. by Tom Terez If you're enchanted with efficiency, shortcuts, and quick fixes, there's something you should know: I've consumed the candy corn and can confirm that the promise of instant results is a terrible fiction that can produce -- well, I'll leave that part for the end of the story. It all began in my earliest school years, when I found that I could run faster than just about everyone in my grade at school. In numerous playground rounds of "kill the guy with the ball," I would sprint to and fro with a big smile on my face, holding the ball aloft to taunt my classmates, all of whom were doing their best to catch me, hurt me, and steal the ball.  Figuring I was gifted with superhuman legs, and
already sensing the tug of an Olympic gold medal around my neck, I joined the track
team at age 14 during my first year in high school. Time to show the big boys, I
thought to myself. I went to the first practice wearing that same big smile from
my playground days.It lasted maybe 60 seconds. That's how long it took for my teammates to sprint past me during our first so-called "practice" lap. They were fast as in FAST. I was fast as in, well, as in slow. Talk about being humbled. We had four practice sessions per week, and that's when I got to thinking. All these practices were so tiring and time-consuming. I had more important things to do, like watch TV and talk about girls. Surely there had to be a better way to get speed without the sweat. It was right at this time that I chanced upon a magazine article that had something to do with glucose, physiology, and peak performance. I glossed over the details and got a supreme idea. If I were to consume a massive amount of sugar immediately before a race, I would turn into a human dynamo and roar to certain victory. But what to use for a sugar delivery system? Enter the second supreme idea: candy corn. From my vast understanding of nutrition, I knew that candy corn consisted of sugar, corn syrup, sugar, some food coloring, and sugar. It sounded to me like a runner's miracle food. I walked to the corner store, discreetly bought a bag, and tucked it at the bottom of my running bag. A few days later, our team had a track meet in Cleveland, Ohio. Cleveland is the home town of Jesse Owens, the superstar runner who earned gold at the 1936 Olympics. I knew this, and surely I should have been at least somewhat intimidated. But I wasn't. Not with that secret bag of tasty peak performance awaiting consumption. My smile returned in all its glory. My race was the 440-yard dash -- a single lung-straining lap around a track. With 15 minutes to go, I slipped behind the stands, sat on the grass, opened my running bag, and unleashed the secret weapon. Then I ate: first one fistful, then another, then another, followed by a 30-second breather, then a fourth fistful, then another breather followed by bulging eyes and a mild head rush, all capped with one last and extra big fistful. Gulp. Deep inhale. Ready. Soon it was race time. My pulse quickened more than usual, the starter pistol sounded louder, and I shot from the starting blocks. I took the lead and held it coming around the first turn. I can still recall my glee at seeing no one in front of me -- just track, lovely track, welcoming each confident step of my sugar-fueled feet. With about 100 yards to go, I was starting to contemplate where to put the blue ribbon. And then it happened: my sugar reservoir or psychological edge or whatever it was suddenly ran out. That lovely track turned into my own private quicksand, and the other runners thundered past me. Visions of victory shifted into a primal determination just to finish. I did -- in last place. My coach came up to me and marveled at how such a fast run could turn so slow so quickly. "What happened in that last stretch?" he asked. "You looked like a mime doing a comedy routine." Then he got down to business. "If you'd come to all the practices and run the drills, you'd be winning some of these races," he said. "Hello? Is any of this sinking in?" His voice sounded distant, but even with my sugar-addled brain, I knew he had a point. The promise of success out of a candy bag sure sounded good. And tossing back handfuls of sweet candy corn was so much easier than running those sweaty drills. But -- All of a sudden, thoughts of candy corn began to overwhelm my taste buds. A chill ran through my body, my legs wobbled, and my head felt light enough to float clean from my body. I hurried to a secluded space behind the stands, sat down in the grass, and lowered my head. I tried to muster every cell of my being to the important job of regaining its composure, but my cells would have none of it. That's right, I lost the race and the candy corn. But I learned a lesson that's securely tucked away in my gym bag of life. When it comes to great performance -- whether it's on a track, in the workplace, or anywhere else -- efficiency, shortcuts, and quick fixes are way overrated. The best outcomes are a function of hard work and perseverance. So set aside the figurative candy corn. If you want great results, you'll have to sweat.  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Tom Terez is a speaker, workshop leader, and author of the book "22 Keys to Creating a Meaningful Workplace." Visit him online at BetterWorkplaceNow.com and TomTerez.com. To contact Tom, use the online form. Copyright 2005 Tom Terez. All rights reserved. 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