Chasing a Mile PR With a Double-Torn ACL (and Questionable Life Choices)

I’ve run ultramarathons that lasted sixteen hours. I’ve slogged through desert heat, freezing wind, and trails so long they legitimately felt like hallucinations. I’ve had blisters on top of blisters and knee pain that felt like someone welded my joints together.

And yet, somehow, running one single mile as fast as I can hurts worse than all of that.

This is the story of how I tried to set a new PR mile time—twelve years after tearing my ACL twice—and why this attempt made me rethink every life decision that brought me to a cold, dark track with frozen fingers, shaky nerves, and a stomach full of regret.

If you want inspiration, you'll find it here.
If you want comedy, you'll definitely find it here.
If you want actionable takeaways for running a fast mile, you’ll get those too.

Let’s begin.

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The ACL That Refuses to Behave

For context, I tore my ACL for the second time about ten years ago. Recovery… was not smooth. Imagine a toddler using duct tape to fix a broken floor lamp—that was basically the quality of my “rehab.”

Even now, I still have nerve damage. There’s a chunk of my leg where I can’t feel anything. You could poke it with a pencil and I’d probably apologize for getting in your way.

Because of that, running fast has always been a challenge. Speed workouts flare the knee instantly. But ultrarunning? Slow, easy running? Long hours on trails? That stuff barely hurts.

Thus my life became:
Avoid speed, embrace distance, become a tortoise.
It worked. I ran 50Ks, 50 miles, 100Ks. I built a whole athletic identity out of being “the slow guy who doesn’t stop.”

But deep down, there was still a part of me that remembered something:

Four years ago, I could barely run a mile under twelve minutes.
Today, I wanted to run one under six.

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The Ridiculous Mission

My goal was simple:

Run a 6:00 mile.
If I couldn’t hit that, at least beat my fastest post-ACL time: 6:22.

A 6-minute mile feels fast when your recent training consists mostly of long, slow ultramarathon endurance. My legs are used to jogging at 12–13 minute miles for hours, not blasting around a track with my heart rate exploding into outer space.

But why not try?
If the knee works, it works.
If it doesn’t… well, at least I get a funny story.

I called my brother—who actually ran track in high school, unlike me—and asked him to pace me on a bike. He agreed instantly, which in hindsight might mean he enjoys watching me suffer.

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The Great Track Hunt (AKA Losing Two Hours of Daylight)

We left with plenty of sunlight.
We found a track at exactly zero of the first five locations.

Why?
Because every high school and neighborhood field was being used for:

• soccer

• football

• marching band

• possibly a flash mob

• definitely the entire youth population of Colorado Springs

My only rule when filming: don’t disturb other people.
So we just kept driving from track to track like two lost Uber drivers who forgot what the assignment was.

By the time we finally found an empty track…
The sun was down.
The wind picked up.
The temperature dropped to “my face feels like a frozen pizza.”

Great conditions for a PR mile attempt. Perfect.

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Warming Up (aka Pretending I Know What I’m Doing)

This was my third run of the day.
I had done a half marathon the day before.
So clearly everything about this setup screamed “optimal performance.”

I jogged around the track, shivering, trying to signal to my body that we were about to go from easy effort to absolute maximum velocity. My legs did not agree with this decision.

Every warm-up lap, I kept saying the same thing:

“Why am I more nervous for this one mile than I was for a 100K race?”

Probably because the pain of a 100K grows slowly like someone turning up the thermostat.
The pain of a fast mile is like sticking your head in a microwave and hitting start.

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The Brotherly Advice That Changed Everything

My brother rolled up beside me on the bike and asked:

“Is your goal to break six minutes, or just run your fastest mile ever?”

I thought.
I panicked.
I said: “Yes.”

He then gave me advice that at first sounded insane:

“Start fast. But not too fast. Smooth fast.
Then hold that pace on lap 2 and 3.
Then sprint the last 200.
It'll feel like you're going faster, but you won’t be.”

This confused me, which means it was probably correct.

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The Moment Before the Gun (AKA Me Accepting My Fate)

The camera is rolling.
The lights of the airplane runway glow in the background like a dramatic movie set.
My heart rate is already 160 bpm—and I haven’t started.

