The Goal: A Process of Ongoing Improvement, Third Revised Edition
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She smiles. "You mean it?"
"Sure, if it doesn't work, we can talk about it," I say. "Deal?"
"Deal," she says.
I lean toward her and ask, "Want to seal it with a handshake
or a kiss?"
She comes around the table and sits on my lap and kisses me.
"You know, I sure missed you last night," I tell her.
"Did you?" she says. "I really missed you too. I had no idea singles bars could be so depressing."
"Singles bars?"
"It was Jane's idea," she says. "Honest."
I shake my head. "I don't want to hear about it."
"But Jane showed me some new dance steps," she says. "And
maybe this weekend—"
I give her a squeeze. "If you want to do something this week-
end, baby, I'm all yours."
"Great," she says and whispers in my ear, "You know, it's
Friday, so ... why don't we start early?"
She kissed me again.
And I say, "Julie, I'd really love to, but . . ."
"But?"
"I really should check in at the plant," I say.
She stands up. "Okay, but promise me you'll hurry home
tonight."
"Promise," I tell her. "Really, it's going to be a great weekend."
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13
I open my eyes Saturday morning to see a drab green blur.
The blur turns out to be my son, Dave, dressed in his Boy Scout
uniform. He is shaking my arm.
"Davey, what are you doing here?" I ask.
He says, "Dad, it's seven o'clock!"
"Seven o'clock? I'm trying to sleep. Aren't you supposed to
be watching television or something?"
"We'll be late," he says.
"We will be late? For what?"
"For the overnight hike!" he says. "Remember? You prom-
ised me I could volunteer you to go along and help the troop-
master."
I mutter something no Boy Scout should ever hear. But
Dave isn't fazed.
"Come on. Just get in the shower," he says, as he pulls me
out of bed. "I packed your gear last night. Everything's in the car
already. We just have to get there by eight."
I manage a last look at Julie, her eyes still shut, and the warm
soft mattress as Davey drags me through the door.
An hour and ten minutes later, my son and I arrive at the
edge of some forest. Waiting for us is the troop: fifteen boys out-
fitted in caps, neckerchiefs, merit badges, the works.
Before I have time to say, "Where's the troopmaster?", the
other few parents who happen to be lingering with the boys take
off in their cars, all pedals to the metal. Looking around, I see
that I am the only adult in sight.
"Our troopmaster couldn't make it," says one of the boys.
"How come?"
"He's sick," says another kid next to him.
"Yeah, his hemorrhoids are acting up," says the first. "So it looks like you're in charge now."
"What are we supposed to do, Mr. Rogo?" asks the other kid.
Well, at first I'm a little mad at having all this foisted upon
me. But then the idea of having to supervise a bunch of kids
doesn't daunt me—after all, I do that every day at the plant. So I
gather everyone around. We look at a map and discuss the objec-
tives for this expedition into the perilous wilderness before us.
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The plan, I learn, is for the troop to hike through the forest
following a blazed trail to someplace called "Devil's Gulch."
There we are to bivouac for the evening. In the morning we are
to break camp and make our way back to the point of departure,
where Mom and Dad are supposed to be waiting for little Freddy
and Johnny and friends to walk out of the woods.
First, we have to get to Devil's Gulch, which happens to be
about ten miles away. So I line up the troop. They've all got their
rucksacks on their backs. Map in hand, I put myself at the front
of the line in order to lead the way, and off we go.
The weather is fantastic. The sun is shining through the
trees. The skies are blue. It's breezy and the temperature is a little
on the cool side, but once we get into the woods, it's just right for
walking.
The trail is easy to follow because there are blazes (splotches
of yellow paint) on the tree trunks every 10 yards or so. On either
side, the undergrowth is thick. We have to hike in single file.
I suppose I'm walking at about two miles per hour, which is
about how fast the average person walks. At this rate, I think to
myself, we should cover ten miles in about five hours. My watch
tells me it's almost 8:30 now. Allowing an hour and a half for
breaks and for lunch, we should arrive at Devil's Gulch by three
o'clock, no sweat.
After a few minutes, I turn and look back. The column of
scouts has spread out to some degree from the close spacing we
started with. Instead of a yard or so between boys, there are now
larger gaps, some a little larger than others. I keep walking.
But I look back again after a few hundred yards, and the
column is stretched out much farther. And a couple of big gaps
have appeared. I can barely see the kid at the end of the line.
I decide it's better if I'm at the end of the line instead of at
the front. That way I know I'll be able to keep an eye on the
whole column, and make sure nobody gets left behind. So I wait
for the first boy to catch up to me, and I ask him his name.
"I'm Ron," he says.
