Under the Influence with Terry O'Reilly - Rejecting Colonel Harland Sanders

Episode Date: October 4, 2022

One our favourite episodes from our sister podcast, We Regret To Inform You: The Rejection Podcast is the inspiring story of Colonel Harland Sanders, the founder of KFC (Kentucky Fried Chicken) and how he overcame unbelievable rejection. It’s hard to imagine that he was rejected over 1,000 times (!) and still continued to persevere. This week, we wanted to bring you this bonus episode to remind us all to Never Ever Give Up. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Hi, it's Terry O'Reilly. As you may know, we've been producing a lot of bonus episodes while under the influences on hiatus. They're called the Beatleology Interviews, where I talk to people who knew the Beatles, work with them, love them, and the authors who write about them. Well, the Beatleology Interviews have become a hit, so we are spinning it out to be a standalone podcast series. You've already heard conversations with people like actors Mark Hamill, Malcolm McDowell, and Beatles confidant Astrid Kershaw. But coming up, I talk to May Pang, who dated John Lennon in the mid-70s. I talk to double fantasy guitarist Earl Slick, Apple Records creative director John Kosh. I'll be talking to Jan Hayworth,

who designed the Sgt. Pepper album cover. Very cool. And I'll talk to singer Dion, who is one of only five people still alive who were on the Sgt. Pepper cover. And two of those people were Beatles. The stories they tell are amazing. So thank you for making this series such a success. And please, do me a favor, follow the Beatleology interviews on your podcast app. You don't even have to be a huge Beatles fan, you just have to love storytelling.

Subscribe now, and don't miss a single beat. Hello, everybody. Well, this week, we thought we would send you a bonus episode. It's from our sister podcast called We Regret to Inform You, the Rejection Podcast. It's a show about people who face debilitating career rejections, but then found a way to overcome all those setbacks and achieve massive success. It's a completely inspiring show.

Now, on Under the Influence, I often tell stories about people who founded great companies or created famous products, like Steve Jobs, who founded Apple, or Frank Epperson, who created the Popsicle. And today's We Regret to Inform You episode is about Colonel Harlan Sanders, founder of Kentucky Fried Chicken, or KFC. Now, I've done a lot of reading about his life in the past, but this episode contains a lot of things I did not know about him.

And if you think getting rejected 10 times in life is tough, or 100 times, imagine being rejected over 1,000 times. That is Colonel Sanders' story, and it's amazing. So from the We Regret to Inform You archives, here's Rejecting Colonel Harlan Sanders. Enjoy. This is an Apostrophe podcast production. We would like to inform you that your application does not meet the requirements, the rejection podcast.

Colonel Sanders was 65 years old, broke, and with nothing to show for nearly 20 years of effort. Biographer Josh Ozerski. Henryville, Indiana has a single claim to fame. It's the birthplace of one Colonel Sanders. But back in 1890, the village just 20 minutes north of Louisville, Kentucky, was simply the hometown of a boy named Harland David Sanders, son of Wilbur and Margaret, and eldest of three children. The Sanders lived in a four-room home on a farm in a farming county near the southernmost tip of a farming state.

Harlan Sanders' father worked their 80-acre farm before becoming a butcher. His mother was a homemaker. But when Sanders was five years old, his father passed away unexpectedly, leaving his widowed mother to take care of her three young children alone. To pay the bills, she took a job at a local canning factory. At night, she'd sew the neighbors' clothing or clean their houses. But sometimes, her search for work took her away from home for days on end. Meaning, little Harland was left in charge of his even littler siblings, dressing them, putting them to bed, and cooking for them.

One day, Sanders baked a loaf of bread in the family's hot wood stove, all on his own, and he was so proud. The first grader immediately wrapped it up and brought his creation to show his mother at the canning factory. She and the lady she worked with all gave him a big hug. By the year 1900, he was 10 years old, and his mother decided he'd proven himself ready to start contributing to the family financially. So she got him a job clearing brush for a farmer down the road. Now, at 10 years old, Sanders had a wandering imagination. Clearing brush was a monotonous activity, far less adventurous than his own mind. So, way out in the bush and with no one around to keep him on task, Sanders got bored. So he lay down in the grass, daydreaming and listening to the sounds of nature.

