Today I complete nine years of running at least one mile every single day.

It still surprises me a little when I say it out loud. Nine years. More than 7,600 miles. No days off. The streak began on August 29, 2017, while Hurricane Harvey was still reshaping life across Southeast Texas. In the middle of the flooding and the uncertainty I read an article in Runner’s World. April Rueb had just finished 250 consecutive days of running a mile and wrote honestly about what the practice had done for her. Something clicked. I told Michelle I was going to attempt the same thing for the rest of my life. She has always been supportive—even of the commitments that sound a little extreme at first.

That same season my mother received her Alzheimer’s diagnosis. I sat with her neuropsychologist and asked the question that mattered most to me: “Is there anything I can actually do, or am I simply doomed?” His answer was straightforward. Stay active. Keep running. Keep riding your bike. The article had planted the idea. His words watered it. The streak took root. My mom lost her long battle with Alzheimer’s in June 2022. The daily miles continued without interruption.

Nine years is long enough for a habit to stop feeling like discipline and start feeling like identity. The early days required more willpower. The later years have required more wisdom. I’ve run when I was sick. I’ve run through back trouble and knee trouble. I once ran with a thrombosed hemorrhoid that lived up to its painful reputation. In January 2018, during a cold snap that also knocked out our power for roughly fifteen hours, I finished a 5K inside the house by flashlight. This past January 25 the air temperature was 29° and the wind chill sat at 21°. I still stepped outside. I share those stories carefully. I do not recommend running through injury or illness. See your doctor. Honor your body. My streak is a personal record, not a template for anyone else.

The practice has grown quieter and more sustainable. During Houston’s long, heavy summer months I head out around 4:15 a.m. Most mornings I cover a familiar two-mile route—enough distance to keep the commitment alive, short enough that tomorrow still feels possible. On Sundays I observe the Sabbath. Those runs carry no headphones, no podcasts, no music. Just the rhythm of feet on pavement or trail and the chance to notice what the morning is actually saying. I’ve come to value those unplugged miles more than I expected.

I’m 61. I still speak openly about wanting to live to 120 and remain active the entire way. That goal is not about denial of aging. It is about stewardship. I’ve watched too many people postpone caring for their bodies until the body finally forces the conversation—and by then the options are narrower and the work is harder. I’m trying to reverse the sequence. Take care of the gift while the gift is still responsive.

What has the streak actually produced beyond the physical miles? A deeper respect for small, repeated decisions. A clearer understanding that motivation is unreliable but systems are not. A growing awareness that consistency is one of the most under-celebrated forms of faithfulness. Most days the run is ordinary. Some days it is the only thing that feels steady. Over time those ordinary days have quietly shaped how I approach work, relationships, and the rest of life.

I’m grateful God still allows me to lace up. Every morning the ability to run is a gift I don’t want to take for granted. The strength, the clear mind, the desire to keep going—none of it is owed to me. It is received.

If this anniversary leaves you with anything useful, I hope it is permission to start small and stay with it. You don’t need a dramatic reinvention. You need one protected daily action you’re willing to defend when the excuses show up. Guard it. Return to it. Let the years do what years do best: compound the quiet choices into something that looks a lot like character.

What’s the one small thing you’re willing to show up for tomorrow?

Here’s to the next mile,
Mark
Mister Productivity