When the first inmates arrived at the Oregon State Penitentiary (OSP) back in 1866, it did not have a wall. Prisoners were instead fitted with an unforgiving iron ankle shackle, and anyone who tried to run in the ‘Oregon Boot’ wasn’t going anywhere fast. A 14-foot wall was later built. By 2014, when I started going inside the prison to run races, the boot had been out of use for 75 years, and inmates could buy running shoes at the prison shop. Running has become one of the most sought-after privileges for the men inside. The wall, incidentally, now stands eight metres high.
'I don’t know about those shorts,’ the guard says to me. ‘They’re supposed to go to the knee.’ So while the other outsiders slip off their shoes and pad toward the metal detector I tug at my waistband until it’s riding precariously low. Most of the people waiting for us inside have been convicted of violent crimes, so the dress code is ostensibly for our own protection. The message is, show too much skin and there’s no telling what could happen. So I pull my shorts down a little further until she finally nods.
Otherwise, the rituals are the same as on my previous visit: the ‘you may be taken hostage’ speech, the stamp of invisible ink, the gates opening and closing, and before I know it we’ve passed the cell blocks and we’re back outside, heading for the exercise yard.
Despite an expanse of grass and a surprising number of flowers, there’s an overwhelming sense of grey. My eyes hit concrete in every direction, with the occasional flash of razor wire. Out on the asphalt track the runners are warming up in sweatshirts and jeans. The sun hasn’t quite cleared the top of the wall and we’re shivering in its long shadows, even with our mandatory extra layer – an orange vest, to help the guards pick us out from the blue-clad inmates.
Despite an expanse of grass and a surprising number of flowers, there’s an overwhelming sense of grey. My eyes hit concrete in every direction, with the occasional flash of razor wire. Out on the asphalt track the runners are warming up in sweatshirts and jeans. The sun hasn’t quite cleared the top of the wall and we’re shivering in its long shadows, even with our mandatory extra layer – an orange vest, to help the guards pick us out from the blue-clad inmates.
As soon as the gate closes behind us, a small group of inmates approaches, bringing safety pins for our race numbers. I introduce Gary, who I’ve brought along with me for the first time today. Even though Gary is nearly 50, he has a 2:29 marathon to his name and is going to run circles around everyone today except Jeff, the fastest inmate. [At the request of many inmates, we’ve used only their first names and, in some cases, pseudonyms. Out of consideration for their victims, we haven’t included any details of person-on-person crimes.]
One of the guys pulls me aside. ‘I’m glad you came back,’ he says, then confides that he woke up in tears before realising it was race day. We’re the only visitors he gets. We shake hands, but to be honest, I feel a little weird about it. A few nights ago I looked up his record. I stopped myself before I got very far, but I wonder if he thinks I now know.
‘Twenty minutes!’ the inmate doing the announcing says. ‘Twenty minutes ‘till the second annual High Wall Half Marathon!’
As every runner knows, our sport has a way of shaping your identity. The self-discipline involved in getting out there can be applied to pretty much everything you do. For many of the inmates, particularly those who have been derailed by addiction, running offers a fundamentally different blueprint for how to live.
Located an hour south of Portland in the city of Salem, the OSP is male-only, but both women and men from the outside are welcome to compete against inmates in the monthly race series which runs from March to October – seven 5Ks and 10Ks (run concurrently) and one half marathon. Out of 2,000 inmates, just 130 are part of the running club. Over four decades old, organised and funded by inmates, the programme’s very existence suggests the possibility of rehabilitation. Eighteen months of good behaviour are required before an inmate can join, and it can be years before space opens up to those on the waiting list. In addition to the race series, club members are eligible for ‘running turnout,’ which allows daily access to the yard to train. This is a vastly preferable alternative to ‘main yardlines,’ when non-running inmates clog up the track.
It makes all the difference, inmates Todd and James told me on a previous visit, to be able to set goals, to have races to train for. They are, as James put it, part of the ‘one bad day’ club. The implication being that they had been leading respectable lives until one bad day they just snapped. I imagined bar fights gone ugly, drink driving, drug-induced stupidity. ‘When I run,’ James said, ‘I don’t see the walls. There’s a tremendous amount of realisation that life has to go on. It can get pretty rough and dark in here. But we’re not just going to be here.’
