Well, I finally did it — I completed one of the hardest goals I set for myself in prison: I ran a half-marathon.
13.1 miles… actually, 13.2 for good measure.
Before I came here, the farthest I had ever run was about 4.5 miles — and honestly, I never wanted to go farther. But after seeing guys out on the track doing long distances when I first arrived, I decided to make it a goal. Nine months later, I crossed that finish line.
I had planned to run 8 miles on Friday after my 10-mile run went so well earlier in the week. But Friday turned into one of those “prison schedule” days — RDAP staff asked me to help with their art project all day, and the meals were just too good to pass up. French toast for breakfast, fish and mac & cheese for lunch, and pasta with garlic bread for dinner. Around here, when the food is good, you don’t skip it. So I turned Friday into a “carb-loading and rest” day and decided to go for the half-marathon Saturday instead.
Saturday morning, I skipped breakfast, ate a PowerBar before lunch, and hit the track at 11:30. The first five miles flew by. My legs were a little sore, but my breathing felt strong. I kept telling myself, “This is easy,”—a little trick I learned from my trainer to get through tough workouts.
By mile 10, though, things got rough. My legs started screaming. At 10.8, I hit the wall hard—every step felt like being stabbed. I walked a lap to recover, then pushed through two more before hitting that wall again. I seriously thought about quitting more than once.
Running isn’t really a physical exercise—it’s a mental one. You have to convince your mind to do what your body swears it can’t. I once read a study about Navy SEAL candidates: only about 20% make it through training, but that number nearly doubles for long-distance runners. It’s not about strength—it’s about grit.
So with seven laps left, I changed strategy. The track has a short uphill section that was draining me, so I decided to walk that part and sprint the rest. It worked. My legs were on fire, but I refused to quit. When I hit the final lap, I sprinted the whole thing—even the hill—and finished strong.
13.2 miles. Done.
I was beyond exhausted. I tried to walk it off, but my legs gave out, and I ended up lying in the grass for 30 minutes. I wanted to feel proud, but honestly, I was too drained to feel anything but pain. Eventually, I dragged myself upstairs, ate a protein bar and some peanut butter, and sat in a chair for an hour before I could even make it to the shower. The shower hurt, too. Then I climbed into my top bunk and passed out for four hours.
Today I feel better. I did a long yoga session to stretch everything out and should be fully recovered by tomorrow. I don’t think I’ll be running another half-marathon anytime soon, but I’m proud I did it.
I pushed my mind and body farther than I ever thought possible—and that makes me feel ready for whatever comes next.Stay safe and legal out there,
Larry
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