Permission To Try

I just got back from the doctor’s office. Here’s the story. My eyes aren’t getting better. My left eye has stopped responding. Good news is that my right eye is about 2 years behind. My driver’s license doesn’t need to be renewed until 2036. I’m good. I have permission to keep driving during the day, if I’m not having a flareup, because according to my doctor, people can still drive with one eye.

Apparently, the bar for driving is lower than I thought.

It’s 30 days till the London Marathon. These are the dog days of training. I’m running fatigued. Legs are heavy, niggles are showing up. Basically, as much as I love to run, I’m at the point of questioning why I should even do this marathon? I can just run like I normally do, not specifically in preparation for an event. Skip the Tuesday and Thursday speed threshold workouts that make me want to quit mid-run. Convert that 20+ mile Sunday long run into something more reasonable, like watching Arsenal football.

Training for an event like a marathon takes time. It takes time from family where your long run days can take the first 3.5 hours of your day. Then leave you completely exhausted the rest of the day where normal house chores don’t get done and you aren’t much fun with friends or family in the afternoon. By Sunday evening, I’m basically a decorative human who occasionally grunts in response to questions.

But I justify that those 3.5 hours on Sunday aren’t stolen from my friends and family, they’re invested in becoming someone who can show up for them. The version of me that doesn’t run is irritable, anxious, mentally scattered. The version that does can think through problems, listen without distraction, and only moderately resent having to do laundry.

Still, I’m at the point of my training where I’m asking myself “why bother?” Who am I trying to impress? I’m just a middle-aged runner spending tons of hours and money on something I’m decidedly average at. Should I be doing something more productive with my time? Learning a skill? Making money? Becoming fluent in a language that doesn’t involve split times and heart rate zones?

And there it is. The real question hiding underneath all the marathon doubt: Do I have permission to be mediocre at something I love?

Because let’s be honest, I am mediocre. I’m not winning anything. I’m not inspiring anyone with my 8:35 pace. I’m just another guy in his fifties who runs because... well, because I run. There’s no profound reason. No childhood dream of Olympic glory deferred. I just like the rhythm. I like the quiet. I like how my brain works when my feet are moving.

But apparently, this requires justification.

I observe younger runners, the ones in their 20s and 30s, and they just run. We expect them to look good in their youth. We see older runners, 70+, doing their tai chi in the park or shuffling through 5Ks, and we encourage that. “Good for them,” we say. “Staying active at that age.” But what if you’re in your middle years? You have a job, a family, responsibilities. Are we expected to be doing something more productive in our biggest “earning years”? Something that contributes to society? Makes money? Advances civilization?

Is there a requirement that our hobbies justify themselves?

The permission we actually need is from ourselves. And it’s the hardest permission to give.

When I was diagnosed with “complete heart failure,” my doctors seemed to think I needed permission to run again. There’s always that medical warning: “seek medical advice before pursuing vigorous activities.” But did I need permission to keep living after my diagnosis? Did I need permission to want more than just existing?

Running became the permission slip I wrote myself.

My selfishness, and yes, let’s call it what it is, when I run 1.5 hours a day and spend time in the gym, is the permission I give myself to be imperfectly, mediocrely, unapologetically alive. To take up space. To have goals that don’t serve anyone else directly. To spend time and energy on becoming exactly who I am, not who I should be.

The permission slip I wrote myself doesn’t say “you can run fast” or “you can inspire others” or “you can justify this time expenditure with measurable outcomes.” It says something much simpler and more radical:

You can be average at something you love. You can do it badly and still do it. You can fail to impress anyone, including yourself, and keep going anyway.

Thirty days to London. I’ll probably run it in about 3:45 if everything goes well. Maybe 4:00 if it doesn’t. Either way, completely unremarkable by any objective standard.

And I’m okay with that. More than okay. I’m grateful for the permission to try.