دانلود کتاب علم داده محور پیش بینی و تغییر رفتار انسان – مدیران ذهن

I had begged my boyfriend for weeks to let me ride his motorcycle. A Suzuki Bandit 600. In a deep, shimmering red. It was beautiful. We loved to take the bike on adventures together. Up the serpentine roads of the mountains surrounding the small village I grew up in, and through the curvy roads of the countryside. But I was tired of being in the back. I wanted to be in the driver’s seat. When he finally agreed to let me try, I found an abandoned military airfield nearby. His instructions were simple: “Let’s sit on the bike first. You in the front and me in the back. And then I’ll explain.” I was enthralled but nervous, too. I was only fifteen, and I didn’t have a license. “Don’t worry,” he assured me, “I’m sitting right behind you.” I don’t know exactly what happened next. I remember that we somehow rolled into the grass on the side of the airfield. When I tried to pull the bike back out, I must have accidentally twisted the throttle and let the clutch snatch. A few seconds later, the front wheel of the motorcycle rose into the air like a rearing horse. My boyfriend was thrown off the back (so much for “I’m sitting right behind you”), and I sped off without the slightest idea of how to control the bike. Without thinking, I pulled and pushed the bike’s handlebars, trying to keep my balance. For what felt like an eternity, I swerved left, right, left again, before I came crashing down on one side, sliding for a few feet before coming to a stop. We were lucky. Neither of us got injured. And nobody had witnessed the accident. But there was a problem: we were in the middle of nowhere and the bike wouldn’t start. After weighing our options, I sat down on the grass to calm my nerves, took a deep breath, and hit the call button on my phone. Part of me was hoping no one would pick up. With every ring, my heart started beating louder, my mind racing. When I was almost ready to hang up, my dad answered the phone. “Hi, Dad, … uh … we had a motorcycle accident. But don’t worry, we were going slow, and we’re both fine.” “It was you driving, right?” In addition to a serious conversation with my parents (who were actually surprisingly cool about it), I had to pay for the repairs. A full year’s salary of tutoring gone. Painful, but not the worst part. The minute we dropped the bike at the local repair shop, the news about my misfortune spread through my village like wildfire. It was the perfect story. Not just because I was fifteen and didn’t have a license. I also happened to be the daughter of a local police officer. There was no place to hide. The next day, on my way to the school bus, Mr. Werner from across the street waved me over to inquire if I was doing OK. He had heard about the crash. I got trapped in a tenminute recounting of his own teenage offenses. A few houses down, Ms. Bauer looked up from weeding the little garden in the front of her house, shaking her head. How could I be so irresponsible? She had always thought of me as a smart girl. The motorcycle crash was no longer my own private embarrassment. Everyone—and I mean everyone—knew my business.