64 A wrap
In the Preface, I wrote that my life often seemed like a succession of pinball moments. I would occasionaly encounter some idea or person, and my life would suddenly change direction – seemingly unpredictably. But as I was writing the sketches in this book, I began to question that metaphor.
Consider a real pinball as a “null” hypothesis. A pinball’s trajectory is complex, as is evident from the underlying mathematics (Pring and Budd, 2011). That trajectory may appear rather random and unpredictable to a novice, but not to a Pinball Wizard. Moreover, when pinball strikes a bumper, it doesn’t merely bounce off that bumper but will also be actively pushed by the bumper (“active impact”).
I think my career “bounces” differ from pinball ones. Whenever I was shifting my research directions, I never felt that I was being pushed from behind (though that can happen if major professors dictate research projects for their students). Instead, I felt pulled forward by the challenge. In other words, a challenge motivated my moves forward. Thus, a pinball metaphor doesn’t accurately describe a career – or at least my career.
I am not downplaying plain old luck. I know that I’ve had far more than my share of good fortune. I grew up in a city with good schools, had a supportive family life, and was always around talented students, mentors, and colleagues.
But more than luck must be involved. Here is an example from early in my career.
After returning from the Kalahari, I started working on a manuscript that described a case of “ecological character displacement” in body and head size of two species of legless lizards (then Typhlosaurus, currently Acontias) that lived underground in the Kalahari (Chapter 17). Ecological character displacement describes the consequences of evolutionary interactions of two species that compete for the same foods or resources (Brown and Wilson, 1956). Where two species are sympatric, selection can favor their mutual displacement in body size (one evolves bigger while the other evolves smaller – or sometimes only one shifts). In theory, this displacement reduces their dietary overlap (by size or type) and thereby interspecific competition.
We found that apparent character displacement in body size of one species. Importantly, displacement in body size was associated with parallel shifts in the sizes of their termite prey. [Note: prior studies of character displacement had always assumed that prey size would shift with body size.] I sent a draft manuscript to Peter Grant, who had recently published a critical review of existing examples of character displacement.
Peter liked our manuscript and provided constructive suggestions for a revision. Consequently, Eric, Mike Egan (who identified and counted thousands of termite prey), Larry Coons and I submitted our manuscript to Ecology, where it was accepted with minor revisions.
So far, the sequence of events had been straightforward. Write paper > seek review > revise and submit paper > revise again > resubmit and the paper is accepted and published. But in the autumn of 1973, I received a surprise invitation to give a lecture at a major symposium on character displacement, to be held at the annual meetings of the American Society of Zoologists (now Society for Integrative and Comparative Biology). Being invited to a national symposium as a graduate student was a big deal and gave me a chance to meet and interact with some first-rate biologists. And I suspect it pumped up my CV and helped me get a Miller Postdoc.
OK, but how did the symposium organizers know about our project and me, as we hadn’t yet submitted our paper Ecology? Here is where the story becomes interesting.
Unbeknownst to me, Peter Grant had been invited to talk in that symposium. But in the fall of 1973, he had an an opportunity to visit to the Galapagos for the first time. However, the timing of that trip overlapped with the ASZ meeting: Peter chose the Galapagos. His decision not only changed his research trajectory, but also that of the entire field of evolutionary ecology.
When he declined the invitation, Peter recommended me as a speaker. Thus, I was invited because I asked Peter for a review, because he liked the paper, because he chose to go to the Galapagos rather than speak at ASZ, and because he recommended me for the symposium. There’s a lot of chance events there. But this was more than mere chance. Peter actively recommended me, and I jumped at the opportunity, despite being intimidated by speaking before a group of established senior scientists.
Such strings of seemingly unlikely events have happened repeatedly in my career. An opportunity arises – often by coincidence or pure luck. Then, at least on some of those occasions, I knew enough about a field to recognize that the event or observation was new and interesting. On other occasions, I wondered whether I could integrate a new observation to a seemingly unrelated issue. For example, when I listened to Reinhold Messner’s talk, I wondered whether I could adapt the statistical techniques used in evolutionary biology (for example, to detect phenotypic selection on bill sizes of birds) to explore how age and other factors might affect the probability of success or death of Himalayan mountaineers. Similarly, I wondered whether I could use variations in the oxygen content of the atmosphere over the Phanerozoic to predict whether oxygen levels might have restricted the dispersal Paleozoic animals or the maximum altitudes reachable by hypothetical paleo-mountaineers? These studies involved mixing issues from seemingly different fields (see Chapter 44).
Any attempt to understand the trajectory of one’s career uncovers a conspicuous gap. Sometimes, the decision not to do something will have important ramifications. In my junior year in high school, I had to decide whether to spend my senior year as a foreign exchange student in Augsburg, Germany or jump into college at Deep Springs. I choose Deep Springs. Had I chosen Germany, my life and career would certainly have been different from the one I have had.
Similarly, I chose graduate school in biology over medical school. Had I chosen medical school, my life’s trajectory might have been relatively predictable, but it would never have resembled my real one. [And I almost certainly would have been unhappy as a doctor.] Choices have consequences, but the consequences of choice not made are unknowable.
When faced with such choices (Germany vs. Deep Springs, medical school vs. graduate school), I never tried to evaluate the pros and cons of my option. Perhaps I should have, but I didn’t. Instead, I went with my gut. I chose Deep Springs because living on a ranch for two or three years in the mountains of eastern California seemed more exciting to me than a year in Germany. I choose grad school over medical school because research seemed far more interesting than dealing with sick people. Perhaps the unpredictability of biological research added to the appeal (Chapter 11). Curiously, I never brooded about the differences in salaries of these two professions – that seemed irrelevant. [Note: I had yet to learn about compound interest.]
So my life’s trajectory has been an ever-changing mix of serendipity, of sometimes knowing enough to be able to recognize a novel opportunity, of making some choices merely on intuition, and finally of being willing to take chances that probably appeared (at least to others) to have high risk. I no doubt missed many opportunities along the way – sometimes because I failed to spot them, and sometimes because I actively chose a different direction.
I would be disingenuous if I failed to correct an impression that I always finished projects. On more occasions than I would like to admit, dropped projects for diverse reasons – not always good. I don’t miss most of those dropped projects but concede to be bothered when someone later published along similar lines.
A life’s trajectory is, of course, influenced by interactions with friends, loved ones, colleagues, and even antagonists. Moreover, illness, accidents, and family and societal constraints often alter – or even terminate – our directions and accomplishments. We are not always in control.
But two life lessons I learned from Tom Hornbein and Charlie Houston (Chapter 53) are worth repeating here. (1) Risk is a key dietary element. When we take a chance, the associated uncertainty of success can be motivating, inspire us to push ourselves harder, and grow. (2) Never quit. Quit is a four-letter word.
I want to end with a final thought about how I work. When I encounter an event or idea that might lead to a promising new research direction, I tend not to spend time weighing and balancing the associated risks and challenges. Instead, I usually jump in, go for it, and don’t look back. For me, wanting to know how this project will turn out is a magnet. Sometimes that project will work. Sometimes it won’t. Sometimes it proves beyond my abilities. Nevertheless, being oblivious to the likelihood of failure is my perhaps my best academic trait! And the resulting ride is fun, exciting, and often shared with great colleagues and friends. I have given much of my energies to biology, but biology has paid me back many fold.