Abstract
The Decision
I’ve been waiting for the decision to come through, the anticipation has been the hardest part. . . waiting. This was the worst part. I’d convinced myself that I had met the targets, published over one hundred articles, went above and beyond whenever I could, and even made sure to get feedback along the way to make sure my promotion case was solid. Last year I got rejected but I almost expected it since nobody seems to get through on their first attempt. I didn’t get much feedback apart from being told that I was so close and should definitely apply again. I thought this was pretty much saying that I’d get it this time and I started to believe it!
Then, ping! The email comes through. Cold. Clinical. “We regret to inform you. . .” That phrase has the same sting, no matter how politely it’s framed. I feel the air knocked out of me as I’ve invested so much time, energy, passion, tears – my life! It’s not just about missing out on a status of Senior Lecturer or a salary bump – it feels personal, like someone had looked at all my effort, all my late nights, all the sacrifices, all the published work, work from the heart and decided it just wasn’t enough.
I’m stunned, my gut wants to quit. I’m back on the emotional rollercoaster, except that this time it’s more extreme. I replay meetings in my mind, trying to figure out where I went wrong. The phone call that came shortly after my email where I just couldn’t seem to get any answers: “I understand that you must be disappointed” he says. “Yes, I am. But I guess I just want to understand where I didn’t meet the criteria. I’m so confused as you said last time I was so close” I ask. “Well, er, you are starting to sound a bit confrontational” “Oh, sorry. I would just really appreciate some feedback, that’s all.”
I’m left in the dark and feeling like I can’t ask questions. Then there’s the next part where you have to swallow the news of other people getting promoted and pretend you feel happy for them. I couldn’t help but compare myself to them, wondering if they were truly better or if I’d just been overlooked. How can it be fair? Then I remember my father’s words who would be reminding me “Darling, life’s unfair.” Thanks Dad.
Beyond the initial shock, rejection has this way of settling in, eating away at your soul, making you question things you thought were solid. Am I even in the right job? Am I valued here at all? Is this what I really want? Even if I climb to the top, will I feel happy? (Kubátová 2019). Is happiness or success what I’m looking for? It’s exhausting to fight through those thoughts, especially when you’re expected to plaster on a smile and keep working like nothing happened. The bitterness starts seeping in; the anger festers as others get promoted over and over again ahead of you.
A meeting is arranged, and I’m faced with my line manager who tries to make me feel better. I sit there numb, dumbfounded, angry, bitter and resigned to failure. At the end of the meeting my response is “Are we done?” And walk out. What’s the point? I’ve already been warned about asking too many questions. I realise my anger is just a few inches away from exploding and worry about my reactions at work in case it gets me into more trouble. I can no longer pretend I’m fine.
If, who I’m working for, doesn’t recognise the work I’ve been doing, then what is the point in any of it? Maybe I’ve over invested in myself as an academic which is why I feel so fragile and maybe there’s something better waiting for me down the line. I thought academia was a safe place to be but maybe the illusion of safety has been my downfall. As much as it’s destroyed my valued academic sense of self, I’m determined not to let this define me. “I am not my CV!” I quote to myself (echoing Sparkes 2007). Before I explode and keep running, I think I need to stop, I need to take some time off.
This autoethnographic story outlines my response to professional rejection and the emotional aftermath it brings. Autoethnography is a particularly powerful method for exploring and understanding the dynamics involved in academic life. Indeed, Camangian (2010) drew on critical autoethnography “as a pedagogical tool for students to examine the ways they experience, exist, and explain their identities” (183). As a form of qualitative research that situates the researcher’s personal experience within broader cultural contexts, autoethnography allows academics to critically examine their own embodied engagement with academic life and other pursuits (Ellis 1991). From a position of systematic sociological introspection (Ellis 1991), the narrative explores feelings of shock, frustration, self-doubt and disillusionment with the academic system and the gruelling process and perceived unfairness of the decision-making process in academia. I am an Autoethnographer and, like others, I have struggled to get my work recognised as “scientific.” However, I stand firm, stand up and stand together with other autoethnographers (Douglas and Carless 2024) by resisting “being weathered and shaped by new worlds in academia.”