But when old MacDonald caught him lazing on a Tuesday afternoon, Sanders was fired. He was ashamed, then terrified. He'd have to tell his hardworking mother he could no longer help her pay the bills. He swallowed hard and delivered the news. She said, I'm afraid you're just no good. It looks like you'll never amount to anything. By the seventh grade, Sanders was struggling to keep up with school. He dreaded math class in particular, and now it was getting all sorts of fancy names like algebra and arithmetic.

He told New Yorker magazine teachers started asking him to solve for X, the unknown. And yet the only known he could think of was that he was quitting school altogether. Why sit in class all day making $0 when he could be out in the world earning $15 a month? That was math he could be out in the world earning $15 a month. That was math he could do. So at the ripe old age of 11, Sanders dropped out. It wasn't long before he got himself another job on another farm. This time, he plowed the fields with a team of mules, milked the cows, fed the chickens, and shucked the corn,

from well before dawn to well after dusk. It was exhausting work for an 11-year-old, but by that point, he was glad not to be home much. His mother had remarried, a man who wasn't exactly keen on the idea of stepchildren. So, at age 15, Sanders flew the coop and embarked on a series of odd jobs in search of his passion, starting at a transportation company. In 1906, Sanders began taking fares and making change on a streetcar in New Albany, Indiana. But it didn't last long. When he heard the U.S. Army was looking for young men to serve in Cuba, he felt called to volunteer. Sanders falsified his birth date in order to enlist.

It's reported that his time in the Army consisted of, quote, shoveling mule feces and being seasick. Though his stint was brief, he received an honorable discharge. When Sanders returned to the U.S., he found himself in New Orleans, Louisiana. So he decided to take the opportunity to travel a little, ride the train across the South, it was glamorous, the height of modernity. Eventually, he landed on Sheffield, Alabama, where he took a job working on the very train he'd been riding, as a blacksmith's helper. But there was nothing glamorous about that gig. So he transferred to another department at the railway company, hand-driving spikes into tracks, shoveling coal into engines. All the while, he was dating one of his first girlfriends, a woman named Josephine.

The pair got married and had three children. One day while working on the railway, Sanders witnessed a train wreck. People were injured and lawyers were called. And it was in that moment he saw what a white-collar career might provide. If he were a lawyer, he could make a couple thousand dollars in a single day. What on earth was he doing shoveling coal? So Sanders enrolled in a series day. What on earth was he doing shoveling coal? So Sanders enrolled in a series of law courses. At the time, you didn't need a degree to practice certain fields of law.

But in a short period, Sanders realized it wasn't for him. And in no time, he was back to pounding steel rails for $1.65 a day. By 1921, Sanders heard of a job opening at a local insurance company, so he went straight to a clothing store, bought himself a gray suit and some dress shoes, and marched over confidently for an interview. That confidence impressed the man on the other side of the desk, and suddenly, Sanders had himself a new job. There was only one, teensy, tiny fly in the ointment. They gave him the most difficult territory in the state to cover. Sanders was tasked with going door-to-door in one of the poorest parts of Indiana, asking unsuspecting folks if they wanted life insurance.

There was a reason that territory went unclaimed at the company. But Sanders was no stranger to hard work. He put his head down and made his way up every single street. He realized he was good at talking to people, and in just one year, he'd worked his way up to head of the district. But Sanders didn't understand the business side of business. He was a good salesman, but with no more than a sixth grade education, he struggled to properly turn in his accounts. So, despite his impressive climb up the insurance ladder, Sanders was fired for a second time.

