I spend a lot of time thinking about how things work.
Technology. Businesses. Systems. People.
I enjoy complexity. I like problems that require concentration, ideas that challenge what I think I know, and the satisfaction of gradually finding a solution.
But some of the things I enjoy most have very little to do with solving anything.
A long ride through the forest.
A good record playing through a good pair of speakers.
A walk with no particular destination.
A quiet moment when nothing needs my attention.
There’s something comforting about the fact that these experiences don’t need to accomplish anything.
They can simply be enjoyed.
The pleasure of going somewhere slowly
Cycling has become one of my favourite ways of exploring the world around me.
Part of the appeal is physical. I enjoy the effort, the rhythm, and the feeling of becoming stronger and more capable over time.
But it’s also about being outside.
There’s something particularly satisfying about leaving Stockholm behind on a gravel bike and gradually finding yourself surrounded by trees, narrow paths, and quiet stretches of countryside.
The scenery changes at exactly the right speed.
Fast enough to explore a considerable distance.
Slow enough to notice where you are.
And unlike so much of modern life, the experience doesn’t require a constant stream of decisions.
You follow the trail. Adjust to the terrain. Pay attention to what’s around you.
Sometimes you know where you’re going.
Sometimes a path looks interesting, and that’s reason enough to follow it.
I enjoy tracking progress and understanding the numbers behind physical performance. That’s probably unsurprising given my interest in data.
But the numbers were never really the point.
They’re a consequence of doing something I enjoy.
Not the reason I go.
The strange temptation to optimise everything
I think it’s easy, particularly if you work with technology and data, to develop a habit of wanting to measure and improve almost everything.
We have tools for tracking sleep, exercise, productivity, recovery, attention, and countless other aspects of our lives.
And much of that information can be genuinely useful.
I appreciate being able to see progress. I like understanding patterns. I enjoy discovering that a change has made a difference.
But I also think there’s a limit to how much of life benefits from being treated as a problem to optimise.
Not every walk needs a target.
Not every hobby needs to become a project.
Not every free hour needs to be productive.
There’s a subtle difference between using information to enrich an experience and allowing the measurement to become the experience itself.
I’m interested in finding that balance.
Music without multitasking
Music occupies a slightly different space in my life.
I’ve always appreciated good sound, and over the years I’ve developed a particular interest in audio equipment and the way different systems reproduce music.
There’s a technical side to it, naturally.
Acoustics, speakers, room characteristics, and all the details that influence what we hear.
It’s another fascinating rabbit hole if you’re inclined to disappear into one.
But the whole point of the technology is the experience it makes possible.
At some point, the measurements and specifications have to give way to the music.
I particularly enjoy music that creates space for reflection. Music that doesn’t demand your attention so much as gradually draw you into it.
Sometimes the most enjoyable thing is simply sitting down and listening.
No screen to look at.
No task to finish.
Nothing to improve.
Just music.
For someone who enjoys building and analysing things, there’s a certain pleasure in having absolutely nothing to do.
When thoughts find their own way
I’ve noticed that stepping away from a problem can change how I think about it.
Not always. Sometimes a difficult problem is simply difficult, and the answer requires more work.
But when you’ve spent enough time looking at something from one angle, a change of surroundings can be surprisingly helpful.
Walking, cycling, or doing something entirely unrelated creates room for thoughts to wander.
Connections emerge that weren’t obvious before.
Something complicated suddenly appears simpler.
Or you realise that the question you’ve been trying to answer wasn’t quite the right one.
I don’t think there’s anything particularly mysterious about this.
Our attention changes when we stop forcing it in one direction.
And sometimes that change is useful.
But I wouldn’t want to turn every walk or bike ride into a creativity exercise.
That would rather defeat the purpose.
Sometimes I come back with an interesting idea.
Sometimes I come back pleasantly tired, hungry, and with absolutely nothing insightful to report.
Both are perfectly good outcomes.
Making room for different things
One of the things I appreciate about getting older is becoming more comfortable with the idea that life doesn’t have to move in one direction all the time.
I can enjoy ambitious projects and quiet evenings.
Complex technical challenges and uncomplicated pleasures.
Carefully planned work and spontaneous adventures.
These things don’t compete with each other as much as they complement each other.
I don’t particularly want a life without challenges. I enjoy being curious, learning, and creating things too much for that.
But I also don’t want every experience to be measured by what it produces.
There’s value in exploring a place simply because it’s beautiful.
In reading something because it interests you.
In listening to music because it moves you.
And in spending time outdoors without needing to turn the experience into an achievement.
Perhaps that’s why I enjoy the contrast between technology and nature so much.
One offers an almost endless supply of problems to solve.
The other reminds me that not everything is a problem.
And I rather like it that way.