Espinoza-González (2024) highlighted how scientists navigate and recover from systemic pressures by drawing upon personal, emotional and creative resources; their passions and dreams of scientists can sometimes clash with the demands of academic life. His work illustrates how resilience is not merely individual perseverance but also a dynamic process that involves reflection, relational support and purposeful resistance to dominant academic norms. His creative expressions not only aim to humanise scientists and highlight their personal stories and experiences but also can help establish emotional connections with public audiences and invite broader reflections on the emotional costs of hyper-productivity (Espinoza-González 2024). Equally, I hope to provide a narrative that challenges the pervasive academic audit culture that often reduces a person’s worth to their professional achievements, measured targets and outputs. Like Esponoza-Gonzalez, I aim “for a better future while also pursuing our dreams, whether in academic or non-academic activities, emphasising the importance of resilience in our journey.” (11). My account may resonate with others who may grapple with the challenges of moving forward with dignity and hope.
It is important, however, to recognise that autoethnography seeks to connect personal experiences to larger societal structures. A “revenge” narrative may overly focus on individual grievances, obscuring the broader cultural, historical or systemic factors that shape those experiences (Ellis et al. 2011). Indeed, academia often demands intense focus, prolonged dedication and a deep immersion in one’s field of study (De La Mare 2023). While such commitment is essential for scholarly success, the absence of a balanced life outside academia can lead to burnout, diminished creativity and weakened well-being (Camangian 2010; De La Mare 2023; Woodthorpe 2018). If, for example, an individual’s entire sense of self-worth is tied to their academic achievements, failures or setbacks in academia can feel catastrophic. A process similar to grieving can take place triggered by a loss of a sense of self.
The Break
Taking time off work is never easy for me, but I feel I have no choice. After the rejection, I have been feeling like I am walking around in a fog. My mind has been feeling sluggish and even the simplest of tasks feel monumental – catching myself staring at the emails, waiting for the next ping to nudge me out of my 1000 yard stare.
I realise I’ve been running on fumes for a while. It’s frustrating because I remember a time when I used to thrive under pressure, when I could juggle everything with a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day. In my last appraisal, I was referred to as a “writing machine” and even a colleague “joked” saying, “Please can you stop writing so much as you’re making us all look bad!” – a reminder of the competitive nature of academia. I’ve fallen victim to the “publish or perish” culture. But since having the wind knocked out of my sails, I’m questioning where has all this writing has gotten me? Who even reads any of it? What difference am I making? It all feels devoid of meaning, now.
I beat myself up for feeling weak and letting it all get to me. The guilt seeps in of not being enough—for my job, for my friends, for my family and for myself. I miss the spark that used to make me want to jump out of bed and dive into the day. I know I need to slow down, let myself rest, to recover from the overworking but even that feels like another thing I’m failing at. How do you rest when the demands keep coming?
The other side of it, however, helps. The lack of recognition for all my hard work has made my decision to take time off much easier. I decide to take a few days off to try and have some space to think about things. A few days off turn into a week off, which turns into a month. . . with each step I work through the guilt of not working. Occasionally, I sneak a peek at the emails, but I know I shouldn’t look, let alone reply. I’m torn between feeling weak and selfish to feeling vengeful and feeling like I deserve the time off. “That’ll teach them!”
