Keep on going and the chances are you will stumble on something

Host: The train station was nearly empty — that rare hour before dawn when everything feels paused between exhaustion and hope. The fluorescent lights hummed above, throwing a washed glow over cracked tile floors and steel benches. Outside, rain tapped lightly on the glass roof, a rhythm as steady as persistence.

Jack sat on one of the benches, suitcase by his side, coat collar turned up, a half-empty paper cup of coffee cooling in his hand. His eyes — grey, thoughtful — followed the tracks stretching into darkness. Jeeny arrived quietly, her footsteps soft, her umbrella dripping. She shook it off, folded it neatly, and sat beside him.

Host: The loudspeaker crackled, announcing a delay no one seemed to mind. The air smelled of coffee, metal, and faint beginnings.

Jeeny: “Charles Kettering once said, ‘Keep on going and the chances are you will stumble on something, perhaps when you are least expecting it. I have never heard of anyone stumbling on something sitting down.’”

Jack: (smirking) “He must’ve never tried to think his way through life on a couch.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Thinking’s not the same as moving.”

Jack: “Sometimes thinking’s all you’ve got when moving feels pointless.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But movement creates luck. Stillness only creates regret.”

Host: The train lights flickered in the distance — faint at first, then gone again. The storm outside thickened slightly, rain turning to silver threads against the glass.

Jack: “You know, that quote sounds simple, but it’s brutal underneath. Everyone romanticizes persistence — ‘keep going,’ they say — like it’s noble. But they never mention how heavy it feels when every step’s uphill.”

Jeeny: “That’s the part Kettering understood. He wasn’t saying persistence is easy. He was saying motion itself is sacred. You don’t have to be fast — you just have to keep moving.”

Jack: “Sacred? You think work’s holy?”

Jeeny: “No. Effort is. Because it’s the only proof you still believe tomorrow exists.”

Host: The station lights flickered slightly, as if agreeing. A man in the corner yawned, newspapers rustled, and somewhere far down the platform, a vending machine hummed — the quiet symphony of small persistence.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe in luck. Thought if I just worked hard enough, something would eventually go right. But sometimes, all you do is wear out your shoes.”

Jeeny: “That’s still movement. Maybe the point isn’t what you find — it’s what you become on the way.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic. But starving artists and broken inventors might disagree.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But look at Kettering himself — an inventor who failed more than he succeeded. He wasn’t worshiping luck; he was trusting momentum. Life meets you halfway, but you have to show up to the meeting.”

Jack: “And sitting down doesn’t count.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: A train horn sounded faintly in the distance, cutting through the rain. Jack looked up, following the sound with his eyes — that small, instinctive spark of attention, like hope flaring briefly in tired people.

Jack: “You ever get tired of trying?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But stopping doesn’t feel like rest. It feels like drowning.”

Jack: “You think everyone who keeps going finds something eventually?”

Jeeny: “Not always what they expect. But always something that matters.”

Host: Her voice softened, steady and low. The rain eased, the windows streaked with trails of light from passing cars outside.

Jeeny: “You know, I think the trick isn’t believing success is waiting — it’s knowing movement itself is worth the trip.”

Jack: “So walking, even without destination, still counts.”

Jeeny: “Always. Because stillness breeds fear, and motion breeds possibility.”

Host: He looked at her, his expression somewhere between skepticism and admiration.

Jack: “You make it sound like wandering is holy.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every stumble is proof you’re on the road.”

Jack: “And sitting down?”

Jeeny: “It’s proof you’ve mistaken waiting for wisdom.”

Host: The train finally appeared — a low rumble growing into light, into sound, into purpose. The headlights pierced the rain, and the station seemed to wake all at once.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I thought the world rewarded patience. Now I think it rewards motion.”

Jeeny: “Patience isn’t sitting still. It’s moving with grace.”

Jack: “You always find the poetry in everything.”

Jeeny: “That’s because the world’s full of it — it’s just hidden under exhaustion.”

Host: The train slowed, hissing against the wet tracks. Steam rose around them like breath. Jack stood, picking up his suitcase.

Jack: “Maybe Kettering was right — maybe stumbling’s the only way forward.”

Jeeny: “It’s the most human way forward.”

Jack: “You coming?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Someone has to make sure you don’t sit down halfway.”

Host: They boarded together, finding seats near the window. The train began to move, slow at first, then steady. The lights of the station drifted past — gold fading into darkness, then into open space.

Jeeny watched the raindrops streak across the glass. “You know,” she said quietly, “we always wait for perfect timing — for courage, clarity, certainty. But Kettering was right. The universe doesn’t wait. It moves. And it only rewards those who stumble in rhythm with it.”

Jack nodded, his reflection caught in the dark glass — two figures in motion, their shapes blurred but alive. “So the secret,” he murmured, “is to keep walking even when the path vanishes.”

Jeeny smiled. “Especially then.”

Host: The train curved out of the city, into the quiet countryside where the rain thinned and the sky began to open. The sound of motion filled the cabin — a steady heartbeat against the silence of everything unknown.

Host: And as the horizon widened before them, the truth of Charles Kettering’s words lingered like a compass in the dark —

Host: that fortune doesn’t favor the fearless, but the moving;
that progress isn’t the absence of stumbles, but the refusal to sit still;
and that sometimes, the greatest discoveries happen not because we seek them — but because we dared to keep walking when it was easier to stop.