"Ron, I want you to lead the column," I tell him, handing
over the map. "Just keep following this trail, and set a moderate
pace. Okay?"
"Right, Mr. Rogo."
And he sets off at what seems to be a reasonable pace.
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The Goal: A Process of Ongoing Improvement
Captured by Plamen T.
102
"Everybody stay behind Ron!" I call back to the others. "Nobody passes Ron, because he's got the map. Understand?"
Everybody nods, waves. Everybody understands.
I wait by the side of the trail as the troop passes. My son,
Davey, goes by talking with a friend who walks close behind him.
Now that he's with his buddies, Dave doesn't want to know me.
He's too cool for that. Five or six more come along, all of them
keeping up without any problems. Then there is a gap, followed
by a couple more scouts. After them, another, even larger gap has
occurred. I look down the trail. And I see this fat kid. He already
looks a little winded. Behind him is the rest of the troop.
"What's your name?" I ask as the fat kid draws closer.
"Herbie," says the fat kid.
"You okay, Herbie?"
"Oh, sure, Mr. Rogo," says Herbie. "Boy, it's hot out, isn't it?"
Herbie continues up the trail and the others follow. Some of
them look as if they'd like to go faster, but they can't get around
Herbie. I fall in behind the last boy. The line stretches out in
front of me, and most of the time, unless we're going ove
r a hill
or around a sharp bend in the trail, I can see everybody. The
column seems to settle into a comfortable rhythm.
Not that the scenery is boring, but after a while I begin to
think about other things. Like Julie, for instance. I really had
wanted to spend this weekend with her. But I'd forgotten all
about this hiking business with Dave. "Typical of you," I guess
she'd say. I don't know how I'm ever going to get the time I need
to spend with her. The only saving grace about this hike is that
she ought to understand I have to be with Dave.
And then there is the conversation I had with Jonah in New
York. I haven't had any time to think about that. I'm rather curi-
ous to know what a physics teacher is doing riding around in
limousines with corporate heavyweights. Nor do I understand
what he was trying to make out of those two items he described. I
mean, "dependent events" . . . "statistical fluctuations"—so what? They're both quite mundane.
Obviously we have dependent events in manufacturing. All it
means is that one operation has to be done before a second oper-
ation can be performed. Parts are made in a sequence of steps.
Machine A has to finish Step One before Worker B can proceed
with Step Two. All the parts have to be finished before we can
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assemble the product. The product has to be assembled before we
can ship it. And so on.
But you find dependent events in any process, and not just
those in a factory. Driving a car requires a sequence of dependent
events. So does the hike we're taking now. In order to arrive at
Devil's Gulch, a trail has to be walked. Up front, Ron has to walk
the trail before Davey can walk it. Davey has to walk the trail
before Herbie can walk it. In order for me to walk the trail, the
boy in front of me has to walk it first. It's a simple case of depen-
dent events.
And statistical fluctuations?
I look up and notice that the boy in front of me is going a
little faster than I have been. He's a few feet farther ahead of me
than he was a minute ago. So I take some bigger steps to catch
up. Then, for a second, I'm too close to him, so I slow down.
There: if I'd been measuring my stride, I would have re-
corded statistical fluctuations. But, again, what's the big deal?
If I say that I'm walking at the rate of "two miles per hour," I don't mean I'm walking exactly at a constant rate of two miles per
hour every instant. Sometimes I'll be going 2.5 miles per hour;
sometimes maybe I'll be walking at only 1.2 miles per hour. The
rate is going to fluctuate according to the length and speed of
each step. But over time and distance, I should be averaging about two miles per hour, more or less.
The same thing happens in the plant. How long does it take
to solder the wire leads on a transformer? Well, if you get out
your stopwatch and time the operation over and over again, you
might find that it takes, let's say, 4.3 minutes on the average. But
the actual time on any given instance may range between 2.1
minutes up to 6.4 minutes. And nobody in advance can say, "This
one will take 2.1 minutes . . . this one will take 5.8 minutes."
Nobody can predict that information.
So what's wrong with that? Nothing as far as I can see. Any-
way, we don't have any choice. What else are we going to use in
place of an "average" or an "estimate"?
I find I'm almost stepping on the boy in front of me. We've
slowed down somewhat. It's because we're climbing a long, fairly
steep hill. All of us are backed up behind Herbie.
"Come on, Herpes!" says one of the kids.
Herpes?
"Yeah, Herpes, let's move it," says another.
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The Goal: A Process of Ongoing Improvement
Captured by Plamen T.
104
"Okay, enough of that," I say to the persecutors.
Then Herbie reaches the top. He turns around. His face is
red from the climb.
