Running on the Inside

(Oregon is a beautiful state to hike)

I recently read an article on how COVID is impacting Oregon State Penitentiary (OSP). It made me think about the basic freedoms we have lost since the pandemic. It also reminded me of a race I ran at OSP almost four years ago, all because of a story I read in Runner's World by Michael Heald called, "For Inmates “The Wall” Has a Totally Different Meaning.” It talked about a self-funded running program, dating back to Prefontaine days, for adults in custody (inmates). Only 130 inmates out of 2000, with at least 18 months of good behavior, were allowed to be on the team. There is a three-year waiting list. OSP hosts a 5K/10K race most non-winter months and a half marathon in September. I don't know what made me decide to race, possibly curiosity. After passing a background check, I was sent a list of rules for those of us from the outside. Shorts must be to the knee. No strappy tops. No headphones or portable devices. No food. No keys. Nothing in your pockets. Whatever you wear into the yard, whether knee brace, hoodie, or gloves, you must wear at all times. And most importantly, DO NOT wear blue. Races are limited to less than 20 people from the outside. Any higher number and the guards would not be able to track prison movement, combined with the 100 or so inmates who also signed up to run.

What surprised me about Oregon State Penitentiary is, it is located in the state capital, Salem. It does not reside in an open field, in an obscure town surrounded by warning signs not to pick up hitchhikers. After being given an orange vest (for those of us who were not veteran racers and already wearing orange), and after walking through a very sensitive metal detector, we - five women and four men walking single file and hugging the right wall - were led to a room. The door bolted shut behind us with a thundering lock. We were given the speech by the OSP Recreations Specialist which explained the risks of potentially being held hostage or a riot occurring. The guy next to me asks if I am nervous. I think is just my normal look, but I told him I was nervous about coming in last. Weeks leading up to the race, I voiced this fear to friends. And they asked in disbelief, “This is your only concern about entering a maximum state prison?” One by one we are called to a window and after our identity is validated, and we trade our driver's license for a visitor's badge, our hand is stamped with ink visible only to black light. Then another door opens on command and we are led into the yard. I look up at the 26' concrete wall surrounding us, and the alert guards armed with automatics stationed in strategic corners atop. A fellow runner in orange discreetly pointed out Death Row, a short distance away. We had just stepped into a different world.

Immediately we were welcomed by a guy I recognized from The Wall story and I forgot about the concrete and the guards. As with the start of any race, runners gather and talk about training, running shoes, the weather…. I met an inmate whose family lives in East Point (just outside Atlanta). I met another who told me he has bad luck - his birthday is 9/11, which was two days away. I met several who mentioned they are lifers, only they said it so casually like they were telling how many years they worked for Coca-Cola. I met a guy, who told me he also had been in Finance and that spreadsheets couldn't help him now. He stated there are only three rules to surviving: don't fight; don't drink; don't have relations. I saw at the head of the start, the fastest runner. He runs a half in around 1:20, so less than 7-minute miles. I noticed most of the inmates wore Nikes. Right, Oregon, makes sense. Plus it is the brand the commissary stocks. As we lined up for the race, I asked a group of guys "What is your targeted finish time?" Secretly I am trying to gauge my place across the finish, but also I wanted to start in the right pace group. Most said they didn't know; they had never run 13.1 miles before. At best, they ran maybe 5, 7 miles at one time. Then it hit me - they have limited time in the yard to train. They have nothing but time. What they lacked is basic freedom. The race was like any other, an inmate blasted upbeat music through speakers, playing anything from Taylor Swift (which I thought was an interesting choice given the audience) to Eminem to DJ Khaled, peppered with comical commentary in-between songs. When runners passed up someone, each would shout words of encouragement and clap in that boxy, rhythmic way that signals, "You got this." Everyone was very respectful. Beyond the finish line, fresh-cut fruit and Gatorade were served. All paid for by the inmates. The vibe was like any other race.

Days later I googled some of the names I happen to remember. I found out the man who kept a verbal count of my 31 laps was convicted of murdering his wife, and Ann Rule, a true-crime author, wrote a book about him. Another adult in custody was in for vehicular manslaughter. As a kid in his 20's, while driving drunk one night, he struck another car and the driver of that car died. Another man was in for rape of a minor, only he was also a minor at the time of the "crime." And he was currently married to the "victim." That day, for a few hours, we were all just runners trying to finish a race, and today, we are all humans trying to stay safe.

Postscript: I remember the names of the adults in custody and outside runners I met. I chose not to mention them for this story.

(Fastest runner is also the tallest inmate pictured in white headband. I am #116 female, far left.)