Habit 2 Story

[Tancredo Dori]

Thatsaid, the story of British Cycling is more complicated than I originally believed when I was writing Atomic Habits and, thankfully, I was able to squeeze in the footnote in Chapter 1 before the book went to the printer, which allows me to provide additional context and updates here.

At that time, the group was fresh off winning their first Tour de France in 2012 and a boatload of gold medals at the 2012 Olympics in London. Shortly after, I wrote about their success in an article.

Dave Brailsford, British Cycling, and Team Sky have continued their success after my initial article: winning 5 of the last 6 Tour de France events with 3 different riders, capturing dozens of gold medals, and setting many Olympic and World Records in the process. Their system works very well.

The second issue involved British rider Chris Froome, who has won multiple Tour de France titles. At one point, he was found to have almost twice the allowed dose of salbutamol (an asthma medication) in his system. In this case, Froome was in excess of the World Anti-Doping Agency limit, which is an obvious violation. (Also, it is another example of British riders using medications to gain an advantage.)

I try to maintain a fairly even-handed approach in my writing, but I will say that it is hard for me to believe that the British Cycling team is entirely clean given the details of these cases and the history of the sport.

Most people are familiar with the story of Lance Armstrong and his doping scandal. There have been many others in the history of cycling as well. And if you watch films like Icarus (a fantastic documentary, by the way), you can see how deeply doping has infected not only cycling, but also the sports industry as a whole.

Although I learned about the details of the British Cycling scandal too late to alter the story in the book, I felt that it would be irresponsible for me to not include a note about the scandal and an update on publication day discussing the current situation.

Again, Chapter 1 is not actually about cycling, but it is a key story in that section and whenever possible I want to do my best to share accurate and complete information with you. Thank you for reading this update. I hope you enjoy the rest of the book.

Nearly every school club counted me as a member (and officer). My weeks consisted of college classes, Choir/Band/Spirit Band, swimming in meets, collecting prizes, performing in musicals, acing tests, and holding down a job. I won essay contests and gave speeches. I had a column in the school newspaper despite not actually being on the school newspaper. Every organization in a hundred-mile radius that provided a scholarship knew me on a first-name basis.

I began finding ways to flex this new muscle. Mostly by making myself do the things I knew I needed to do. It became a game. I rarely felt like going to bed on time, eating right, etc. But I had to do those things to collect my points.

So drastically removing previously enjoyed foods (I literally used to drink a gallon of milk a day) was like mental discipline boot camp. And this trial by fire seemed to flip a switch in my brain. Stopping old habits increased my ability to start new habits.

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Story patterns are good set pieces, but they only account for a tiny percentage of day-to-day business storytelling. The majority of the time we spend sharing a business story, we are simply trying to make a point. So rather than focusing on how to use story patterns, we should be developing our ability to find the right story to make a business point. We should also be practising the art of succinctly making our point at the start of a story, which, as I recently explained, doubles the audience recall.

Shawn, author of Putting Stories to Work, is one of the world's leading business storytelling consultants. He helps executive teams find and tell the story of their strategy. When he is not working on strategy communication, Shawn is helping leaders find and tell business stories to engage, to influence and to inspire. Shawn works with Global 1000 companies including Shell, IBM, SAP, Bayer, Microsoft & Danone. Connect with Shawn on:

There's a man in the habit of hitting me on the head with an umbrella. It's exactly five years today that he's been hitting me on the head with his umbrella. At first I couldn't stand it; now I'm used to it.

I don't know his name. I know he's average in appearance, wears a gray suit, is graying at the temples, and has a common face. I met him five years ago one sultry morning. I was sitting on a tree-shaded bench in Palermo Park, reading the paper. Suddenly I felt something touch my head. It was the very same man who now, as I'm writing, keeps whacking me, mechanically and impassively, with an umbrella.