Undeterred, Sanders decided to make his way to Louisville, Kentucky. To get from Indiana to Kentucky, one must cross the Ohio River. The existing ferry was ancient, and Sanders felt left something to be desired for travelers. So with the money he'd earned in the insurance business, he decided he would found a ferry boat company to take people across state borders with ease. And as his biographer says, it was improbably successful. Suddenly, Sanders was an entrepreneur. With that, he decided to join the Chamber of Commerce. Then he took his profits and put them toward his next venture, the manufacturing of acetylene lamps. His plan was to sell them to farmers, because electricity wasn't yet available in many rural areas of the country.

In fact, in 1925, only half of American households had access to power. It was a no-brainer. Except, as Sanders likely should have known from his country upbringing, farmers didn't have much extra cash to throw at new technology. Most of them turned down his pitch. The ones that didn't fell behind on their payments. Then, electric generators were invented, and Sanders' business went dark. Next, Sanders landed himself a sales job at Michelin Tires, making $750 a month, if he met his quota. And he did. Using the contacts he'd amassed over his previous jobs and business ventures, he quickly became the top Michelin salesman in Kentucky. He was even known to dress up in the Michelin Man suit from time to time at county fairs. But once again, it wouldn't

last long. In Colonel Sanders and the American Dream, it states that the reasons Sanders left Michelin are murky. It's more than possible he was fired. Then to make matters worse, in the mid-1920s, Sanders was in a horrible car accident. His vehicle was totaled. Though injured, he was okay. Except now, he had no income, no savings, and no car. He was forced to hitchhike. So one day, he stuck his thumb in the air on the side of the highway and was picked up by an interesting character, a representative for Standard Oil. As Sanders and the oil businessman got to chatting on their ride, Sanders learned the man had a floundering gas station in Nicholasville, Kentucky, in need of a manager. So Sanders, with his salesmanship and unwavering

confidence in his ability to leap from industry to industry, talked himself into the gig. Over the next two years, he was able to turn that station around, earning enough to support his family. But then, as the Depression hit in 1929, the Standard Oil Company was forced to close many of its stations, including Sanders. He was out of a job yet again, and at a time when jumping to a new one wouldn't be so easy. But all hope was not lost. Turns out, the Shell Oil Company had kept their eye on Harlan Sanders. They noticed what a difference he made at the Standard Station, and now that he was a free agent, they came calling. Shell had a station in Corbin, Kentucky that needed help. A lot of help. Corbin was known as a rough city. Bootlegging, violent crime,

and racial tensions were high. It wouldn't be easy. But there, on Highway 25, was a little gas station in need of a little TLC. To sweeten the deal, Shell offered Sanders a few rooms at the back of the station where he and his family could live. All the corporation asked for in return was one extra penny a gallon. It was a deal, so Sanders got to work finding ways to bring in those pennies. On top of gas, he decided he would offer other incentives to stop at his little station, like oil checks and free air for tires. These were novel concepts around 1930. Oh, and he put up a sign. Sanders Service Station. Being on the highway, the station was a frequent stop for

interstate travelers, often truckers looking to gas up and stretch their legs. But Sanders noticed they were also often looking for something else. Food. Being on the road for hours and days on end, many of his customers were starved for not just meals, but home-cooked meals, having been away from home and surviving on salt and grease. So that's when Sanders got an idea. asked him where they might find the nearest pork chop, Sanders would whip up a dish or two in his kitchen out back, usually a little extra of what he'd already cooked for his children. Then he'd serve it to customers for some bonus cash. Typically, he made country ham, string beans okra, hot biscuits, and pan-fried chicken. A true Southern meal, the kind you look forward to coming home to after a long day. And over time, Sanders noticed more and more truckers started taking him up on his offer to join his family for dinner. So one day, he dragged his dining room table into the station

and started pan-frying chicken around lunchtime. If customers came, they'd get it hot and ready. If no one showed up hungry that day, Sanders' family could enjoy a hearty midday meal. So he changed his business's name from Sanders Service Station to Sanders Service Station and Cafe. When word spread Sanders offered more than just gas, he found himself in the kitchen non-stop trying to keep up with demand. And soon, Sanders' good old country comfort became the main attraction, overtaking the gas and free air. So he changed his business's name again. From Sanders Service Station and Cafe to Sanders Cafe and Service Station and Cafe to Sanders' Cafe and Service Station. As business boomed, Sanders realized he was unwittingly exiting the oil industry