For many qualitative researchers, where participants are placed in highly demanding and stressful situations, we are often particularly highly attuned to the embodied consequences (Owton and Allen-Collinson 2014). For less traditional forms of research to have a valued future in our subject area, we may need to move towards collective action, “precisely to resist intensified pressures to do it all and/or intensify elitist structures that make ‘slowness’ possible for some while leaving others slogging in the trenches” (Mountz et al. 2015, 14). Being confronted by daily hassles and ever-increasing pressures in the academic life-world can generate deleterious corporeal effects across all disciplinary areas (Owton and Allen-Collinson 2017). As a response to the fast-paced nature of modern academia which prioritises productivity, the “slow movement” has emerged as a critical response to the fast-paced nature of modern academia which prioritises productivity. The “slow movement” critiques the competitive, individualistic ethos of academia, which can erode collegiality and foregrounds time, care and creativity as essential to meaningful academic work (Berg and Seeber 2016). Whilst, like Eriksen and Visentin (2023, 59), I “do not think that everything slow is good,” the “slow movement” is more of a resistance against the culture of speed and its associated pressures which prioritises productivity, efficiency and metrics over reflection, deep thinking and quality of scholarship (Berg and Seeber 2016). For “good” scholarship to be produced, however, as Mountz et al. (2015) argue, it requires slowness: time to think, read, write, collaborate and reflect. As Martell (2014) argues, this movement reintroduces what it means to be human and a supportive work environment that values recognition and appreciates the non-work aspects of life, actively buffers workers against the risks of burnout (O’Neill, 2014; Westring 2014; Wu 2015) and other health-compromising risks.
There is an importance placed on personal well-being, mental health, and work–life balance, and it challenges the notion that academic success must come at the expense of personal fulfilment or health (Berg and Seeber 2016). Slow academia encourages setting boundaries, rejecting the glorification of overworking and reclaiming time for deep thinking, creativity and rest (Berg and Seeber 2016). Feminist scholars have advanced slow scholarship as a form of collective resistance, grounded in an ethics of care and solidarity that challenges the glorification of overwork and individualised success (Mountz et al. 2015; Owton and Allen-Collinson 2017). As these authors indicate, this slow scholarship movement seeks to enable: a feminist ethics of care that allows us to claim some time as our own, build shared tie into everyday life, and help buffer each other from unrealistic and counterproductive norms that have become standard expectations (Mountz et al. 2015, 19).
It is unsurprising, therefore, that more academics are recognising the need to nurture pursuits, relationships and interests beyond their professional and intellectual spheres to maintain compassion and sustain both personal and professional growth (Woodthorpe 2018).
Back to Work
After a few months off to recover from overworking, I’ve returned to work part-time. There’s something liberating about it. It’s interesting to hear responses: “Oh you’re so lucky!” As if taking a pay cut isn’t a factor. Other people have warned me about the risks of working part-time as you end up doing the same amount of work with even less recognition, less money and less time. But I’m disciplined now – I have time to breathe, time to read books, and time to meet friends and family. I think I have joined the “slow movement” (Berg and Seeber 2016), in attempt to change time collectively in a fast-paced culture. I see time as a gift. I no longer feel like life is slipping through my fingers. Instead, I feel present – like I’m living on my own terms. Others find it harder to adjust to. It takes colleagues a while to adjust to the idea that I don’t work every day or work every waking hour. Still, I get emails labelled as urgent. But I no longer see them pop up on my days off as I have a room for my laptop which doesn’t get turned on when I’m not working. So those urgent emails or emails that are sent on a weekend have to wait! I no longer get angry at others who don’t respect normal working hours. I have boundaries which enable me to enjoy the time off; newfound time fuels my personal growth. I feel the need to connect with a part of myself which I may have neglected.
Of course, it helps that I’ve stopped caring so much about work. It’s like someone’s taken the blindfold off and revealed the true meanings of life. I’m no longer a prisoner in Plato’s cave seeing shadows of reality cast on a wall. Life no longer feels like a checklist of obligations. Success isn’t always about climbing the highest ladder or working the longest hours. Sometimes, it’s about carving out a life that’s best for you. A life that’s rich in moments.
