Passing the Baton, Keeping the Pace

Lately, something at work that has fascinated me is how, despite my every internal struggle and every desire not to accept it, I have come to agree that I am finally old.

Of course, I had help reaching that conclusion. I am constantly surrounded by people passing verdicts on my actions, my inactions and my mannerisms, and the ruling is unanimous: I am old, and I am old school.

To be fair, I brought this on myself.

As a young man, I was given serious opportunities and chances; people took real bets on me and gave me consequential roles, and I have wanted to pass that on ever since. So every year since I took the reins at the digital company I lead under the Media General group, I have brought in more national service personnel than the year before. As new graduates, they are by definition between 21 and 25. Every new intake arrives at the same age; I arrive a year older.

Working alongside them, one line keeps ringing in my head: the young do grow faster than their elders. I see it most clearly in my own fields of media, marketing and technology, where some things come to these younger people remarkably quickly. It is a familiar picture. My elders once looked at me the same way, as the young man who grasped things fast. Now I am the one watching.

It’s somehow easy to understand why. The young have less to unlearn, and Gen Z (annoyingly) has less pride riding on being right. It is their first time, so they are allowed to make mistakes. And it is in this beauty of making mistakes that we sometimes discover innovation. In the beauty of being curious enough not to fear them, we discover the truest form of growth.

They are also on the steep part of the curve, where a beginner gets better week on week. More than a decade into my career, I work hard for small gains.

I once read a psychology book that described the same split: the speed to solve new problems peaks in early adulthood, while knowledge and judgment keep growing well into later life. The young will always win on speed. The elders keep their edge on judgment, at least for a while.

A friend reminded me of all this recently. She could not stop marvelling that her sister, a baby only yesterday, has turned 20. I found it hilarious, because my friend is pretty young herself, only eleven years older than her sister. So I asked her why she was acting as though she had not been 20 just a few years ago. “True,” she replied, “but these young ones are growing up way faster.”

There is no truth to that. Time does not move faster for them; a year is still 365 days. What has changed is how much they pack into those days. At 20, they are thinking, dressing, speaking and showing up in ways my generation only reached later, so they seem to have grown up faster.

I see it at home too. Baby C is barely a year and a half old, and I keep telling my mother she would be surprised by what her granddaughter can already do.

Every birthday, I go into a state of reflection about what should guide the coming year. I used to write manifestos. Two years ago, I started writing charters instead: first The Keystone, which was about foundations, then The Compass, which was about direction.

This year, I have been mulling over one idea: the young grow faster than their elders, even as I grow a year older myself. So this is The Relay Charter.

Why a relay

In a sprint relay, the next runner does not wait for the baton standing still. They start running before it arrives, so the exchange happens with both runners already at speed. The runner coming in has one job: keep driving hard until the baton is safely in the other hand. Ease off a stride too early, and the whole team pays for it.

That running start is why a good relay team finishes faster than its four runners’ individual times added together: three of them take the baton already moving.

That is the picture I want at work. Last year’s charter was about stepping back so my team could step forward. This year is about the handoff itself. The young are already running; my job is to put my judgment in their hands while they are at speed, and to keep my own pace while I do it.

The rights I keep

Becoming the elder does not mean giving up what makes the young fast. These are three things I am keeping.

The right to be a beginner

The steep part of the curve is not reserved for 22-year-olds. This year, I will choose at least one thing where I am the least experienced person in the room, and stay with it long enough to feel myself getting better week on week again. This will surely come as a surprise to most of the people who work with me, because somehow they seem to believe that there are very few things I am not adept at. Now is the time to prove them wrong.

Firsts also make a year feel longer, and I would like a longer year.

The right to be wrong in public

The young are allowed mistakes because it is their first time. Experience tempts the rest of us to guard our record instead.

This year, when I get something wrong, I will say so in the same room where it happened. This is what I reckon will be one of the hardest things for me to do. I have often held myself to an internal standard that once people relied on my knowledge of things, I could not be wrong, and this has forced me down certain paths. One of them is my usual quip: “I do not play games I cannot win”. Although that was great for a while, I have realised that I exempt myself from the thrill of discovery through failure (especially in public).

The right to be taught by the young

Once a month, I will ask someone on my team, often one of the youngest, to teach me something I do not know: a tool, a platform, a habit, or the meaning of the latest slang. While they teach, I will not correct them.

The duties I take on

Every right comes with a duty. These are the four I owe the young, as the elder I have become.

To open doors

I was given opportunities when I left university, and I intend to keep that chain going. I will keep bringing in national service personnel, and I will give them real work with their names on it. Each of them should leave with something to show and someone willing to vouch for them.

To make room for mistakes

I will keep the cost of a first mistake small, so the young keep trying, and I will judge them by what they do after it. Mistakes made early and cheaply are where judgment begins.

To explain my reasons

Speed is theirs. Judgment is mine to pass on, and judgment only passes on when the reasons are said out loud. When I say yes or no, I will say why. When I review their work, I will show them how I think as well as what to change.

To keep pace

Being surrounded by fast people is no excuse to coast. I will keep learning, so that what I hand over is still worth carrying.

At home

Between my mother and Baby C, I can see the whole relay: the runner before me, the one just starting, and me in the middle, still running.

The duties at home are the same as at work. I will open doors for her, make room for her mistakes and explain my reasons, even before she can follow them. Baby C will outgrow me in ways I cannot imagine yet, and my job is to make sure she starts where I finished.

The handoff

I will know this charter held if, by the end of 2027:

• every national service person who joined us leaves with work they can show;
• I can name twelve things the young taught me;
• I am no longer a beginner at something I started this year.

Your context is different from mine, but the questions travel:

• Who handed you the baton, and have you thanked them?
• Who is already running beside you, waiting for it?
• Where are you still a beginner?

The young grow faster than their elders. This year, I stop treating that as a loss. My work is to make it true, and to keep running while they pass me.

Here’s to 2027: a year of passing the baton and keeping the pace, one handoff at a time.