Where do I even start with this one? The beginning never feels like the beginning anymore—it’s just another checkpoint, another reminder that this journey is about miles, not moments. And yet, here I am, six days into September, staring down this insane goal of 250 kilometers in a month. A number that sounds impossible when you say it out loud, but feels real when you start chiseling away at it one run at a time.

Today’s the 6th, and I’m sitting at 62.6 kilometers. That means I’ve been stringing together ten-kilometer runs day after day after day. Nothing flashy. No speed records. Just the grind. Just the stubborn repetition of lacing up, stepping out, and pushing the pavement under my feet. And here’s the thing—consistency has become the real victory. I keep telling myself that. This isn’t about one glorious run. It’s about all of them stacked on top of each other, each one as heavy and exhausting as the last, each one making me stronger in ways I don’t fully understand yet.

My legs? They’re screaming at me. Shin splints have settled in like uninvited guests. Some mornings I stand up and wonder if I’ll even make it down the stairs without collapsing. But pain has become part of the routine. It’s almost a signal—proof that I’m doing the work. Proof that the goal isn’t just a dream in my head; it’s carving itself into my muscles, my joints, my bones.

And yet, even when the body is breaking down, the mind has to be louder. It’s mind over matter. Every damn time.

Fueling the Run

Today’s run was fueled by something heavier than just kilometers and goals. It came from something that happened earlier in the day that shook me up more than I expected.

I was in the bathroom, working—like I always am these days. Swearing, getting frustrated, letting the weight of a thousand little unfinished things bury me alive. Evan was feeding the dogs, just being the helpful kid he is, and something went wrong. A drawer face snapped off. No big deal, right? But then he came into the room crying. Not the kind of crying where a kid scrapes a knee. This was full-on, heartbroken, terrified crying. And for a second, I panicked—I thought he hurt himself, or the puppy got hurt, or something bad happened.

But no. He was crying because he thought I was going to be mad at him.

And that… that broke me.

I saw myself in that moment. I saw the kid I used to be, scared of my own father. I respected him, but I feared him too. That kind of fear doesn’t fade. It gets buried and then resurfaces when you least expect it. And the thought that my own son might feel that same fear of me—it crushed me.

I dropped what I was doing, hugged him, and told him straight: “You never have to cry over something that breaks. I’ll never get mad at you for that.”

But deep down, I knew this wasn’t about the drawer. It was about me. My moods. My short fuse. The way my frustration spills over and fills the room. And in that moment, I realized—this is the work I have to do. Not just running. Not just miles. The real work is making sure my kids know they’re safe with me, that they don’t have to carry the same weight I carried growing up.

That thought stuck with me through the whole run. Every step was a reminder: be better, do better.

Strava & Validation

Of course, the ego still creeps in. I’m on Strava, like every runner is. And recently I joined the St. John Run Club group on there. Hundreds of runners—serious athletes, younger, faster, stronger. And somehow, this old guy named Trevor is sitting 7th out of nearly 400 of them.

That number—7th—lit me up. I don’t know how long I’ll hold it, but just seeing my name among theirs, seeing myself measure up to people half my age, people crushing insane weekly mileage… it validated everything I’ve been grinding toward.

Validation’s a funny thing. You don’t need it, but when it shows up, it fuels you like nothing else.

Crystal Was Right

And speaking of fuel—let’s talk about something ridiculous. Way back when I first started running, my cousin Crystal told me that marathoners sometimes shit themselves mid-race because they won’t stop running. I laughed it off. Thought it was stupid. Thought people just weren’t prepared.

Well, today? I nearly learned that lesson the hard way. Out of nowhere, mid-run, my stomach turned. No warning. No chance to prepare. And suddenly I’m sprinting—not for a record, not for Strava glory—but for the nearest convenience store. I barely made it. If I hadn’t, this episode would be called Mental Miles: The Dirty Leg Edition.

So yeah—Crystal, you were right. It’s not just a myth.

The Mental Part

Here’s the thing though: Mental Miles isn’t about clean stories or perfect endings. It’s about honesty. It’s about admitting that sometimes you nearly shit yourself. It’s about realizing your son cried because he thought you’d be angry. It’s about running slow, broken, and hurting, but still showing up.

I tag every run with #MentalMiles. I don’t even know if I’m doing hashtags right. I don’t know who sees them. Truth is, I haven’t told anyone I know about this site. Not my friends, not my family. Part of me is embarrassed. I don’t want to be looked at differently. I don’t want people to think I’m chasing attention.

But maybe that’s the point. This isn’t about anyone else. It’s about me. About the miles. About putting one foot in front of the other until something inside me changes. Until I can look at myself and know I didn’t stop when things got hard.

The Grit

So yeah, I don’t know how many people read this. Maybe no one does. But that doesn’t matter. The miles matter. The challenge matters. The honesty matters.

62.6 kilometers in. 187.4 to go. Pain, doubt, frustration—they’ll all be there. But so will I.

Mental Miles, baby. That’s how we do it.