Critics of slow academia, however, argue that it is for the privileged and that slowing down can feel like a luxury rather than a right (Mewburn 2018). It is only those who have job security, institutional support or philosophical grounding that can “slow down” in academia or risk being “left behind.” Academics are often on a quest to, “understand their identity and its contingencies and possibilities” (Barrow et al. 2022, 240). Increasingly, more stories about academia have been documented about how “playing the same game differently” (Xu and Barrow 2024) can throw academic identities into disruption. For example, Jago’s (2002) autoethnographic story outlines her “struggle with major depression, a contest of time and emotional devastation, isolation and hopelessness, guilt and self-loathing, paralysing darkness” (733). These experiences of loss and uncertainty can threaten the formation of an academic identity (Pick et al. 2017). Furthermore, these narratives can demonstrate a gendered space in academia where women struggle to be visible and further complicates the formation of identity (Acker and Wagner 2019; Fitzgerald 2020, Xu and Barrow 2024) and engagement with “identity work” (Allen-Collinson 2007).
Douglas recalls describing herself as a “potterer,” seemingly resisting traditional narratives on what is meant by “academic identity” met with the response, “Oh, potterers never achieve anything” (Douglas and Carless 2014, 8). Developing one’s identity outside academia, however, can act as a buffer against setbacks, offering emotional resilience, perspective and alternative forms of fulfilment (Allen-Collinson and Hockey 2020). Allen-Collinson and Hockey coped with the demands of academic life as serious runners and note (2020, 323–4): over the years as we have toiled in various UK universities, we have come to realize that being able to cope with the relentless intensification and burgeoning demands of the academic labor process, and to “perform” within it, has been fundamentally and positively influenced by the psychological and physiological benefits of distance running.
Academia is a competitive and often uncertain environment, and setbacks, such as rejections, funding cuts, or job insecurity can feel deeply personal without a broader sense of self to counterbalance these experiences (Nicholls et al. 2022). Sir Ken Robinson (2006) describes education and creativity as “just heads” walking around, disconnected from their bodies; a metaphor used to highlight how traditional education systems prioritise intellectual development while neglecting physical, emotional and creative aspects of the whole person. Developing interests, relationships and roles outside of academia allows for a more balanced self-concept, ensures a support network that is not tied to professional outcomes, where academic outcomes are just one part of a multifaceted identity (Berg and Seeber 2016). Having meaningful activities and connections outside academia provides a necessary break, fostering a healthier work–life balance and attempts to “bring the body” back into focus (Allen-Collinson and Hockey 2020). Learning to ride a motorbike is a powerful and transformative experience and have explored the sensuous body-self and corporeal and “fleshy” perspective of positive embodied learning through tests of experience and sensuous “weather work” (Owton 2022a, 2022b, 2025). Through a phenomenologically inspired approach, I attempt to bring the body back into focus (Allen-Collinson 2009) through the artfulness of motorcycling and motorcycle maintenance, framing it as a way to develop resilience and a sense of identity outside academia – offering qualities, such as courage, control and freedom, that can act as a buffer against the challenges and setbacks of academic life.
Learning to Ride
For years, I have watched motorbikes speed by with a mix of admiration and fear, but something about it always called to me. Maybe it was the sense of freedom, which is what I was seeking—the idea of leaving everything behind and just riding, the wind cutting through the noise of life. I have decided to stop wondering and start doing.
It started with a challenge, a test of experience (Owton 2022a). Motorcycling felt bold, if maybe even a little reckless, but that’s exactly why I chose it. The first time I twisted the throttle, my heart raced with a mix of fear and excitement. I had to trust myself and commit to the moment. Learning to ride wasn’t easy—I stalled the engine more times than I care to admit, and I dropped the bike a few times. Each time I mastered a new skill, shifting gears smoothly, leaning into a turn, it felt like conquering a small mountain. It reminded me of the importance of enjoying the small incremental progress of each moment. The sense of freedom, the different groups I meet, the different conversations I have, the camaraderie, the passing nods of acknowledgement, the renewed sense of adventure, the sense of accomplishment after each ride—this all keeps me going.
