can't do it, you can't even manage, let alone cruise.


Have a spreadsheet the chairman wants to see by the 15th? Frampton is going to have to get on it, isn't he? The executive retreat in Petaluma needs feeding and watering if it's not going to crash and burn and hit you with shrapnel? Petersen's team is going to have to deal with that and not get back to you until it's handled, right? All your snail mail covered? Stuff you have to sign all signed? You're golden.


Uh-oh! How about the four or five big oil tankers that your fellow middle managers want you to help negotiate through those hairpin turns, lest they fly off the road at a high rate of speed and kill you all? Meet with them long enough to make sure you don't have to visit them again for a couple of clicks. They have tons of stuff to do on the subject, haven't they? Stuff that doesn't involve you? Well, then, they should get on it!


Step 5: Cruise, baby!

Man, that feels good. The road ahead is filled with objects moving fast, but they're not too near, and you have a great view of the sky and the mountains beyond. Time to think your own thoughts. The machine underneath you is powerful, and you've set it well; you're eating up the space between then and now, really getting someplace, and you're not working, either. After a while, you can even put on some tunes. This is living.


The only thing you can't do, my friend, is step out of the car. Because this cruising thing is about moving and not moving at the same time, which is at the heart of long-distance driving. Step out of the big, smoking beast and you die, pal, smashed to the pavement. Never forget that, or you'll be cruisin' for a bruisin'.

Step 6: Don't forget to steer.

Hey! Moron! What's the matter with you? Don't you see that slow-moving HR panel truck blocking the lane ahead? It's laden with performance evaluations you'll have to deal with that will slow you to a crawl for weeks, unless you keep your eye on it, slip easily into the passing lane, and slide by it before it even sees you coming in its rearview mirror.


There! About a mile ahead on the right! It's Cul-pepper, with a huge agenda in tow, looking to block your progress! You see him. Take evasive action, giving him as wide a berth as possible.


This isn't some wild joyride you're on. It's a precise, high-speed game that only drivers in a heightened state of alertness can play with any degree of success over a long period of time. Maneuver. Jockey. A short cruise is no cruise at all.


Step 7: Slow down, man -- you're movin' too fast.

Those who want to make the experience last know well that there is a time to hit the brake. The I-way starts sprouting other guys' brake lights. The road fills with a bunch of rolling iron.


If you don't want to smack into your own career death, take it off automatic, my friend. It's time to drive for a while. But don't despair. That's the funny thing about traffic. It gets heavy for a while and then, like a fine foam of cream on a trendy new soup, it just evaporates.


Maybe the present snarl happened when Urdell finally got what was coming to him, and in the process caused a 10-car pileup of people who were too close to him. Maybe Kaskowitz's old jalopy at last broke down and closed down the entire right lane for a while.


Who knows? Traffic sucks, but it's a reality of life, and you can't cruise through it. You have to be in possession of all your vehicular faculties until it's time again to initialize . . . set . . . and . . .


Step 8: Recruise.

Yeah, baby! It's that time again. You can do it. It's a long, long trip you're on, with no clear destination. Now you have the power. Use it wisely. Use it well. Because inevitably, you'll have to . . .


Step 9: Reenter city traffic.

When you're hitting the brakes more than once or twice during an 8-hour period, or suddenly notice that the road has absolutely no other life forms on it, because you're lost in a backwater of your own devising, then the time has come to ease on over, reassume total control of your act, and get back into it for a good long time. What do you think they're paying you for?


How are the guys doing on all the things you set in motion before you left? Can you buy them a cup of coffee and a doughnut? How about a big, sweaty martini for the fellows who made your pleasant cruise possible? God bless them all!


Bottom line: Don't forget to come back. There are names for guys on cruise control all the time. They're called jerk-offs. Unless they're the great big dudes in the corner offices. Then they're called extremely lucky -- true masters of this game we all play for a living.

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