and becoming somewhat of a restaurateur. And if that was the case, he needed to get a grasp of the restaurant business. So Sanders enrolled in an eight-week course at the Cornell University School of Restaurant and Hotel Management. He learned a lot, and upon his return, Sanders decided to expand his business even further. There was a four-room shack located beside the gas station, so he bought it and turned it into a motel restaurant. Suddenly, his dining table that once seated six turned into a dining room that could seat 142, and he renamed his business yet again from Sanders Cafe and

Service Station to Sanders Court and Cafe. People couldn't get enough of his comfort food. You see, at the time, pan-fried chicken, beans, and biscuits weren't typically eaten outside the home. It wasn't fancy dining. It was humble and tasty, and exactly what these long-road truckers were craving. And it was about that time when Sanders got a message from one Duncan Hines. In the early 1930s, Duncan Hines was decades away from printing his name on boxes of cake mix. Back then, the traveling salesman from Bowling Green, Kentucky, was spending his days on the

road and his nights eating disappointing chili. So, by virtue of his lifestyle, Hines became somewhat of an amateur food critic. And one day, he and his wife decided to scribble a list of the best restaurants Heinz had frequented on his travels. 475 of them, to be exact, from coast to coast. And in 1935, he bound and published that list, in a book he called Adventures in Good Eating. He sold each copy for $1. And by word of mouth, the book spread like wildfire. Every trucker, traveler, and restaurateur across the country wanted a copy. And guess which motel restaurant made the cut?

Sanders Court and Cafe. To be featured in the nation's first road food guide was a huge leg up. The blurb read, Which caught the attention of the governor. The governor of Kentucky, Ruby Laffoon, paid Sanders' restaurant a visit. He arrived in a shiny black limo, complete with police escort. He shook Sanders' hand and bestowed upon him an honorary title, the highest title a state can give, Colonel.

45-year-old Harlan Sanders was given a certificate declaring him Colonel Harlan Sanders in recognition of his contribution to the state. With that title came a new persona for Sanders. He liked it, and he decided to lean in. He figured a true southern gentleman wore a suit, and a true colonel was probably old enough to have white hair. So he put on a black suit with a string tie and began bleaching his brown hair as close to white as he could get it, including his mustache and goatee. Sanders started making good money, so he decided to expand his business. He renovated his motel to add more rooms, and he started looking for ways to make his kitchen a little more efficient.

So he attended a demonstration about this newfangled appliance called a pressure cooker. A pressure cooker was, as it was presented to Colonel Sanders, a device that cooked green beans fast without compromising flavor. And it did so by keeping the temperature of the oil hot and consistent. No guessing required. While those green beans are essentially being steamed and fried simultaneously, you can't see them, you can't smell them, you can't grab one to taste. They're in, then they're out, and they're perfect every time.

It was a game changer, and it made him wonder. If a pressure cooker could cook vegetables perfectly, what might it do for his chicken? Pan-frying chicken, as he had been doing now for years, was inefficient to say the least. It certainly delivered on flavor, but it took 30 minutes to make and was near impossible to cook in bulk. He tried many other methods, like baking his chicken or dropping it into a wired basket with the french fries, but it was never quite right. The outside needed to crisp up while retaining moisture on the inside. It was a delicate balance. So in 1939, he got himself a pressure cooker and started experimenting. He put together a special mixture of flour along with 11 herbs and spices, his original recipe.

He coated the chicken and dropped it into the oil. And lo and behold, with a little fine-tuning, Sanders was able to create the perfect fried chicken. Quickly, in bulk, and in as little as nine minutes. Set your timer. We'll be right back. One day in the early 50s, Sanders attended a restaurant convention in Chicago. There, he met a couple, Pete and Arlene Harmon, who owned a restaurant in Salt Lake City. And the trio really got along. So the couple invited Sanders to visit their home if he ever happened to one day find himself in the Utah area. And a couple years later, that was the case.

