Posts by Liam Boylan-Pett:
Tell us a Story
Will your story be in an issue of LØPE Magazine?
In case you haven’t noticed, we here at LØPE Magazine love running. Heck, we started up a publication about running because we couldn’t find a home for the types of stories we wanted to tell. And the types of stories we want to tell are those hard-to-find ones, the ones that not many people know about that are hiding on some wall on the results sheet after a local 5K or trail race. It’s not easy work, though, finding those stories. Sure, we love going through archives of results and rifling through old newspapers for stories … but we want to try something new.
So, we’re asking for some help. We were inspired by all of the #GlobalRunningDay posts, and it got us thinking: We want you to share your story with us.
Then, we’ll tell it for you.
How? Simply write us 100 or so words about your “best run/jump/throw ever.” It could be any run you want–a race, a workout, or the run you got engaged on. Anything works. We simply want to tell your story. And please, field event competitors, we are eager to report on you, too! We may even have a story in the works on the shot put in the pipeline.
From there, we’ll sift through everyone’s submission and pick one for an upcoming issue of LØPE, where we’ll report, write, and edit your story in the “oral history” format. That’s three-thousand-ish words on your best run ever. Sound like a plan?
(Writers, while we would love to hear your pitches, the budget we have is extremely small, and until we get something that resembles a budget, we don’t want to ask you to work for free.)
Please fill email us at firstname.lastname@example.org or shoot us a D.M. on our Twitter or Instagram profiles. We’re looking forward to hearing from you. Winners, along with five lucky winners, will receive a LØPE prize pack for entering (prize pack includes a subscription to the magazine, a mug, and a special print edition of Innocent People Don’t Run).
So hurry, but slowly.
Innocent People Don’t Run
The Huwe Burton Story.
Innocent People Don’t Run
LØPE MAGAZINE – Issue No. 006, February 2019
By Liam Boylan-Pett
The man stands in the crowd and waits. Shoulder to shoulder with thousands of others, he shifts his weight from side to side and situates the drawstring on the basketball shorts he wears over sweatpants. After what seems like forever, the starting horn blares, and he lurches forward. Moving in small, staccato steps to avoid clipping the heels in front of him, he barely notices the claps, cheers, and whistles filling the air. He feels an extra bounce in his brand-new shoes on this crisp fall morning as he inches closer to the start line of the New York City Marathon. Traveling with the mass of fellow runners, it takes him 26 minutes and 41 seconds to get there.
For Huwe Burton, 26 minutes is nothing. He has been waiting years for this. Now, he has 26.2 miles to go.
And so much more than that.
On the evening of January 3, 1989, Huwe Burton, then 16, walked into his home on the third floor at 3515 Eastchester Road in the Bronx. He had attended Evander Childs High School that day and, after coming home briefly in the afternoon, gone over to a friend’s house. His mom’s car was not there that afternoon, so Huwe (pronounced Hugh) had guessed that she was off at the store. It was odd that the car still was not back that evening, though. Even more odd was the fact that he had not heard from his mother and that she didn’t seem to be home. Then, he nudged the bedroom door open.
His mother, Keziah Burton, a 59-year-old registered nurse, was facedown on her bed. She was naked from the waist down. There were two fatal stab wounds in her neck. Huwe’s mother was dead.
From there, things moved quickly and in a blur. Huwe found the phone and dialed 911. Through tears, he told the responder on the other end of the line that his mom was dead. Soon, red and blue lights flashed through the window of his home, and detectives and EMT workers shuffled in and out.
Raphael Burton, Keziah’s husband and Huwe’s father, was away visiting family in Jamaica at the time, so Huwe, who was questioned by detectives the evening of the murder, stayed with his godmother, Eloise Gilmore, the night of January 3. He did so again the following night, but not until after the police questioned him one more time. Sergeant Frank Viggiano, the commanding officer of the 47th Precinct Detective Squad, had doubts. “We were told by the son that he had just arrived home from the school and found his mother dead,” Viggiano told the New York Times. “But he was not as distraught as I might think a 16-year-old would be in finding his mother in that condition.”
Raphael was still stuck in Jamaica on January 5, when two detectives arrived at Eloise’s house. Huwe went with the detectives to the Laconia Avenue station house for his third round of questioning in as many days.
There, Huwe cracked.