The story of how the OSP got from the Oregon Boot to prison-sanctioned half marathons really begins with legendary US distance runner and Oregon native Steve Prefontaine. When ‘Pre’ died in car accident in 1975, some of those most devastated by the news were inmates at the OSP. But they weren’t just Pre fans; he had been secretly coaching them for years. ‘I’m going for a run by myself today,’ he would tell his teammates, then drive an hour north to Salem. Though he cultivated an outlaw persona on the track, he kept his relationship with actual outlaws under wraps.
Imagine if Johnny Cash hadn’t just performed in Folsom Prison, but also taught songwriting workshops there, keeping it secret until passing away in a tragic accident, and you’ll begin to understand the profound connection between the OSP running club and Pre. ‘It was the gospel to him, that running could save you,’ says Mary Marckx Creel, Prefontaine’s former girlfriend. ‘By spreading it to prisoners, he was showing that they could be redeemed.’
‘Runners! Fifteen minutes!’ the announcer calls. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that there are only four outsiders running today. How many people would want to take a Friday off work to run in a prison? But Todd, the Running Program Coordinator, tells me that’s four more than last year, along with about twice as many inmates.
A crowd has gathered at a sign showing lap splits for finishing times from 1:30 up to two hours. Mickey, a shirtless, tanned, youthful 51-year-old, asks Gary and I what we’re aiming for. When Gary confesses it’s somewhere in the 1:20s, Mickey whistles: ‘You’ll be right there with Jeff.’
As usual, Jeff is on his own, stretching. He pulls out his earbuds as we approach. Like Mickey, he’s already shirtless. The fastest inmate is bigger than I remember. He must be six-five, six-six. ‘I don’t know why exactly,’ he says, ‘but I’m feeling better.’ He tests his Achilles tendon to reaffirm this. ‘Last week I ran 1:26 practice.’
I go looking for my own rival in the ‘recreation building’ in the middle of the yard. It’s the least charming ‘barn,’ as inmates call it, I’ve ever been inside. I notice a guy pinning a photo of his family to his shorts. I collect my bib and give my name to the guys in charge of the results. Below every race number is the running club’s motto: ‘Run for Your Life.’
Finally I spot Scott, alone at a table along the far wall, poring over a printout of his splits from last year. He looks extraordinarily focused. ‘Michael,’ he says. ‘Ready for this?’ Outside, the announcer gives the 10-minute warning. Scott pulls off his sweatshirt.
Not that I hadn’t felt at ease with other inmates, but Scott has this gentle easiness about him and my first time inside a lot of personal stuff just seemed to naturally come up: his six kids, the wife who visits daily, the 6,000 miles he’s run, the 8,000 on the elliptical, the 7,000 on the exercise bike. ‘If you add it all up,’ he said about the distance, ‘I’ve nearly gone around the world in here.’
It’s difficult, trying to get to know someone who doesn’t have a phone number or email address. After my first race, I considered writing a letter to Scott but was reluctant to give up my address, opening myself up to who knows how many years of correspondence. Then there’s the whole question of why he’s here, and whether or not the answer will change everything I think about him. So why even ask the question? Either you believe that people – even those who have committed grievous acts of violence – can recover, or you don’t. Regardless, it’s worth considering the case of Kelley Slayton.
Locked up at 24, Kelley didn’t get sober until six years into his 14-year sentence. ‘My dad was a big influence,’ he says. ‘He won the masters division of the Portland Marathon when I was 19. At the time, I would run races with him after getting loaded the night before, but I didn’t see myself as a runner. Once I was inside, I eventually realised running was a way of bringing us closer.’
He believes there is a clear link between his running and his sobriety. ‘With those races in there,’ he says, ‘I hated losing. I could tell right away that drinking wasn’t doing me any good in life. My last drink was out of a mop bucket.’
Kelley now lives with a joy that comes from beating the odds. Known as ‘Rock’ on the inside, the former prison middleweight boxing champ would look seriously intimidating if not for his constant smile. It’s difficult to believe this is the same man who, at his sentencing, was called a ‘monster’ by the judge. Now 47, Kelley was released in 2006, having completed his first marathon on the unforgiving blacktop of the OSP. Since then, he’s clocked a 2:50 PB. More importantly, he’s also managed to find a meaningful career. After struggling for years to find work, he eventually landed his ‘dream job’ as a counsellor at a rehab centre. ‘Every day I get to help people,’ he told me, incredulous at his good fortune.
Kelley is also the only former inmate who goes back into the prison to race. ‘Every time I go in there, I’m showing people that you can come out here and make it in life,’ he said. ‘I’m lucky. About eight out of 10 people go back to prison. They talk about being institutionalised – I fight that notion.’