Not only this, but also the way riding makes me feel—every whisper of wind, every tinker of metal, every growl from the engine, every lean round every corner—makes me feel alive, a renewed sense of being in the world. As I lean into a curve on the open road, the vibration of the engine beneath me and the openness of the horizon ahead, I am reminded that freedom is not a destination, but a sensation. In those moments, I am not my CV-I am breath, I am alive, I am free, I am enough.
Sometimes, when I’m on the bike, it’s like everything else fades away. It’s just me, the open road and the hum of the engine – a reclaiming of my sense of self. The world is wide open, and I can go anywhere, on my terms. I feel a sense of freedom. Riding has also taught me to trust myself, to be fully present and to embrace the thrill of the unknown. There’s no room for overthinking on a motorbike – you’re focused on the road, the wind, the corner ahead. I took up motorcycling because I wanted to feel alive again – and that’s exactly what it’s given me. I also feel a sense of reconnection to my father. I look at the grainy grey photo of him kneeling beside an old motorbike. Even now, after thirty-four years since he passed, I miss his company (Owton 2012). I never knew him as an adult, but I imagine how it might be with him riding beside me, with me now being the same age as he was when he passed away.
Women have been riding motorcycles since their invention and are a rapidly growing segment of motorcyclists. Riding motorcycles, like other thrill-seeking activities such as skydiving and mountaineering, provides a sense of freedom, empowerment and adventure (Thompson 2012). Thrill seekers are driven not by danger but by the desire for novel and intense experiences, which can enhance confidence, resilience and personal growth (Carter 2019). The joy and focus motorcyclists feel can be linked to the psychological state of “flow,” (Sato 1988) enabling optimal performance and fulfilment as well as providing an opportunity to grow and expand one’s sense of self (Owton 2022a). Learning to ride a motorbike reminded me that I’m more than my academic work, I’m someone who seeks adventure, embraces challenges and keeps moving forward no matter what. In stark contrast to the suffocating silence of rejection, which I was experiencing in my academic life, I feel the rush of wind against my body while riding felt like a reclaiming of breath, of movement and of self. The motorbike became a space of resistance where I wasn’t being measured, audited or judged, but simply present, free and alive.
This connection between the technical and emotional aspects of motorcycling is echoed in Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (1974). Pirsig’s (1974) philosophical exploration frames motorcycle journeys as metaphors for life, blending technical precision with intuitive insight. He contrasts the analytical, technical mindset required for motorcycle maintenance with a more intuitive, artistic approach, arguing that a balance of both leads to a richer, more meaningful existence. Both perspectives emphasise the interplay between skill, self-discovery and the pursuit of a meaningful existence. With the crushing and fragmentation of one (academic) identity, a reinvention of the self (Wacquant 1995) can occur through the embodied curiosity of learning about motorcycling. This makes the link between personal connections and academic life and the complexity of separating them as highlighted in other works (Espinoza-González 2024).
Changing the Oil
As I loosen the drain plug, watching the old oil flow out, it feels like a cleansing process – not just for the bike but for me, too. It’s a moment to pause and reflect, to slow down in a world that’s always rushing forward. There’s a quiet simplicity to the task that brings a sense of focus, almost meditative in its rhythm. I wipe the filter clean, tighten the bolts and pour in fresh oil, feeling a sense of satisfaction that comes from doing something with my own two hands. I look at my black hands, smudged with its oil and I feel a sense of pleasure.
This act of maintenance isn’t just about keeping the bike running smoothly; it’s about understanding it. There’s something grounding about it – I feel my whole body is understanding something new through rustic smells, sounds, tangibility – sensory engagement I can’t read in a book. Every creak, every turn of a bolt teaches me something about the machine and myself. The gathering of the tools, feeling the weight of the wrench in my hand, and the rhythmic process of draining and the glooping sound of replacing the oil.
When I complete the job, and I hear the engine roar to life with a renewed smoothness, it’s a small sense of achievement. I feel connected, not just to the machine but also to the experience of riding itself. I feel a deepening of the bond between us any which reminds me why I ride. I realise that the smells, the noises, the feelings associated with the engagement in the task throws me back to memories of my father’s garage when I was young.
