About

There is no such thing as good writing, only good re-writing. — Joe Piasta

I had no interest in writing. Instead, one could say I was born to race. I love winning even when there isn’t a trophy. But even more than competition, I love adventure. That’s something my dad and I had in common, and something I’ve chased ever since I got on my first bike.

I grew up on a county road that was not bike-friendly, to say the least. Finally, when I was 13, I could ride around town: to school, to the store, to the bike shop where I would dream about bikes I could not afford, asking countless questions of a sales rep or mechanic who knew I was not buying anything and answered me anyway. Weeks later, on my fourteenth birthday, I drafted a work permit for my principal to sign. I went back to the local bike shop for three months until they finally hired me in an effort to shut me up. Between that job and one as a file clerk at a law firm, I saved $1,116, bought my first road bike, and could finally race someone other than my six older siblings.

Beyond more racing, that bike provided the first path I forged that wasn’t already laid out by them. Up until then, I was trying to draw a line of best fit based on everything they did: Ivy League graduations, D1 athletics, ROTC scholarships, even millions of Kellogg’s boxes. As they left the house, I started racking up more and more miles chasing them around the country, cheering every step of the way. Quietly, I set many arbitrary goals—one was to be the first in my family to see all 50 states.

Out of college, the idea of consulting was a dream job. I could be there for every baptism, travel on weekends, remain a generalist professionally, work with cool brands, take on the toughest cases, and race up a corporate ladder. Five promotions, 6 years, I set my eyes on New York City…

Six months later we were locked down, and I had COVID. By the grace of God, the pandemic brought my family closer together. Instead of a bike showing me a way out of the house, this time it was a fifth-wheel trailer acting as a socially distant path to bring me from New York safely back to Santa Rosa.

Can I Park Here? is a question I learned to ask humans again after years of priding myself on extreme resourcefulness. I realized there is a limit to how far technology can take us, even considering how much it can enable. It was also a rare season where I valued the slow lane instead of professionally racing through the corporate ladder, working to get into more and more exclusive circles—and ironically ended up with more sales, another promotion, and even more “attaboys.”

Can I Park Here? is the difference between knowing when to ask for help and who to ask for help from, fostering a culture where seeking help is actually rewarded. Can I Park Here? is a tribute to my mentors, to whom I owe the world.

There are too many mentors to name here (you know who you are). It started with my siblings. Most importantly, it started with my Dad, who taught me to be scared when the coach stops yelling, to relentlessly pursue feedback, and who was never afraid to admit to his own son when he didn’t know the answer. To my Mom, who always emphasized the village it took to raise seven kids and always finding a way. I also owe much to Buster, whom I met living out of the RV. He taught me that trust, respect, and fun are the roots of any great business and don’t have to be sacrificed in pursuit of an obsessively aligned PowerPoint slide.

These lessons hold even more truth today.

The adventure in my trailer transformed how I think about goals—shifting from specific, arbitrary accomplishments along a line of best fit, to three overarching goals:

• Impact lives.
• Be a great leader in good times and bad.
• Have a family that smiles when there is no camera.

This site is part of my pursuit of those things. I’ve finally decided to share them, along with some reflections from the fields, backroads, boardrooms, classrooms, and bedsides that led to this juncture—as well as the growing pains of building in this AI era.

If you choose to follow along, thank you. Let’s find the next spot together.

— John Piasta