You Have to Hate It When You Run Out of Chain

The Book of Ron · 3 of 48 · 3 minute read

I Hate It When I Run Out of Chain

We were just little tykes. Three brothers born within three years of each other. Close enough in age to compete. Close enough to conspire. We were probably ten, eleven, twelve. Somewhere in there.

One afternoon my older brother and I spotted treasure sitting alongside the road.

It was an old riding lawn mower the neighbors had thrown out. Waiting for the trash truck. Hard wheels. Five-horsepower pull-start Murray from Kmart. The tires had no air. The engine was froze up. The mower deck pulleys were broken.

It was absolutely worthless.

But to us, it was a machine waiting for glory.

My little brother and I immediately had illusions of grandeur. We were going to fix it up, supercharge it, and turn it into a tractor puller. We had no tools. No money. No shop. No understanding of engines. No plan whatsoever.

Just vision.

We went home, got the keys to my dad’s old Fairlane Ford, grabbed a 20-foot tow chain, and headed back down the road like seasoned mechanics retrieving a race car.

Gene was driving. When we got there, we hooked the chain to the back of the Ford and to our newfound jewel. My little brother Steve climbed into the backseat on his knees so he could watch through the rear window.

My job was to steer the mower home.

I climbed onto that dead machine like I was mounting a stallion.

We took off.

Instantly, I knew this was a mistake.

What felt like one hundred miles an hour was probably ten or fifteen. But sitting on a mower with no brakes, no power, and no control other than a loose steering wheel, it felt like I was being dragged behind a freight train.

I gripped the wheel until my knuckles turned white, hollering as loud as I could, Slow down!

Of course, they couldn’t hear me. They were inside the car.

Steve was nothing but grins in the rear window.

We approached a stop sign. Gene could barely see over the steering wheel. He did what young drivers do when they don’t yet understand braking — he slammed on them.

The mower had no brakes at all.

I was closing in on the rear bumper fast. I jerked the wheel hard left and missed the bumper by inches. I straightened out, relief flooding over me.

I even waved as I went by, feeling like I had just survived something heroic.

And then it happened.

We ran out of chain.

That mower stopped instantly. I did not.

I flew over the steering wheel and bounced across the gravel road, learning physics the hard way.

And that is the moment burned into my memory:

You have to hate it when you run out of chain.

The mower was junk. The plan was foolish. The dream was oversized for our resources.

But the lesson was priceless.

There will be times in life when you hitch yourself to something bigger than your preparation. A business. A relationship. An investment. A purchase. A grand plan. A bold move.

I am not saying don’t dream.

I am saying measure the chain.

How will you afford it? Where will you build it? Who will help you? What happens if it stops suddenly?

Because when enthusiasm outruns preparation, something is going to hit the gravel.