I am amazed at how much a marathon mirrors life, especially for those who may suffer from any form of addiction, alcohol, drugs, sex, power, whatever.
In November, about a week before Thanksgiving 2024, San Quentin held the Frank Ruona Marathon. This is a full-on 26.2-mile, 105-lap torture blender. I am amazed at how much a marathon mirrors life, especially for those who may suffer from any form of addiction, alcohol, drugs, sex, power, whatever.
The event had been advertised on posted billboards all over the prison for months. This would be the ninth annual effort. Fifteen or twenty volunteers from outside would attend to help with the race, most of whom were runners themselves and brought lots of nice things: Gatorade, energy packets, and several pretty girls to cheer us on. Just what every incarcerated person needs to push themselves into a cardiac event, cheering girls at a prison marathon!
Originally, I had only planned to run 20 to 25 laps. Then something magical happened minutes before the start. The head volunteer made the following announcement: “Okay, gentlemen! Welcome to the Frank Ruona Marathon. This race is a full and recognized marathon of 26.2 miles and will be 105 laps. The last lap will be abbreviated, where you only need to run around the baseball diamond,” he said, pointing toward the infield. “Make sure you pass over this mat,” he added, stomping on a sensing mat stretched across the start/finish line. Runners had an RFID strip attached to their singlets to ensure an accurate lap count and reduce cheating. “Are there any questions? Okay then… RUNNERS, TAKE YOUR MARKS… GET READY… AND GO!”
Here’s the problem. He had said “race.” That single word triggered something deep inside me: competition. I am the most competitive person you will probably ever meet. My original 20 to 25 laps went right out the window.
Since I started in the third row, just right of the center, I was caught off guard by the kneeling cameraman a mere ten yards downstream. I almost tripped over the poor guy and even had to leap a little to avoid a Talladega-style NASCAR mash-up. But we were off, all 73 of us. Some of the “human gazelles,” men who were experienced runners and would undoubtedly lead the entire race, had already pulled ahead. Our first lap was mostly spent trying to keep out of each other’s way.
Throughout the track were strategically placed resident cheerleaders whose job was to encourage us and warn non-participants that a marathon was in progress. These resident encouragers were heaven-sent. Volunteer encouragers, attendees from the outside, stood at the start/finish line, not only cheering us on but also offering gifts of energy packets, peanut butter, Gatorade, and cool water. There was even a guy monitoring a computer, calling out lap counts as runners passed the line.
I logged into my favorite classic rock ‘n’ roll radio station, established a comfortable pace for my 61-year-old self, and plowed on. After only a couple of laps, we had strung out. About half an hour into the run, I grabbed a cup of water on my way past the start/finish line. When I tried to drink, however, half of it went up my nose and the other half ended up on my shirt. Note to self: STOP and drink, dummy. The energy packets were squeeze-tube thingies, consumable on the run. I have been in prison for 25 years, newfangled stuff is amazing.
Eventually, I passed the start/finish line and heard someone yell, “Newman! 36!” In my competition-driven mind, this meant I was in 36th place. “Hmmmm, not bad,” I thought. “I am one of three participants in their 60s, and I’m mid-pack. I’ll take it.” Next time, the volunteer dude yells, “Newman, 37!” I lost a position?! I don’t remember anyone passing me! Dig in, Dan!
Next time, “Newman! 38!” How in the hell could anyone have passed me? Oh wait, check my watch. A little over an hour and ten minutes. I’m on lap 38? Wow, I must have been listening to Quiet Riot at lap 25. Well, bang my head. Lap 38, huh? My legs feel good, my breathing is great, and my energy level feels solid. Hell, I can EASILY get to lap 40. That’ll be ten miles. Just one lap at a time, Dan. Let’s see if we can’t double our original goal. Surely I can get to lap 48 or 50. One lap at a time. All I needed were energy packets, Gatorade, encouragement, and Led Zeppelin.
Since my legs were starting to go numb, I incorporated a new regimen: run a couple of laps, then walk one. I took energy packets and Gatorade or water about once a mile. Everything felt surprisingly good, lungs, energy levels. By the time I got to lap 50, I decided that another ten laps was not out of the question. I took a break for about three or four solid minutes, downed several cups of water, and energy-packed out. I had noticed I needed to stop and empty my bladder a couple of times, a good sign that I was staying well-hydrated. A lap at a time.
Lap 60 came and went. My lap times were slowing. My average running lap was around two and a quarter minutes, while my walking lap was a little over four. Even though I was slowing quite a bit, my energy and lungs still felt great. The only two problems were my left hamstring, which had gone numb, and a now-flaring back injury from 1984. I also noticed that some of the human gazelles were struggling. Three of the top runners were grimacing on the ground or had pulled off the track completely, all with severe leg cramps. Every single one of them got up and kept moving, one lap at a time.
At lap 70, I decided that 80 laps would be enough. Twenty miles for a marathon I did not train for would be just fine. My workout routine is simple: 15 pull-ups, 20 squats, 20 push-ups, run a half-lap, and repeat for 30-odd minutes. Running 26.2 miles is NOT in my wheelhouse at all. Besides, I had been at it for around four and a half hours. I was walking backward for a quarter lap every two miles or so to use different leg muscles and rest numb ones. I was seriously dragging. Did I mention that I was DRAGGING? Focus on one lap at a time.
Then tragedy struck, or, depending on how you look at it, a blessing. One of the resident cheerleaders positioned on the course, a real nice guy, told me I had 33 minutes left to finish, or I would be classified as “timed out.” My heart fell. Thirty-three minutes to do five or so more laps would be okay, but being this close to a timeout would suck. Simple solution: keep moving forward for 33 minutes and screw what lap I am on.
As it turned out, several volunteers had started packing up equipment and leaving, but a host of others remained, along with the timing and lap-count equipment. Unfortunately, they had run out of energy packets and Gatorade about an hour ago.
So I just kept going, one lap at a time.
Thirty-three minutes later, no word on time being called. None of the remaining volunteers seemed in a hurry to leave. It turned out the resident cheerleader had made a mistake, not malicious, just an error. Someone conveyed to me that there was no timeout. In fact, the head volunteer had planned to remain for at least another hour and a half. He told me I only had twelve more laps to go.
Lap 103. Two of us left in the marathon. The other guy was on lap 104. We met up and encouraged each other through the last laps.
Finally, a nice lady told me all I had to do was run around the baseball diamond, and I would have completed the marathon. I ran the whole distance and even found the strength to sprint the last 50 yards. Felt good. Of the 73 that started, slightly over half finished. I applaud all who try.
A marathon and sobriety, one lap at a time, one day at a time.