So Sanders dropped in. He learned that the Harmons were looking for a new item to add to their menu, so he decided to pitch them his perfect pressure-cooked fried chicken. But they weren't so sure. Fried chicken wasn't exactly a groundbreaking concept, nor was it necessarily something people were incentivized to leave their home to enjoy. But Sanders insisted. While at their home in Salt Lake City, he tracked down a pressure cooker, his 11 herbs and spices, flour, some chicken, and he borrowed their stove. And they watched as he darted around their kitchen like a mad scientist.

When he was finally ready, he placed his fried chicken in front of them both. Arlene Harmon whispered to her husband, It just looks like greasy fried chicken. Nothing special. Then she picked up a piece, dipped it in gravy, and took one bite. And in that moment, the Harmons knew. Sanders' fried chicken was not only going to be a new item on their menu, it should become the star item of the entire restaurant. Sanders made a deal with the Harmons. For every one of his fried chickens they sold,

he'd earn five cents. He'd prepackage his herb and spice recipe to keep it secret, and he agreed on Pete Harmon's request to be the face of the new menu item. Harmon was a savvy businessman. His next course of action was to buy all the unused local radio time and fill it with ads for his restaurant and its life-changing chicken. He also started advertising on the newest medium, television. Colonel Sanders and his boys are cooking up the answer. And those ads were so successful, Harmon's restaurant became packed every night, so he opened two more locations. And above his third restaurant, he featured a gigantic sign. It showed an image of the Colonel in his suit and tie,

next to words that read, Colonel Sanders, Kentucky Fried Chicken. chicken. Sanders' business was thriving, and he was even earning a little money on the side from his Nicola Chicken deal in Utah. He and his wife divorced, but he remarried, a woman named Cynthia. Things were going well for Sanders. That is, until he got some devastating news. A new interstate highway was being constructed near Corbin, Kentucky, that would bypass Sanders' court and cafe by seven miles. No one in their right mind was going to go seven miles off their route just to stay at his motel or eat his chicken. It was too far. He lobbied the state to have the project halted, or the bypass rerouted, but to no avail. Overnight, Sanders' court and cafe was dead. With virtually no passersby,

he couldn't even get any money for the building. It was worthless, so Sanders auctioned it off at a loss. Suddenly, he went from a thriving motel restaurant to cashing his monthly social security check of $105. At age 65, Sanders' business of 20 years disappeared before his eyes. He was broke and distraught It was now 1955 and Sanders' biographer says at this moment

he found himself with little else but his title some affected facial hair and a really great recipe for chicken He was staring down a decision. Either walk away and retire with nothing, or try to expand the only source of income he still had, five cents a chicken in Utah.

Unsurprisingly, he chose the latter. Sanders figured if he could get more restaurants to essentially franchise his chicken, he could support himself and his wife. So, together they loaded his pressure cooker into the trunk of their car, along with seasoning in paper bags with the words Kentucky Fried Chicken printed on the side. And they started driving around to restaurants in Kentucky, Illinois, and Indiana. The plan was to walk in, make their sales pitch to the owners of the restaurants,

let them sample Sanders' recipe, and shake hands. But what Sanders and his wife would soon realize is that what happened in Salt Lake City was an anomaly. No one was interested in the man with a gold-tipped cane. No one wanted to franchise Colonel Sanders' Kentucky Fried Chicken. Sanders would walk into a restaurant wearing his black suit with long tails, white hair he no longer had to bleach, and beg the owner to give him the time of day, that is, if he could reach the owner. More often than not, he never made it past the manager or chef, people with no real decision-making power.

