Many years ago, I went away with varsity friends to the Drakensburg for a weekend. I was really excited to find out that there were horses for hire at the farm on which we were staying - not that I was a horse rider. In fact, I had only ever ridden horses twice before and that was for about 30 minutes each, along some trail to a waterfall and back. This time, we decided to take the horses on a half-day trail in the area. It sounded wonderful. We would ride the horses like cowboys through the mountains and through the valleys, through the thicket and through the streams. We would stop off for a meal on the top of the mountain and then make our way back.

Well, that was the idea anyway. What really happened was that we went up the mountain, very slowly, we came down the mountain even slower, we battled to find a suitable place to stop for a meal where we had a view, and no one told me how sore my backside would get. I could not wait to get back. I was aching and tired and cut from the thorn trees and burnt from the sun. The horses, too, did not seem to be having a good time.  And then it happened: as we approached the farm house, there was a long and flat green patch of land with long grass. The moment the horses saw the house, without any warning, they went from a walk to a gallop. The problem was not just the shock of it all, the bigger problem was that I had never ridden a galloping horse before and clung on for dear life as the horse bolted towards the end.

In a way, it’s like entrepreneurial life. We kind of plan how business is going to operate in the next twelve months and we get on the ride with much excitement. And then the orders don’t come in as quickly as we expected. We ride up the mountain ever so slowly, with the belief that when we get to the top, when we get that big deal, then the ride down will be so much easier. And then we find that the ride down is not easier, but more dangerous. Delivering on that deal is complex - and slow - and filled with thorn bushes and blistering sunrays. So we move slowly down the mountain. Our only focus is to stay on the horse. But this is where the similarity ends.

When we approach the end of the year, when we approach a known time that we can rest, we start to slow down way in advance. We are like an oil tanker switching off its engine miles away from the port, allowing its momentum to slowly bring it in to shore. November is a month where we start the fantasy of the December holiday. We start speaking of “next year” instead of today. We begin the cycle again of planning for next year - AT THE EXPENSE OF DOING IT NOW. The horses are a great lesson to us of how best to end the year – that, despite the fatigue, cuts and sunburn, they increase their pace to the maximum until they reach their December 24th.