How To Retire At 30
By Brad Kearns
My first real job after college graduation
was as a lowly staff auditor for the world’s largest accounting firm. Ten years
later, I was retired. Not as a big shot CPA, but as a professional triathlete.
What was it like to trade security, salary, and a business suit for a bathing
suit? Well, when I went fast, it was great. I got to travel around the world
and stay in beautiful resorts for free. There was substantial prize money and
notoriety for winning races. Companies actually paid me to use their cool
stuff. I could scoff at my miserable peers, slaving away for corporate America,
making less money in a month than I made in 1 hour and 50 minutes of doing
something I loved while people cheered.
Of course that was when I went fast.
Sometimes I went slow. Or got disqualified from a eight hour race (that I won
by 15 minutes) for running a stop sign. Or broke a pedal while leading another
race. Or got sick, tired, or injured and had to watch someone else win. After
nine years of piling up memories like those I realized it was time to hang it
up. Of course it wasn’t that easy. I had to have the concept of the “R” word
beaten into my head from all sides for me to take notice and do something about
it.
Looking back, it's hard to blame myself.
Winning is intoxicating; the confidence and sense of well-being I got from
reaching the top of my profession clouded my view of reality. But gazing into
the mirror and accepting my own athletic mortality was perhaps a more valuable
lesson than anything I learned when I was victorious. When I was finally able
to embrace the end of my career, I felt as ready for the real world as anyone
who had slaved in it for the entire ten years I was avoiding it.
The second level of sell that kept me swimming,
pedaling and running for ten years was my brief exposure to the real world
after college graduation. Call me strange, but as a kid I dreamt of becoming a
professional quarterback, not a Certified Public Accountant. The quarterback
dream lasted until I was 12, when I got my first crack at tackle football. My
77-pound frame got crushed repeatedly in practice and rarely saw game time. My
NFL dreams were soon replaced by delusions of running in the Olympics.
However deluded, I still hadn’t found
anything to replace the power and allure of the career goal I’d had in some
form since age seven. I decided to get my CPA, then go to law school, bribing
the dream out of my consciousness with big bucks. What was I thinking? By the
time I got my college diploma I had no idea. I decided to shun the CPA scene,
especially after not impressing the on-campus recruiters enough to get a single
job offer. I think it was those darn first impressions. I didn’t see the need
to wear the strongly recommended business suit just for an interview; I’ll buy
a suit after you hire me buddy!
So I sold frozen yogurt machines. More
accurately, I drove for three months in heat, smog and traffic all over the Los
Angeles basin trying to sell a frozen soft serve non-dairy dessert called Yodolo and the accompanying machine.
Even though this was the ‘80's - the heyday of frozen yogurt - I didn’t sell a
single unit. Motivation flagging, my boss set up a meeting with a star
associate of his who was averaging 2.3 Yodolo sales a week. After a brilliant
and inspiring pep talk, he then explained that his 2.3 sales per week at a
thousand bucks a pop were barely enough to live on, due to the high cost of
“babes and blow, man; the money’s gone before you know it.”
Soon after the pep talk, I bought a suit,
crawled back to the accounting firms with my tail between my legs and secured the
auditor position in downtown Los Angeles. I knew I was in trouble on the first
day. Orientation was so boring that I could barely keep my eyes open; my fellow
recruits were taking copious notes on riveting subjects like the firm’s
retirement plan. Retirement plan....No, don’t go gently into that good night! I
raged by getting serious with my triathlon training, waking at 5 AM to run
before work and then swimming after work. As I pondered my future in gridlock
traffic for two hours every day, my fantasy of a professional triathlon career
appeared less and less ludicrous.
Intoxicated by 8 AM from freeway carbon
monoxide, I spent workdays performing legendary tasks like photo copying for
eight straight hours, double-checking a computer printout of bank account balances
for 20 hours (somebody’s got to do it, he’s an auditor), and running errands
for my superiors. I think the only reason that I had to wear a suit instead of
a cap and overalls was that they were billing my time out at $65 per hour.
The last straw came on a Friday evening of
Valentines Day. My two female superiors and I were working like crazy to finish
a two-week audit job at a bank. My girlfriend arranged for a delivery of
balloons to the bank, an event that distressed my bosses on seemingly too many
levels. Highly motivated by sympathy, I brought them a small Valentine’s gift
after lunch. One of them said, “Thanks, but bear in mind that this will have no
affect whatsoever on your P-66 (employee evaluation).” The two
Chips-On-Their-Shoulders and I finally finished around 9 PM. Dinner plans with
my girlfriend were shot when the Chips ordered me to drop off a dozen file
boxes at the firm’s downtown offices. The Chips rushed out and I was left , in
the pouring rain, to stuff every inch of my car with these boxes.
The six-mile trip took 45 minutes. Our
firm’s temporary parking garage was a quarter-mile away from our new offices.
Each trip along the outdoor walkway to the office building left me and the
cardboard boxes drenched. On my final trip, the dolly hit a bump and the boxes
and contents went flying all over the puddle-filled sidewalk. Cramming
everything into what was left of the rain-soaked, tattered boxes, I headed
straight for the office of one of the Chips, dumped the soaking boxes and
headed back out into the rain.
Monday I called my boss to give him
two-weeks notice. He couldn’t schedule me for a week and a half, so when the
meeting came I announced: “I’m quitting Friday.” “Friday the uh, fourth of
April?” “No, Friday.”
Eight months later, as a struggling, unknown
rookie pro, I upset #1-ranked duathlete (Kenny Souza) and #1 ranked triathlete
in the world (Scott Molina) in the same race for my first pro victory. That and
other highlights surpassed anything I had ever imagined. So did the financial,
physical and emotional hardships I endured over the course of my career. Dreams
may not always end up as you want them to, but that isn't the point. What’s important
is to chase them with all your might.
November 1986 Desert Princess World Championship Duathlon Series race #1: No clothes, no sponsors, no competition on this particular day...