‘Runners on your marks…’ As 37 of us toe the line, the rest of the OSP running club is either manning the water station, serving as our lap counters, or simply ready to cheer us round the 31 loops of the yard that will add up to our half marathon. ‘Get set,’ says the announcer. There is, of course, no gun.
Jeff and Gary zip off. I settle into a pack with Scott and Mickey. Even with music playing over the PA system, it feels pretty empty out on the track. The guards, as you’d imagine, do not clap or cheer or ring cow bells or hold up signs bearing witty words of encouragement. But every time we round the back corner of the ‘barn’ and reach the shade under the wall, the announcer is once again audible and there’s a tangible lift in energy. ‘Six down for Gary Geist!’ he says. Which means Gary’s already got half a lap on us. And Jeff’s got even more than that. Before long they’ll come speeding past us.
Among the crowd of blue at the finish line is one man wearing a red shirt. Scott tells me he’s the only prison employee to cheer on the runners. I’m not surprised to learn that he’s also a marathoner. The most dedicated spectator, however, is an older inmate, standing alone, who claps heartily every time pass.
The pace is just the right side of conversational that a couple times per lap I’m able to summon the breath to chat. Scott tells me how pleased he is to see other inmates in the mix. ‘So many people have improved.’ he says. I ask him why he joined the running club. ‘I was facing 25 years,’ Scott says, ‘and I knew there was going to be limited access to healthcare in here. I wanted to take care of my heart. And emotionally, I just wanted to run.’
After a stroke forced Bill Dellinger to stop coaching at the OSP in 2000, a man named Dick Brown took over his role at the penitentiary. Brown had already guided numerous runners to the Olympics and World Championships, and had been at the forefront of recovery research for decades, his findings influencing many other coaches, including Alberto Salazar.;
Brown coached at the OSP for a decade until being diagnosed with cancer in 2010. And when I visited him at his home in Eugene, Oregon, he was full of fascinating insights about the running club and its members. ‘I felt totally safe,’ he told me. ‘I felt appreciated. I do remember the guards telling us, “If anything happens, just lay on the ground,” but it was always a safe, friendly atmosphere.’
‘There was a saying in the prison,’ he said. ‘There’s the sad, the mad and the bad. There’s about 70 per cent sad – they’re decent people that got hooked up with drugs or alcohol or made a dumb choice. There’s 15 per cent that are mad – just mentally ill. And there are 15 per cent that are just bad to the bone.’
‘The runners feel that it’s a privilege to be in the club,’ he went on. ‘What I always come back to is this: I never saw anybody make fun of any runner there. Even when you had somebody that was overweight, or not very athletic – even if they just walked most of it, but finished – the guys encouraged them. There is such a sense of pride. Not just in themselves, but in one another.’
It was Dick Brown who brought Ben Andrews, a four-minute miler he was coaching on the outside, inside for the first time in 2000. Their visit coincided with Kelley Slayton’s final loss. ‘I don’t remember being nervous,’ says Andrews. ‘More just curious. What had happened to these people? I’ll never forget the first time I saw Kelley out in the yard. He was so amped.’
‘The first time, I ran with them. I was like, “I’m not gonna be the asshole that comes in here and kicks their asses”. Then someone five metres back yelled, “Hey, Pretty Boy! You better run! You didn’t come here to talk!” They called me Pretty Boy because I shaved my legs. Just chirping, “Pretty Boy, Pretty Boy!” and I’m thinking, I’m dead! What do I do? So I went back into the pack and introduced myself, and the guy was like, “I wanna tell you something: If you don’t run hard, you won’t be welcome back. They might let you in, but you won’t be welcome.’’
‘After I won, I saw the real race was for second, between Rock and a guy called Johnny Ace. And Rock’s leading, leading, leading, then Johnny just outkicks him. Rock is tatted up, he looks like a bad dude. And he was crying. He wasn’t hiding. It was just raw emotion. He was just stripped. So I went over to tell him, “Hey man, good race. What’s the matter?”
‘He said, “I hate losing!”
‘And I said, “I can help you to never lose again.”
‘And he just looked up, and it was like his tears went right back into his eyes. And he said, ‘What can you teach me, man?’’
And with that, Andrews was the next elite runner to coach prisoners at the OSP.
Over the years Andrews’ relationship with Kelley developed beyond simply coaching. ‘I went through some tough times and he was one of the friendly voices in my life,’ says Andrews. ‘We’re from the same part of town. It could have all gone differently had he not been using. It changed my life forever, meeting Kelley. To think that I could have an impact on someone…’
There were no issues as Kelley’s release date came and went. ‘This was my friend about to enter a new chapter of his life. That’s all it came down to,’ says Andrews. ‘Recently, I hired someone with a record, all because of my relationship with Kelley. I view people differently now.’