On that occasion I turned around filled with indignation: he just kept on hitting me. I asked him if he was crazy: he didn't even seem to hear me. Then I threatened to call a policeman. Unperturbed, cool as a cucumber, he stuck with his task. After a few moments of indecision, and seeing that he was not about to change his attitude, I stood up and punched him in the nose. The man fell down, and let out an almost inaudible moan. He immediately got back on his feet, apparently with great effort, and without a word again began hitting me on the head with the umbrella. His nose was bleeding and, at that moment, I felt sorry for him. I felt remorse for having hit him so hard. After all, the man wasn't exactly bludgeoning me; he was merely tapping me lightly with his umbrella, not causing any pain at all. Of course, those taps were extremely bothersome. As we all know, when a fly lands on your forehead, you don't feel any pain whatsoever; what you feel is annoyance. Well then, that umbrella was one humongous fly that kept landing on my head time after time, and at regular intervals.

Convinced that I was dealing with a madman, I tried to escape. But the man followed me, wordlessly continuing to hit me. So I began to run (at this juncture I should point out that not many people run as fast as I do). He took off after me, vainly trying to land a blow. The man was huffing and puffing and gasping so that I thought, if I continued to force him to run at that speed, my tormenter would drop dead right then and there.

That's why I slowed down to a walk. I looked at him. There was no trace of either gratitude or reproach on his face. He merely kept hitting me on the head with the umbrella. I thought of showing up at the police station and saying, "Officer, this man is hitting me on the head with an umbrella." It would have been an unprecedented case. The officer would have looked at me suspiciously, would have asked for my papers and begun asking embarrassing questions. And he might even have ended up placing me under arrest.

I thought it best to return home. I took the 67 bus. He, all the while hitting me with his umbrella, got on behind me. I took the first seat. He stood right beside me, and held on to the railing with his left hand. With his right hand he unrelentingly kept whacking me with that umbrella. At first, the passengers exchanged timid smiles. The driver began to observe us in the rearview mirror. Little by little the bus trip turned into one great fit of laughter, an uproarious, interminable fit of laughter. I was burning with shame. My persecutor, impervious to the laughter, continued to strike me.

I got off - we got off - at Pacifico Bridge. We walked along Santa Fe Avenue. Everyone stupidly turned to stare at us. It occurred to me to say to them, "What are you looking at, you idiots? Haven't you ever seen a man hit another man on the head with an umbrella?" But it also occurred to me that they probably never had seen such a spectacle. Then five or six little boys began chasing after us, shouting like maniacs.

From that time on, he has continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. As far as I can tell, he has never either slept or eaten anything. His sole activity consists of hitting me. He is with me in everything I do, even in my most intimate activities. I remember that at first, the blows kept me awake all night. Now I think it would be impossible for me to sleep without them.

Still and all, our relations have not always been good. I've asked him, on many occasions, and in all possible tones, to explain his behavior to me. To no avail: he has wordlessly continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. Many times I have let him have it with punches, kicks, and even - God forgive me - umbrella blows. He would meekly accept the blows. He would accept them as though they were part of his job. And this is precisely the weirdest aspect of his personality: that unshakable faith in his work coupled with a complete lack of animosity. In short, that conviction that he was carrying out some secret mission that responded to a higher authority.

Despite his lack of physiological needs, I know that when I hit him, he feels pain. I know he is weak. I know he is mortal. I also know that I could be rid of him with a single bullet. What I don't know is if it would be better for that bullet to kill him or to kill me. Neither do I know if, when the two of us are dead, he might not continue to hit me on the head with his umbrella. In any event, this reasoning is pointless; I recognize that I would never dare to kill him or kill myself.

Allison Fallon is an author of Write Your Story (available now) and founder of Find Your Voice, a community that supports anyone who wants to write anything. She is also the author of one of my favorite books on simplicity, Packing Light, and a long-time contributor to this blog (first appearing in 2014). For help writing your story, she comes recommended by me.

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