Think of a moment you were proud of yourself.
I did my first triathlon in my mid-40’s. It was a short (800m swim, 10-ish mile bike, 5k run) XTERRA race. This distance is child’s play in the triathlon world. It’s a wednesday night training session. XTERRA races are off-road, so in addition to swimming, the bike leg is mountain biking, and the run leg is trail running — up and down the Bear Creek Mountain ski resort.
I wasn’t a swimmer. Prior to this race, I had practiced for about four weeks, in a nice, clean, and clear pool. And I sucked (still do). But 800m. Come on, anybody can finish 800m.
For the race, we waded into a retention pond to begin the two laps around. Here’s what my nice, clean, and clear pool didn’t have and couldn’t prepare me for: weeds; murk; mud; and the elbows, feet, and assess of a couple hundred other swimmers all vying for the same piece of marine real estate.
I melted down 100m into the race. A panic attack as I’ve never before, or since, experienced. My brain froze, and then so did my limbs. I just pulled up and tread water. It was all I could do. I was toast less than 2 minutes into the race.
But once nobody else was around, I calmed my mind and willed myself to continue. I was the last one out of the water. Not the last male or the last of my age group, or even the last adult. The very last human.
Then I hopped on my mountain bike and kicked ass the rest of the way.
I was proud of myself. Not for the result but for how I’d gotten there — the journey. What I overcame mentally, emotionally, and physically. I was proud that I had risen to the challenge.
There’s something to a challenge. Something uniquely human. Something requiring at least the illusion of free will because a challenge presents a choice, or choices. You choose how you will handle that challenge. There are no objectively right or wrong choices or outcomes.
Would an AI ever think to itself, “I’m proud.”
