Yesterday marked Day one thousand one hundred and eleven of running a mile or more every day. Day one was midway through a failed startup fundraise and three months into a five-month stretch away from my wife and one-year-old son.

I.

I started running again on Day minus eighty-three. I’d just woken after my first night on Bainbridge Island, lethargic after a two-day flight from New Zealand but excited: I’d been waiting years for a chance to run with Greg Nance, a close friend of my cofounder and the closest thing I knew to a celebrity runner. He had a sponsorship, a running-branded license plate on his pickup truck, and even a Strava stalker.

He’d invited me out for a run to help me shake off my jet lag. I expected a slow jog, but it turned out to be a 5k race. I wasn’t ready for this physically or mentally; my mind thought I was a high school senior, but my body knew I was an untrained man in my mid-thirties. And so it was that I finished in about the same time as the first 5k I ever ran, as a high school freshman who tripped twice from exhaustion.

Yet that race was enough to rekindle the small flame of competitive spirit I needed to jump back into running. When I got back to the Airbnb I was sharing with my two colleagues, I bought a digital copy of Daniels’ Running Formula and started plotting the training I’d need to beat the runner who’d finished ahead of me.

With a Parkrun 5k every weekend, I had plenty of chances to improve my time and finishing place. I kept getting faster while moving through one small injury after another. After getting down to around 20 minutes, I started to place in the top 3 and naturally set my sights on Greg, who had come in first every single week. I told one of my colleagues, Andi, that I was feeling pretty confident I could win if only I trained “for real,” to which she dutifully called out my bravado with “prove it.”

And so with a “prove it”-shaped chip on my shoulder, I started training more seriously. First, I’d adopt Greg’s protocol of running a mile every day; once I settled into that, I’d add 10x400s around the track or even two-a-days.

To the surprise of no one with any sense, I injured myself again about a week later. This time it was my calf. But I had already started the mile-a-day streak, and I’d decided to push through. A painful Fourth of July 5k came and went, and after that, my calf healed and my ankle got hurt. My ankle healed and then my knee got hurt. And yet I stuck with the streak. Hell hath no stubbornness like the bruised ego of a former high school athlete.

A couple of months later, the streak was unbroken and I was standing in the garage on the first floor of our Airbnb. My other colleague had left and I was helping Andi load the final pieces of her luggage into Greg’s pickup truck. I hugged Andi and broke into tears trying to say goodbye. I looked away, but seeing my makeshift bedroom down the hall did little to help. Greg came over for a pat on the back and reassurance. I gave Andi a final hug, Greg a final hug, and they were gone.

II.

I’d left my wife and one-year-old at home to fundraise and failed with nothing tangible to show for it. I’d also run out of time to beat Greg in a Parkrun. But I had a streak, and that might not have been tangible, but it was also not nothing.

In the meantime, Andi had begun a streak of her own and Greg was continuing his. I figured running could be a way to feel connected to them and the Parkruns as I returned home. I’d go out for a jog and then hop on Strava to see what they and my Parkrun buddies were up to.

I was happy to be back home with my son, and I kept going out for my runs. I even went to a Parkrun in New Zealand and set an adult PR (though still not faster than Greg).

A few months later, we moved back to Japan to be closer to family and were staying with my in-laws while my wife interviewed for jobs. One day, when things seemed calm, I slipped out for a run in the middle of the day. When I came back ten minutes later, my wife told me that my son had been crying because I’d left. My mother-in-law said to take more care when going out, because my run was a burden on the household.

I was resentful. I’ve always had a hard time making others uncomfortable, and tend to take hard things onto myself rather than inconvenience anyone. If the roles were reversed and they’d needed to go out, I would have handled things. If it had been for work, they wouldn’t have complained. The difference was that I’d gone out for something they thought was unimportant.

And yet there was no reason for them to think that my run was important other than me saying so. They really did have to handle my crying eighteen-month-old, upset that his father was not around again. He could wail and shriek in a way so exhausting that anyone would come away frustrated and desperate to prevent a recurrence. But the next day (with as much care as I could take), I went out again.

None of their frustrations with my running were unreasonable, and yet it felt important to continue. Giving in would have been a greater loss than the short-term discomfort everyone was feeling.

If I skip today, I lose respect for myself, I lose connection and become alone, I lose a thing that’s just mine and no one else’s. I could say that the fundraise failing wasn’t all in my control, but there has not yet been a day I was physically unable to run a mile.

I ran through food poisoning, several colds, and the flu. Sometimes I took my son with me in his stroller, but every single day I made it out for a run. I often didn’t want to, but I needed to. For connection, or resistance, or a small win that would make the rest of the day a success, or something. My family remained skeptical but, to their credit, even reminded me to go on the odd occasion. It became a fact of life for us.

III.

In August 2025, a little over two years after I’d started my streak, I went running on a hiking trail. The uphill was steeper and slower than I’d imagined, nearly 20 minutes for 800 meters. I’d told my wife and son I’d be back soon, and I was already behind my self-imposed schedule, so I ran the downhill carelessly. The next day was fine, but two days later my knee was sore. I cut back any excess miles and slowed down my training, but the soreness didn’t go away. A few months later, I went to the doctor, got some scans, and was diagnosed with runner’s knee. Nothing permanent, but they gave me a wrap for the knee and some patches to reduce inflammation.

It’s been 11 months since the injury and it still hasn’t fully healed. But I still make it out every day, and recently added pullups to get my upper body fitness closer to my lower body.

Yesterday was Day one thousand one hundred and eleven. I did the same route I do most days, heading out from home and onto an all-weather running path overlooking a ridge that used to serve as a road between Okinawan castles. I’d place the knee pain somewhere between a 0.5 and a 1 out of 10, enough to keep me from pushing, but not enough to keep me from running.

Greg’s streak is still going; I think he’s at around 2,300 days. Andi stopped hers for a while but has recently started running again. The funny thing about streaks is that you can’t catch other people. That irks me.

When I run now, I’m not holding on to connection or chasing a target time. I do it a bit for resistance, but that’s mostly gone away too. If I had to put a why on yesterday’s run, it would be something like “it got me out for my pullups, which I’d probably have skipped otherwise.” Tomorrow I’ll be running for pullups again, but I don’t know what my “why” will look like a year from now.

Beneath every why, though, there has been a sense that this is something I can count on, almost like the run itself is a person to whom I’m connected.

Today will be Day 1,112. I’ll lace up, go out, and run a mile, maybe a bit more.

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