And if he did get to the owners, they had major concerns. First of all, the perception was that every mother with an iron skillet could do what the colonel was doing. What was hard to do was make fried chicken in bulk outside the home. But that was okay, because Sanders had a solution, the pressure cooker. But for restaurateurs, the pressure cooker was concern number two. If you were not a seasoned pressure cooker user like Colonel Sanders, what you were looking at was a vat of 400 degree oil. It was dangerous, a liability, especially in the hands of minimum wage earning kitchen staff. Pressure cookers back then were kind of volatile. Sometimes they'd malfunction and explode,

sending boiling oil and chicken bone shrapnel in all directions. Yikes. One person told them pressure cookers were for green beans, not chicken. Frying chicken in a pressure cooker seemed, to many a diner owner, a silly idea. One even called Sanders a danged old fool. Sanders and his wife continued driving around the South, pitching his invention, but they were met with so much rejection. The pair survived on free meals from any friends that happened to live nearby, and they were forced to sleep in their car. They'd park outside the restaurants to ensure they were the first ones at the doors when they opened, but it never got them anywhere. His biographer put it this way,

Sanders was an old man tirelessly driving around to back row diners, nearly as decrepit as himself. What Sanders really wanted was to get his chicken into a prestige franchise, something established. That way it could be sold at multiple locations, maybe even far-reaching locations. He met with countless restaurant owners, but he was rejected. Amazingly, despite his desperation, Sanders still maintained his standards. Sometimes he'd drive for hours, once up to 1,500 miles, get out of the car, peer through the window at a restaurant's kitchen setup, and immediately walk back to his vehicle. The colonel said at the end of the day, there were places he didn't want his chicken to be sold,

even though he was bleeding gas money. According to Encyclopedia Britannica, in two years, he signed up only five restaurants. Legend has it, Colonel was pounding the pavement, word started to spread that those five restaurants who did take on Sanders' product were doing well with it. And suddenly, a handful of restaurants started coming to Sanders, inquiring about becoming franchisees. So he began packing and shipping his flour mixture to restaurants, doing all his own bookkeeping. And with that money, Sanders took a page out of Pete Harmon's playbook and got himself some ad time on local radio and television stations. He'd talk about his special chicken and then hand out samples to live audiences. And that's when one producer gave him some advice. They told him to ditch the black suit.

A white suit would stand out better on television. So he gave it a try and Sanders liked it. If anything, he noticed it did a better job at hiding flower dust. If you're looking for flexible workouts, Peloton's got you covered. Summer runs or playoff season meditations, whatever your vibe, Peloton has thousands of classes built to push you. We know how life goes. New father, new routines, new locations. What matters is that you have something there to adapt with you, whether you need a challenge or rest. And Peloton has everything you need, whenever you need it. Find your push.

Find your power. Peloton. Visit Peloton at onepeloton.ca. In 1957, Sanders' first franchisee, Pete Harmon, came up with two ideas. First, the slogan, It's Finger Lickin' Good. And second, the bucket. Sanders dropped into the restaurant selling his product and talked to the customers, or he'd throw on an apron and cook some of his Kentucky Fried Chicken himself, an ever-present face of the brand. If he ever felt the quality of one of his franchisee's

restaurants declined, he had the right to withdraw the deal and remove his chicken from the premises. And by 1960, Sanders had over 200 outlets for his chicken in the U.S., with another dozen in Canada, earning Sanders over $100,000 a year. Soon, the number of outlets jumped to 400, and then his creation jumped overseas, to Europe and Asia. 400 locations became 600, earning the colonel $300,000 annually, or $2.8 million in today's dollars. He hired 17 employees to help him run the operation out of an office building he built on his property. In 1963, he met a soon-to-be governor of Kentucky named John Y. Brown. Brown took an interest in Sanders and decided to come on board and help him expand his business. Brown's contributions led to the idea of cohesive branding at the franchisees' restaurants,

red and white color schemes, and shifted the ever-growing brand toward the fast food industry. Then in 1964, at age 74, Sanders said Kentucky Fried Chicken started growing right over him and mashing him flat. It was time to sell the business and retire. In March of that year, Colonel Sanders sold his business for $2 million cash, the equivalent of nearly $20 million U.S. dollars today, though he remained a living symbol and ambassador for the brand. And interestingly, that's when he left Kentucky, settling in the little-known town of Mississauga, Ontario. He continued appearing in commercials, parades, and festivals,

