Finding Your Line: Navigating Career Paths Like a Mountain Biker

This morning, I found myself at Peninsula State Park in Door County, WI, riding my mountain bike through the singletrack. If you've been there, you know the trails wind through a beautiful hardwood forest on the Door Peninsula, filled with birch and maple trees. The limestone breaks through the dirt, and the elevation changes keep you on your toes. It was one of those green-tunnel summer mornings where light filters through the canopy in patches, and the trail keeps disappearing around the next bend.

On one of the descents, I caught myself doing what every mountain biker learns to do: looking for the line.

What Is the Line?

The line is the path you want your tires to take. It's not about the whole trail but rather the specific ribbon of it. You're reading the terrain ahead: the rock garden at the bottom of the grade, the roots and fallen tree limbs angling near the trail's edge, the loose gravel on the outside of the curve, and the little shallow rollers that can either give you speed or steal it. You take all of this in and pick your route before you get there. By the time you're on top of an obstacle, it's too late to decide anything.

Somewhere between the second and third descent, it hit me that I've spent a significant part of my career doing exactly this, both for myself and for those I've had the privilege to coach and develop. The trail represents a career. The terrain is real: the obstacles, the loose gravel, and the features that can either propel you forward or send you over the handlebars. The skill that separates a rider who flows down the trail from one who struggles isn't strength or nerve. It's where you put your eyes.

The Faster You Go, the Further Ahead You Have to Look

On a slow, technical climb, I'm reading the trail just a few feet in front of my wheel. That's all I need. But on a fast descent, a few feet is nowhere near enough. By the time something enters that window, I'm already committed. At speed, I scan thirty or forty feet down the trail, trusting my hands and the bike to handle what's directly under me.

Careers work the same way. Early on, looking a few feet ahead is fine: the next assignment, the next skill, the next review cycle. But as you take on more responsibility and speed, the distance you need to read must stretch with it. Where is this function heading in three years? Which capabilities will matter then that don't seem urgent now? What am I not seeing yet around that bend?

The same principle applies when developing talent. Anyone who has ridden with someone faster knows the effect: you follow their wheel down a descent, and suddenly you're riding above your own ability. You didn't get better in the last five minutes; you're just borrowing their eyes. They see things on the trail before you can. I believe that's the essence of good coaching. You've been down this stretch before, so you ride where they can watch you, call out what's coming, and help them look further ahead than they could on their own.

Momentum is Stability

This concept is counterintuitive until you've experienced it. If you take a rock garden too slowly, the bike gets bounced around, deflected off every edge, and you're more likely to fall. However, if you carry appropriate speed, the bike stays composed. Momentum smooths the trail out.

I've witnessed the career version of this play out many times, even in my own journey. Someone hits a rough patch—maybe a challenging project, a reorganization, or a role that isn't working—and their instinct is to slow everything down. They become cautious and stop raising their hand. This hesitation becomes the problem. Every small bump now deflects them because they've given up the momentum that would have carried them through. The rough section rarely takes people down; freezing up in the middle of it is what causes the fall.

The point isn't to be reckless. It's that appropriate speed, chosen deliberately, is often the safer way through the hard sections, both on the trail and in a career.

Reading the Signs: When the Trail is Closed

Near one of the junctions this morning, I saw a sign zip-tied to a trail marker: Trail Closed Due to Conditions. A yellow rope blocked the entrance to a trail I would have happily ridden.

It would be easy to view that as a limitation. However, it's actually information and data. Riding a closed trail tears it up and often tears you up too. Anyone who has ridden wet trails knows the damage outlasts the ride. The ruts you carve into soft ground harden and remain for seasons, and every rider behind you inherits them. The condition of the trail matters as much as your skill on it. Knowing when not to ride something is just as crucial as picking your way through the rocks.

In a career context, this could mean not chasing a promotion this year because the timing is wrong. It might be a lateral move that looks like a detour but sets you up for future success. Sometimes, you need to ride easier trails because life off the bike demands everything you have. None of this is a failure to navigate; it is navigating. Forcing it can cost you just like riding on wet dirt. Pushing hard for the wrong role at the wrong time can leave ruts in your reputation, your relationships, or a team you weren't ready to lead. Those ruts stick around long after the moment has passed.

One more thing worth noting: someone had to close that trail. A ranger or a trail steward rode it, saw the conditions, and made the call before I ever got there. Careers rarely come with that kind of sign. Nobody posts a notice saying this opportunity isn't ready for you or that you aren't ready for it. The closest most of us get is a person who knows the terrain and cares enough to share their insights. If you lead people, some days that's your job. It’s not gatekeeping; it’s providing an honest trail report. When someone gives you one, take it seriously. They can usually see conditions you can't.

Back Up to the Top

At Peninsula, you don't just ride down. Every descent ends at the bottom of a climb, and every climb puts you at the top of another descent. Careers work the same way. Nobody gets one long downhill run. You do laps—some fast, some slow, and some on trails you'd rather have skipped.

I didn't head out this morning planning to ponder any of this. But somewhere on that second descent, I realized I'd been asking myself the same question throughout the ride, and it's worth asking off the bike too.

How far down the trail are you looking? And whose line are you helping them see?

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Dean Nemecek is the founder of Veteran Bridge Solutions, where he delivers leadership development training for growing organizations, helps Veterans navigate the transition into civilian careers, and assists employers in hiring more Veterans. His book, Ground Truth: The Frontline Leadership System for the American Workforce, is set to release in November 2026. When he's not doing that, he's usually looking for the line on a trail somewhere in Door County.