The Paradox of Performance: Ferocity + Fluidity

Watching an unusual amount of sport lately—between the Tour, IM Frankfurt, Roth and the Mountain Bike World Cup here in Andorra—I took a moment to reflect on what makes the best shine on race day. Funny enough, I never stopped to think about it during my time as an athlete.

A friend of mine recently called it tight-loose: the ability to be ferociously intense while somehow staying completely fluid. As so often, track and field athletes display the ultimate form of this—Usain Bolt had to be incredibly tense to not miss even a hundredth of a second on the start, yet very relaxed to not shorten his 2.8m stride length.

I spent twenty years trying to instinctively figure this out. How do you teach someone to be simultaneously wound tight and loose? I've spent seasons locking myself away, living at altitude and eating little more than white rice to be as lean as possible. Maximum investment in the "pain bank," thinking these would be the deciding factors. Spoiler alert—pain was about all that got paid into the bank in those years, as prize money and the desperate longing for success did not come together.

The answer, it turns out, has less to do with training zones and more to do with being human. It's like learning to hold a bird: grip too tight and you'll crush it, too loose and it flies away. The sweet spot is somewhere in between—firm enough to matter, gentle enough to breathe.

Think about the last time you performed under pressure—maybe it was a race, a presentation, or maybe it was parallel parking outside your favorite café with everyone judging your driving skills.

Too much tension? You forget half the things you could otherwise master with ease—all effort and no flow. Too relaxed? You're soft-pedaling through life hoping good things happen. But find that sweet spot between the two, and suddenly you're operating in a different dimension entirely.

Watch the Tour de France peloton descending at 80 km/h. They're not gripping their handlebars like they're trying to strangle them—they're holding just enough tension to control the bike while staying loose enough to react. It's controlled chaos. Beautiful violence. Poetry in lycra.

Or consider the swim start of any triathlon. The rookies fight the water like it owes them money, churning themselves into exhaustion by the first buoy. Meanwhile, the swimmers glide through the exact same chaos, conserving energy for the next 3.8km while somehow still staying competitive or even setting the pace.

They don't swim harder—they swim better. They've learned to channel maximum effort through minimum resistance. It's not about finding balance—that implies equal measures. It's about finding the right tension for the right moment.

I think about this constantly now. Not just in training, but in everything—conversations that matter, decisions that feel heavy, moments when the stakes are real. The temptation is always to grip tighter, to force the outcome. But the magic happens when you learn to press without crushing, to care without clinging.

In parenting, I think it's setting boundaries while leaving room for discovery. In conversations, it's caring about the outcome while staying curious about the other person's perspective. In business,  from what I’ve learnt, it’s pursuing goals relentlessly whilst adapting when the world changes faster than your ever so perfect plan.

The beautiful thing about this paradox is that it scales. Whether you're negotiating a technical descent at breakneck speed or navigating a difficult conversation with someone you care for, the principle remains the same: maximum intention, minimum interference. Show up fully, grip lightly, and trust that the combination of effort and ease will carry you further than either could alone.

Maybe that's what separates not just fast from slow, but functional from frenzied. The ability to show up fully without showing up frantically. To bring your best effort without strangling your best outcome.

The next time you're facing something that matters—whether it's a starting line, a job interview, or just trying to assemble IKEA furniture without destroying your relationship—remember: you don't have to choose between caring and flowing. The best performances happen when you do both.

Keep flowing.

Jan

Get weekly dispatches from the raw, honest work of building something new from the pieces of what came before.

Get weekly dispatches from the raw, honest work of building something new from the pieces of what came before.