When in doubt, do.

Take the governor off — you don't need it anymore.

In three weeks, I’ll be running a 17-mile race through the woods. Voluntarily. Sort of.

A few notes about my running background:

• I don’t have one.

• I enjoy running probably about as much as Cass Elliot did.

• The most I’ve ever run consecutively is 5 miles (yesterday).

“Adam, why would you agree to do that?”

Simple. When in doubt, do.

When a friend asked if I’d sign up, my knee-jerk response was, “Absolutely not, you should get a lobotomy.”

But then I remembered a passage from a book I recently read — ”A Touch of Wonder” by Arthur Gordon:

“As a youngster I remember being given a solemn bit of advice that was supposed to apply to almost any situation: "When in doubt, don't." Well, perhaps this cautious approach has occasional value (in youth). But its usefulness diminishes rapidly once you're past 20, it can be dangerously habit-forming after 30, and after 40 it probably should be reversed altogether, becoming: "When in doubt, do."

So I said yes. 

Gordon introduces the concept in the chapter, “The Deadly Art of Nonliving” — shying away from life for the sake of comfort. The older we get, the more dangerous The Deadly Art of Nonliving becomes.

As kids, nonliving isn’t feasible. There are puddles to be stomped in. Trees to be climbed. Forts to be built.

Then, we age. And the puddles just get us wet. And the trees look like a broken bone waiting to happen. And you're not even supposed to put your head on some of the pillows, let alone build with them.

The Deadly Art of Nonliving is the most terrifying kind of danger. It doesn’t roar like a lion. It doesn’t boom like thunder. It doesn’t burst like a firework.

It whispers. It snakes and slithers. It bides its time, tip-toes forward inch by inch, and becomes a guest we never invited in but can’t remember ever living without.

Risk, by definition, is what you can’t see coming. If you could prepare for it, it wouldn’t be concerning. Aging falls into a gray area — we know it’s coming, yet decades are nothing more than a collection of seconds. And second to second, things don’t change.

So even though we know monotony and apathy are conspiring to snatch our everyday wonder, the flip of the calendar becomes so unremarkable that we let The Deadly Art of Nonliving lull us into routine.

And then, years later, we look back and see that that silent presence we thought was toothless actually had fangs. Fangs so sharp that the quiet incisions it made as 9:00 turned to 9:01 and February turned to December and childhood turned to adulthood didn’t feel like anything.

And so we don’t swim when the water is too cold. And we don’t run when the path is too long. And we don’t climb when the face is too steep.

Because we doubt. So we don’t do.

For the next month, challenge yourself to pause before making decisions.

Challenge yourself to evaluate why you’re saying “no.”

Challenge yourself to embrace discomfort.

Challenge yourself to notice when you doubt. 

And then challenge yourself to do.

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