Out on the course, just about every body type possible is represented, with inmates ranging from their 20s to their 60s. Some, like Jeff, are remarkably fit. Others are carrying a bit more around the middle. When each runner reaches a noteworthy lap, the announcer says that so-and-so is ‘halfway there,’ or ‘two-thirds of the way there,’ and there is a resulting cheer. I wonder if any of this can be heard on the other side of the wall.
Before long, I hear Jeff’s footsteps for a second time. Then along comes Gary. ‘You gonna get him?’ I ask, nodding at Jeff’s receding figure. ‘He’s pretty fast,’ Gary says, pulling ahead of me effortlessly. ‘I don’t know.’ But Gary continues to reel Jeff in, catching him on the final loop. They race side by side. Just ahead of them are two pairs of guys they’re about to lap. And just beyond those guys is the narrowest section of the course, where a guard stands next to an open gate. Gary realises that he has just enough time to get around the slower runners before the gate, so he throws in a surge. Jeff can’t quite cover the move. Gary gets through the gate first. Jeff bellows something more suited to the prison yard than these pages.
‘It was a little scary,’ Gary admits to me on the drive home later. ‘At the time I thought Jeff was yelling at me. I thought I had an angry convict chasing me. When he finished, I felt a little sheepish going up to him, but he was so nice. He’d got stuck behind the other guys. So I think he was yelling at them, in frustration, or maybe himself. He wanted to win. And those guys put on a great race. Could you believe all the fruit at the end?’ I confess I was not expecting to be served mango.
‘When I was in there,’ says Kelley Slayton, ‘and I knew people from the outside were coming, it was a day of greatness. Those were special days of the year. I’ll go back again.’
‘After I got out,’ he says, ‘there were times I would tell myself I was never gonna go back. And run with that wall there. It seems like my whole life I was running with that wall there. In there, when I was running every day, sometimes I’d go through this stage, like, “What do I have to look forward to?” I hate that wall. And I’d imagine flying over that wall and never having to see it again. Then when I came back for the first time, before the race even started I went over to it and I was just running my hand down the side of the wall. I don’t know if it was a spiritual experience, but this wall, that had been here for so long – and I hated it when I was in there – I was crying about it. I was happy. I was happy that I’d come back. I care about those guys. I grew up there. I truly feel like I grew up as a person there and when I go back, the toughest thing is leaving.’
If running can truly help people on the path to rehabilitation and redemption then developing that sense of community, of caring what happens to others, is surely an integral part of the process. On that day at the OSP it was a full hour after the race that I first heard Kip’s name. My sweat had long since dried and my IT bands were as stiff as two wet towels left out in the sun when I heard the announcer saying, ‘Kip has two laps left.’ Everyone got to their feet
During the race, Kip was just one more man in blue, but now I saw that the man in 37th place out of 37, shuffling along in the shade of the eight-metre wall was the inmate I’d earlier seen pinning the photo of his family to his shorts.
While we watched him circle the yard for the second-to-last time, the guys told me his story. Kip had been a meth addict. One day he got himself into a high-speed chase and crashed into a police car. So he was sent to the OSP, and not long into his sentence, he was diagnosed with renal cell carcinoma. But he beat the cancer. And so, just a few months ago, he and his wife decided to become runners. They wanted to clean up for their kids and work toward something together. And here he was, about to finish his first half marathon.
We cast aside our cups and settled in behind him. Everyone was a runner, even the people who didn’t run, the people in blue jeans, the lap counters, the water station volunteers. Kip didn’t acknowledge us. He just stuck his head forward and led us round that final loop. Such was the sense of collective will and emotion that by the time we rounded the barn for the final time, I was almost expecting the wall not to be there.
Two friends of mine got married that day and at their wedding later that night I thought about Kip and all those men I’d run alongside earlier: how many nights like tonight have they kept from happening? How many joyful moments have they destroyed? For so many of their victims, the losses – of loved ones, of trust, of a sense of safety – are ongoing. But I keep coming back to something James told me. ‘There are three reasons we run in here,’ he said. ‘We’re running from our past, and from the stress and depression that come from being in here. We’re running to something, doing what we can to feel normal and healthy. And we’re running for something, to show the world outside that we’re improving, in honour of our victims.’ The miles may never add up, but that doesn’t make the effort any less worthwhile.
Photography by Holly Andres
