The fear of failing is real. It’s a silent threat, not heard but only felt like a storm you quietly but intensely sense. Many of us shy away when faced with fears. Fear of failure is malicious and can take over your dreams. The slackers are usually quick to sneer and judge. They note the failing strenght of man and welcome it with mockery, but there is something deep inside that scoffers fail to see. They don’t recognise the clever deed the failure tries to accomplish. They will never know the grim dangers the bold adventurer meets. They never seek a better way or chase a perilous plan. They never risk a breakdown to advance as athletes or even as humans. They stand where all is safe and certain, so they never face a challenge head on. I don’t mind being stamped with the failure’s brand. I would rather be a failure than the man who’s never tried. I would rather seek the mountian-top than always stand aside. Winning isn’t everything, but wanting to win is.
Failure is a great teacher. It is not fatal, but it can wound self-esteem and ego deeply. For me, the fear of failing came with a pressure that helped me train, perform better and reach perfection. My perfection. The anxiety linked to failure has always been the element that pushed me to put in more effort and focus. I studied and trialled many new avenues to get the advantage on my competition over the years. The issue is that it can become a problem when your search for that perfect race becomes an obsession and you cannot stop thinking about it. It is hard to be in the moment and enjoy a race when you always look ahead to find what you can do next to improve to find the winning edge.
The Hold up
When the time came for the driver to arrive, I did not have the heart to leave. I stayed hidden behind the two large middle doors that separated the corridor from the factory. I saw the driver get into the office through the blurry glass windows and I prayed with all of my heart for this to go smoothly. The summer breeze sneaked into the factory, a nice relief for my damp hands and my flushed face. I had been suffocating, I felt like a vampire in the sun.
I heard Angie and the driver chat and about five minutes later I saw my dad with his black ski hood enter the office. He yelled, ‘This is a hold up, do not move or I shoot you dead! Lie down on the floor and it will all be OK!’
It all happened so fast, and two minutes later I saw him run like Michael Johnson at the start of his 400 metres, disguised as a thief.
Dad had nailed it so quickly and without any issues. I was shocked and proud at the same time, but aware of the potential consequences of his actions. We were not out of the woods yet, I thought.
The driver and Angie both called the police and they arrived quickly at the factory. I stayed hidden for a couple of minutes then decided to sneak out to catch the bus home. I ran up to the bus stop and sat down. I felt so wrecked and empty that I did not have the energy to run home. I wanted no more part of this and I did not want to get interviewed by the police. They never did speak to me. But both Dad and Angie were called into the police station of Ixelles. The driver was interviewed too. The man Dad had bought the paper machine from smelled a rat. He must have known people in high places, because special agents took over the case. Dad was released when they checked his alibi, and the client confirmed he was there the entire time. Angie was not so lucky. She spent the entire night there and they grilled her FBI style. She could not sleep and did not get fed. She just received a couple of coffees and cigarettes. No torture instruments here, just the bright desk light in her face while being asked relentless questions. They treated her poorly and accused her of being my dad’s accomplice.
They asked her what she was going to do with the money, told her she was a slut sleeping with a much older man for his money and his nice villa. They told her they would both go to jail for a long time and that a holdup was a serious offence. They laughed and told her that the accomplice would get the same jail time as the main perpetrator. They came at her repeatedly, hoping that sleep deprivation and fear might make her thoughts blurry and make her finally confess. They only got a few tears out of her and the speech she had practised a few times in anticipation of being interrogated.