It’s a reminder that this machine isn’t just a collection of parts; it’s a partner, one that carries me through adventures, transports me to old memories and asks for just a little care in return. My bike isn’t just a tool; it’s an extension of me, and in caring for it, I’m reminded to care for the things that carry me through life.
I realise that the routine task of changing motorcycle oil can be used as a metaphor for rich, sensory, personal connection, mindfulness and self-discovery. The embodied act of maintenance becomes almost like a meditative process, fostering a deeper understanding of both the machine and the self through heightened sensory engagement with sound, touch and smell (Pirsig, 1974). The process of changing the oil is not just a mechanical act but also an
Cleaning the Bike
Cleaning my bike, especially after a long ride, in the rain, feels like an act of recharging – not just for the bike but also for me too. When it’s been through dirt and rain, the grime settles on every surface, and there’s a sense of neglect that sits with it. I don’t like leaving it like that for long – I feel a sense of restlessness when I know it’s sat there unclean. As I begin to wipe down the frame, scrub the wheels and clean the chain, I’m not just erasing the dirt. It’s almost like I’m giving my bike a chance to breathe, to reset, to be ready for the next adventure. There’s something deeply satisfying about bringing the bike back to life, giving it a fresh start.
But it’s more than just cleaning. It’s about the connection I feel while doing it. I’m reminded of cleaning cars as children; there’s a nostalgia to it. I’ve come to realise that when I’m cleaning the motorbike, I’m engaging with it in a way that’s almost like communication and a pathway into the past. I’m paying attention to its every detail, noticing the small things: the wear on the grips, the grease on the engine, the mark on the tank or the small crack in the registration plate I hadn’t seen before. It’s a reminder of the relationship I have with this machine. Like any relationship, it requires attention, care and maintenance, just like the relationship I have with myself. My old academic self had believed productivity was worth more than presence and I feared slowing down meant falling behind. As I cleaned the motorbike, I felt my new academic self could run again with time, with intention.
Also, it’s a moment of patience. The motorbike doesn’t need to be rushed through this process – it needs a slower, more deliberate touch. I make myself comfortable, sit down in my old jeans and carefully clean each part, feeling the smoothness of the frame under my hand, the coldness of the metal parts and the warmth of the engine as it cools down. This isn’t just about making the motorbike look good – it’s about restoring it to its best self. And there’s no rush in this process.
Cleaning my motorbike is like a reset button. In a world that moves at such a fast pace, where everything seems urgent, it forces me to slow down and pay attention. The act of cleaning isn’t just a physical task; it’s a way to reconnect, to refocus and to remind myself that I’m taking care of something that takes care of me. As I step back and admire the shine, I’m reminded of the shared understanding between us – this machine, my companion and me. It’s more than just a motorbike; it’s an experience and an emotional connection to my past and the present, I hold dear. And I need to remind myself that slowing down or taking time out in academia is not a failure.
The act of cleaning a motorcycle, acts as a meaningful ritual of care, connection and renewal. Beyond the physical task of removing grime, it symbolises a reset, for both myself and the motorbike, restoring readiness for future adventures in academic and in my personal life. Merleau-Ponty’s (1962) phenomenology highlights how bodily actions unfold within a lived temporality. The process invites mindfulness and patience, fostering a tactile and embodied connection that deepens the relationship with the bike – what Merleau-Ponty (1962) might describe as
Limp Mode
There’s a certain jolt when my bike suddenly goes into limp mode. The smooth hum of the engine, the rhythm of the road, all of it stops, and I’m left with this strange sense of disconnection. The bike that has been an extension of myself – responding instantly to my touch, my intentions – suddenly feels distant, as though it’s no longer part of me. The power diminishes, the acceleration sluggish, and I can feel the bike struggling, like it’s trying to tell me something is wrong, but I don’t quite understand.