"Atta boy, Herbie!" I say to encourage him. "Let's keep it
moving!"
Herbie disappears over the crest. The others continue the
climb, and I trudge behind them until I get to the top. Pausing
there, I look down the trail.
Holy cow! Where's Ron? He must be half a mile ahead of us.
I can see a couple of boys in front of Herbie, and everyone else is
lost in the distance. I cup my hands over my mouth.
"HEY! LET'S GO UP THERE! LET'S CLOSE RANKS!" I
yell. "DOUBLE TIME! DOUBLE TIME!"
Herbie eases into a trot. The kids behind him start to run. I
jog after them. Rucksacks and canteens and sleeping bags are
bouncing and shaking with every step. And Herbie—I don't
know what this kid is carrying, but it sounds like he's got a junk-
yard on his back with all the clattering and clanking he makes
when he runs. After a couple hundred yards, we still haven't
caught up. Herbie is slowing down. The kids are yelling at him to
hurry up. I'm huffing and puffing along. Finally I can see Ron off
in the distance.
"HEY RON!" I shout. "HOLD UP!"
The call is relayed up the trail by the other boys. Ron, who
probably heard the call the first time, turns and looks back.
Herbie, seeing relief in sight, slows to a fast walk. And so do the
rest of us. As we approach, all heads are turned our way.
"Ron, I thought I told you to set a moderate pace," I say.
"But I did!" he protests.
"Well, let's just all try to stay together next time," I tell them.
"Hey, Mr. Rogo, whadd'ya say we take five?" asks Herbie.
"Okay, let's take a break," I tell them.
Herbie falls over beside the trail, his tongue hanging out.
Everyone reaches for canteens. I find the most comfortable log in
sight and sit down. After a few minutes, Davey comes over and
sits down next to me.
"You're doing great, Dad," he says.
"Thanks. How far do you think we've come?"
"About two miles," he says.
"Is that all?" I ask. "It feels like we ought to be there by now.
We must have covered more distance than two miles."
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Captured by Plamen T.
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"Not according to the map Ron has," he says.
"Oh," I say. "Well, I guess we'd better get a move on."
The boys are already lining up.
"All right, let's go," I say.
We start out again. The trail is straight here, so I can see
everyone. We haven't gone thirty yards before I notice it starting
all over again. The line is spreading out; gaps between the boys
are widening. Dammit, we're going to be running and stopping
all day long if this keeps up. Half the troop is liable to get lost if
we can't stay together.
I've got to put an end to this.
The first one I check is Ron. But Ron, indeed, is setting a
steady, "average" pace for the troop—a pace nobody should have
any trouble
with. I look back down the line, and all of the boys
are walking at about the same rate as Ron. And Herbie? He's not
the problem anymore. Maybe he felt responsible for the last de-
lay, because now he seems to be making a special effort to keep
up. He's right on the ass of the kid in front of him.
If we're all walking at about the same pace, why is the dis-
tance between Ron, at the front of the line, and me, at the end of
the line, increasing?
Statistical fluctuations?
Nah, couldn't be. The fluctuations should be averaging out.
We're all moving at about the same speed, so that should mean
the distance between any of us will vary somewhat, but will even
out over a period of time. The distance between Ron and me
should also expand and contract within a certain range, but
should average about the same throughout the hike.
But it isn't. As long as each of us is maintaining a normal,
moderate pace like Ron, the length of the column is increasing.
The gaps between us are expanding.
Except between Herbie and the kid in front of him.
So how is he doing it? I watch him. Every time Herbie gets a
step behind, he runs for an extra step. Which means he's actually
expending more energy than Ron or the others at the front of the
line in order to maintain the same relative speed. I'm wondering
how long he'll be able to keep up his walk-run routine.
Yet . . . why can't we all just walk at the same pace as Ron
and stay together?
I'm watching the line when something up ahead catches my
eye. I see Davey slow down for a few seconds. He's adjusting his
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Captured by Plamen T.
106
packstraps. In front of him, Ron continues onward, oblivious. A
gap of ten . . . fifteen . . . twenty feet opens up. Which means
the entire line has grown by 20 feet.
That's when I begin to understand what's happening.
Ron is setting the pace. Every time someone moves slower
than Ron, the line lengthens. It wouldn't even have to be as obvi-
ous as when Dave slowed down. If one of the boys takes a step
that's half an inch shorter than the one Ron took, the length of
the whole line could be affected.
But what happens when someone moves faster than Ron?
Aren't the longer or faster steps supposed to make up for the
spreading? Don't the differences average out?
Suppose I walk faster. Can I shorten the length of the line?