I take a deep breath.

“Three… two… one…”

And then everything goes blurry.

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Lap 1: Confidence (and Cold Snot)

Lap 1 felt shockingly good.
My form felt decent.
My pace felt controlled.
My lungs were functioning, although freezing.

Then I glanced at my brother.
He nodded.
Which I took as “you are not dying yet.”

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Lap 2: The Bargaining Phase

By halfway through the second lap, I started thinking:

“I could stop right now and no one would blame me.”
“Does this count as cardio murder?”
“Why does my stomach feel like I swallowed a beehive?”

Every part of me was screaming to give up—but sometimes the only thing keeping you going is the fact that someone pointed a camera at you.

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Lap 3: The Wind, the Pain, the Questionable Life Choices

The wind hit.
The pain hit.
The self-doubt hit.

My brother yelled:
“Keep it steady! We’ll catch you on the last one!”

Catch me?
Buddy, I was being caught by gravity already.

But I hung on.

Because the pain of slowing down felt worse than the pain of going forward.

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Lap 4: The Tunnel of Doom (and a Sprint That Felt Like Death)

Last lap.
Everything hurt.

My lungs were burning so badly the cold air felt like sandpaper.
My quads were screaming.
My vision narrowed like a camera zooming into a single pixel.

I kicked.
Or tried to.

I sprinted the last 200 meters with the grace of a man whose legs were duct-taped to cinder blocks.

My brother yelled nonstop:
“Let’s go! Everything now! Everything!”

And for the first time that night…
I believed I actually might do it.

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The Final Time

I collapsed into the freezing air, gasping.

“What was it?”

He checked the watch.

“…6:04.”

6:04.

I missed the 6-minute goal by four seconds.
I beat my previous best by eighteen seconds.
I ran my fastest mile since ACL surgery number one—twelve years ago.

And as I bent over, tasting blood in the back of my throat from the cold air, I realized something:

I am extremely proud of this ridiculous, painful, humbling, heroic, freezing, stupid, wonderful mile.

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What I Learned (So You Don’t Have to Suffer Quite as Much)

Okay, now for the part that actually helps other runners.

Here are the real takeaways from this PR mile attempt:

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1. Speed workouts hurt way worse than ultras

Ultrarunning pain grows gradually.
Fast-mile pain shows up like a surprise tax bill.

Both have value.
But the mile forces you to confront discomfort instantly—and repeatedly.

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2. Your first lap will feel too fast, even if it’s right

My brother’s advice was spot-on.

Your brain interprets “right pace” as “too fast” because your body is fresh.
But if you slow down early, you lose all momentum for the later laps.

Start steady-fast.
Hold.
Then kick.

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3. Cold air is brutal

Running a fast mile in the cold isn’t “refreshing.”
It’s “my lungs feel like they’re bleeding.”

If possible, do speed tests when it’s:

• 50–60 degrees

• lower wind

• warmer breathing conditions

Your lungs will thank you.

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4. Speed training boosts your easy pace

After any true all-out effort…

• my easy runs drop 15–30 seconds per mile

• my heart rate stays lower

• my body feels “lighter”

Your body recalibrates what “hard” means.

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5. You don’t need perfect conditions—just courage

We found a track at dusk.
It was freezing.
My nerves were shot.
My knee was unpredictable.
It was my third run of the day.

And somehow, it was still my best mile in a decade.

The perfect moment doesn’t exist.
Start anyway.

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Would I Do It Again?

Yes.

Will I enjoy it?
Absolutely not.

But I’m convinced now that:

• fast miles make you tougher

• speed days improve ultramarathon performance

• pushing limits builds confidence

• and suffering with your brother yelling on a bike is strangely fun

A PR mile isn’t just about speed.
It’s about confronting discomfort head-on.

And sometimes, in chasing a six-minute mile with a numb knee and a frozen face, you discover something:

You’re capable of more than you think.

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Final Thoughts

Thank you for reading—and if you’re chasing your own PR, I hope this story gives you a smile and something to take with you to the track.

Above all:

I did something hard today.
Now it’s your turn.

See you out there, and may your lungs burn a little less than mine did.