It’s a strange feeling – this sudden break in the flow. At first, there’s that moment of denial, where I’m not sure if it’s real. Maybe it’s just the road, or maybe it’s just me. But then the reality sets in, and it’s clear that something isn’t right. The bike isn’t responding as it should, and I can’t help but feel that disconnection deep within me. I feel a sense of dread settling in and deepening in my body. It’s like we’re no longer in sync, and I have to face the fact that I can’t ride it out, that I need to stop and figure out what’s going on. I have to do this by myself, and the dread fills my chest.
The experience is frustrating, a little isolating, too. One from this incredible sense of freedom, the wind in my face, the world rushing by, to suddenly being held back by something I you can’t see or touch. There’s also something mysterious about it. The bond I usually feel with my bike – the trust, the understanding – starts to fray, replaced by a sense of uncertainty. What caused it? Is the bike hurt? Did I miss something?
But in those moments, I also realise how much I depend on this connection. It’s not just a machine; it’s a partnership. And when something goes wrong, it’s as if the communication between us has been cut off. The limp mode isn’t just a technical issue; it’s a breakdown in that flow, in the shared experience of riding.
At the same time, though, it’s a reminder. A reminder that even the strongest connections can face challenges, and even in moments of disconnection, I have to be patient, take a step back, and listen. It’s not always smooth, and sometimes I have to face the issues that arise, but once I figure out what’s wrong and fix it, the trust and connection return, stronger than before. And that’s part of the beauty and mystery of it; the imagined conversations and experiences I might have with my father.
This experience of limp mode demonstrates the sense of disconnection, uncertainty and the challenges inherent in any deep relationship. The body is in a sense disrupted in a state of uncertainty and “dys-ease” until feelings of knowledge and smoothness have returned (Leder 1990). Discomfort and “dys-ease” are perceived as a threat of disconnection between body-self and motorbike (Leder 1990). The narrative highlights the interdependence between rider and motorcycle, portraying their connection as more than mechanical: it is a partnership built on trust, communication and shared experience (Jackman et al. 2019). The sudden breakdown disrupts the rhythm and “flow” of riding, evoking feelings of isolation and vulnerability (Owton 2025). However, the process of diagnosing and resolving the issue underscores the importance of patience, adaptability and active engagement. Ultimately, the experience serves as a reminder that disruptions, though frustrating, similar to rejections and challenges in academic life, offer opportunities for deeper understanding and renewal, reinforcing the bond between rider and machine. These personal connections outside working environments can act as a buffer to the challenges experienced in the academic world.
Third Time Lucky
Here I am again, waiting for the email. I’m in a better place, I’m more balanced. . . I made the difficult decision of applying for promotion again. Years have gone by, so I can show my research and teaching demonstrate impact. Since nearly all my team have now been promoted ahead of me, I thought I might I stand a better chance. I sit at my desk waiting for the email. It’s third time lucky and I’ve been given more positive comments. I passed the Stage 1 this time, and once I’m through Stage 2, I’m home and dry! I’m so close, again!
Ping! The email comes through. Cold. Clinical. “We regret to inform you. . .” I take a deep breath and pick up my keys to my motorbike. . .
This narrative offers a challenge to the pervasive academic audit culture that often reduces a person’s worth to their professional achievements, measured targets and outputs (Berg and Seeber 2016; Espinoza-González 2024). In academia and other performance-driven environments, individuals are frequently assessed by quantifiable accomplishments, such as publications, grants or promotions, rather than their intrinsic qualities, personal growth or broader contributions. Here, I seek to contribute to the ongoing discourse established by academics such as Allen-Collinson and Hockey (2020), Douglas and Carless (2014), Ellis and Adams (2020), Espinoza-González (2024), Gill (2018), Pelias (2004), Berg and Seeber (2016), and Sparkes (2007, 2018, 2021) – the urge for slowing down and the idea that a person’s identity, value and potential cannot and should not be confined to a résumé or professional milestones.