doing television interviews, and even played himself in a few films. By 1970, he was traveling over 200,000 miles a year to do so. That same year, KFC became a $185 million enterprise, making it the leading food dispenser in America, aside only from the military and the National School Lunch Program. The following year, the company was sold again, and that number reached 700 million. By 1980, KFC appeared in 48 countries with annual sales of $2 billion. And it was that year that Colonel Sanders passed away of pneumonia at age 90. Born in 1890, died in 1980. Colonel Sanders was once a nobody, told he'd never amount to anything, who failed math class, was fired from multiple jobs, started several unsuccessful businesses,

and woke up one day broke at age 65, rejected by 1,009 restaurateurs, before building an empire. Kentucky Fried Chicken, the most to success is always under construction. No truer words were ever spoken. Everybody zigzags in their career. Laverne Cox didn't make it as an actress until she was 40. Leslie Jones didn't make a living in comedy until she was 47. Director Norman Jewison was still facing rejection in his 60s. But Colonel Harlan Sanders is different from the rest.

Unlike Cox, Jones, and Jewison, who pursued a single career direction, Sanders tried many. He was a blacksmith. He worked on streetcars. He was a railway worker, army recruit, lawyer, insurance salesman, ferryboat owner, lamp manufacturer, tire salesman, gas station manager and restaurateur. Then, when he hit 65 years of age, he found himself broke and jobless after over half a century in the workforce. In other words, he had to start all over again. And that is the secret recipe of the Colonel's success. Instead of retiring at the age of 65, which most people do, he reinvented himself. He made a hard left after 50 years of hard road.

And when he drove across the country trying to sell his chicken recipe, he was turned down over 1,000 times. Rejection is an equal opportunity offender. You're never too old to be rejected, but you're also never too old to pivot.

In the 10 years from being broke at 65 until he sold his company near the age of 75, Colonel Sanders became a multimillionaire. It was his seventh decade that finally clicked. That danged old fool, who was made to feel like a nobody most of his life,

became the second most recognized celebrity in the world. With just a secret recipe, a pressure cooker, and a trunk full of perseverance, Harlan Sanders launched a company that now has over 25,000 locations in 145 countries. If you've ever worried that life has passed you by, remember this. It's not too late to start over. Never, ever give up. Colonel Sanders' secret recipe of 11 different herbs and spices is kept inside a vault behind a steel door, under two feet of concrete, with motion detectors and 24-hour surveillance. At KFC's headquarters in Louisville, Kentucky, only two people have a key, making it one of the most secure vaults in the United States. The Rejection Podcast is an Apostrophe Podcast production and is recorded in our Airstream mobile recording studio.

This series is hosted and written by me, Sydney O'Reilly, research, Allison Pinches, director, Callie O'Reilly. Research, Allison Pinches. Director, Callie O'Reilly. Engineer, Jeff Devine. We regret to inform you, our producer is Debbie O'Reilly. Theme music by Ian Lefevre and Ari Posner, which, by the way, is finger-lickin' good. The major source for this episode is Colonel Sanders and the American Dream by Josh Ozerski. Other significant sources are listed in the show notes on our website, apostrophepodcasts.ca slash rejection. Follow us on Twitter at apostrophepod.

If you enjoyed this episode, you might also like Rejecting James Dyson from Season 2. Rate and review this podcast wherever you like to listen. And while you're there, let us know of any rejection stories you'd like to hear. This series is executive produced by Terry O'Reilly. See you next time. New year, new me. Season is here and honestly, we're already over it.

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everything you need to keep knocking down your goals. No pressure to be who you're not. Just workouts and classes to strengthen who you are. So no matter your era, make it your best with Peloton. Find your push. Find your power. Peloton. Visit Peloton at onepeloton.ca.