This perspective is particularly important because over-identification with one’s academic identity or one’s CV can lead to a fragile sense of self, making individuals more vulnerable to setbacks like rejection, failure or burnout (Sparkes 2007). By recognising that we are more than their professional accomplishments, we can maintain a healthier, more balanced self-concept, rooted in relationships, passions and values beyond institutional validation. This account thus serves as a powerful reminder to resist the dehumanising aspects of audit culture and to prioritise a more holistic, meaningful approach to both work and life through a
Furthermore, a life outside academia and development of multifaceted identities can promote mental health and resilience (Ayres and Edwards 2024). Academics frequently encounter high levels of stress due to deadlines, competition and the pressure to publish or secure funding (Kubátová 2019). Engaging in hobbies, spending time with loved ones, past and present, or participating in physical activities provides a mental reset, reducing stress and fostering emotional stability. Additionally, exposure to non-academic environments enhances creativity and problem-solving. Cross-pollination of ideas from different domains – be it art, sports or community work – broadens perspectives and encourages innovative approaches to research (Pressman et al. 2009). Albert Einstein, for instance, attributed many of his insights to his passion for music, which offered him an alternative medium for thinking and experimentation (Root-Bernstein and Root-Beinstein 2010). Indeed, cultivating a life outside academia is vital for building a holistic identity (Sutherland 2018). Over-identification with professional achievements can result in a fragile sense of self, particularly in the face of setbacks like rejection or stagnation in research. By investing in diverse aspects of life, such as friendships, personal interests and/or sport, academics can build a more robust and resilient sense of purpose.
The concepts of the slow movement emphasise the importance of intentionality, balance and resistance to the relentless pace of modern academic life (Berg and Seeber 2016). This approach encourages individuals to prioritise quality over quantity, fostering deeper engagement with work and personal growth outside academia (Berg and Seeber 2016). By adopting a slower, more deliberate pace, academics can create space for meaningful relationships, creative pursuits and mental well-being, which is often overlooked in the rush to meet professional demands. This perspective underscores the value of cultivating a holistic life that nurtures both personal fulfilment and sustainable academic productivity (Sutherland 2018).
Each reflective experience driven by a curiosity of learning about motorcycling underscores the importance of slowing down, paying attention and embracing the process of growth and connection. Much like the concepts in the ‘slow movement’ (Berg and Seeber 2016), the maintenance of motorcycling can invite deliberate engagement with the present moment, fostering resilience, self-discovery and balance. In this instance, there is also a reconnection with the imagined conversations and relationship with my father (Bochner 2012). The rituals of caring for a motorcycle, such as cleaning, changing oil or troubleshooting, reflect a reciprocal relationship, mirroring the care and attention needed to sustain one’s own well-being and passions. Similarly, life’s setbacks, like the disappointment of professional rejection, can be processed through the meditative act of riding, which restores a sense of freedom, perspective and renewal. Together, these narratives emphasise the importance of intentionality, connection and the pursuit of meaningful experiences, both on and off the road through heightened awareness of
Living with autoethnography involves intertwining personal experience with reflective inquiry, revealing how life narratives intersect with broader cultural and professional frameworks (Ellis et al. 2011). The journey showcases how embracing intentionality, slowing down and reconnecting with passions – like motorcycling – can lead to personal growth and resilience. By stepping away from academia’s relentless demands, I redefine meaning, emphasising balance, creativity and holistic well-being. This approach illustrates that living autoethnography is not just about narrating one’s experiences but also about weaving them into a life that harmonises professional and personal identities, fostering deeper meaning and fulfilment (Douglas and Carless 2014; Ellis and Adams 2020). As I have noted elsewhere, “new adventures and unique experiences can cultivate joy, fulfilment, enhance confidence and resilience, and provide an opportunity to grow and expand one’s sense of self” (Owton 2022a). Motorcycling has become an embodied methodology, teaching me resilience not through theory, but through balance, breath, practice and presence. Each interaction with my motorbike becomes a reminder that control isn’t about rigidity but responsiveness; that speed isn’t always a problem, but mindless interaction is. Through this practice, I continuously find ways to think differently.
Footnotes
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