He admitted to the detectives that he had had sex with a girl he visited the day of the murder. She was 13. The detectives harped on it, threatening that they might charge him with statutory rape. He should make things easy on himself, they told him, and cooperate. After hours of interrogation and moments before he was going to leave for home, Huwe allegedly broke down. The detectives said he confessed to the murder.
Allegedly, he wrote the following in his confession:
I Huwe Burton know an individual by the name of “Bugs” who I owed $200 to for some crack I received from him to sell. Instead of selling the crack, I [kept] it for own personal use. I got the crack from him on December 16. I never gave him the money and he was hasselling me for it by calling me on the phone and seeing me on the street. Since this period I have been using it off and on. The last time I used it was on January 2 around 8 or 9 p.m.
I got home around 10 p.m. and had a spat with my mother about something I was supposed to do for her and never did it. I was still high on crack and I went to bed. I got up at 7:20 the next morning and got ready for school. When I came out of my room my mother was still arguing about what I didn’t do the night before. I walked to the kitchen and got a steak knife. I walked by my father’s room and had the knife in my hand. She then asked what I was doing with it and said, “Are you going to kill me?” I said, “And if I was?” And that’s when she went to smack me. I moved and accidentally stabbed my mother in her neck.
The written confession continued with Huwe explaining he had offered his mother’s 1988 Honda Accord to Bugs instead of the $200 for crack. He left the keys of the car on the floor under the driver’s seat. When he returned home from school, the car was gone. Huwe, his confession stated, assumed Bugs had taken it.
The interrogation went past midnight, into the next day. At 3:05 a.m. on January 6, according to police, Huwe agreed to give a videotaped confession. He was charged with second-degree murder immediately following his alleged confession. He had yet to even see his father since his mother was killed, and now he was under arrest. The headline in Section A, Page 30 of the January 7, 1989 edition of the New York Times was to the point: “Son Kills Mother Over Crack Money, Police Say.” In the following days, headlines in papers throughout the country were even more sensational, referring to Huwe as a “Crack-Crazed Teen.”
Huwe was taken to Rikers Island, where he remained on the day of his mother’s funeral. Not only was he being charged with her death, but he could not be there to mourn her. Rather, a eulogy he wrote was read by a mourner. “Right now I’m being accused of your death,” the statement read. “You know as well as everyone in this room there is nothing in this world that could make me take your life.”
On January 11, with Huwe still in custody, police spotted Keziah’s car in Mount Vernon, a neighborhood minutes from the Burton home. The driver had run a stoplight—and that driver wasn’t “Bugs.” Rather, a man named Emanuel Green was in possession of the car. In December 1988, Green had moved into the downstairs apartment at 3515 Eastchester, just below the Burton family. He was a convicted felon, once serving a sentence for armed robbery, and once for rape. He had lived beneath the Burton family—in the multi-unit home they owned—for just over one month.
In his confession, Huwe never mentioned Green.
Each year, on the first Sunday of November, the Otisville Correctional Facility often held a marathon of their own. They would start around 10 a.m., just like the race down in the city, and let the inmates take their shot at 26.2 miles. Huwe often participated, never finishing the entire 26.2 miles, but getting up to about 13. He had seen the marathon on Channel 7, and he was amazed by those who could finish the distance in the prison yard. He doesn’t remember exactly when, but he made a decision that he was going to run the marathon one day. The real one.
On the first Sunday in November 2016, Huwe passes the starting line, and the pack around him thins out.
Finally, he has room to extend his gait. He became a runner because he wanted to get in shape for the prison football league, and it stuck. Running made him feel free. It gave him something to hold on to.
He picks up the pace as he climbs the Verrazzano Bridge on his way to Brooklyn. The bib number pinned to his red shirt rustles in gusts of wind. It is positioned in the middle of Huwe’s T-shirt, just below the words “Innocence Project.”
“This wasn’t all for nothing,” Huwe told me the first time we met in August 2015. “It just has to have been for something.”
On the night of January 11, 1989, 22-year-old Emanuel Green, driving Keziah Burton’s 1988 gray Honda Accord through the streets of Mount Vernon, New York, ran a stoplight. Almost immediately, police lights flashed behind him as the blare of sirens filled the street. It didn’t take long for the patrolmen to realize the car was stolen, and the next thing Green knew, he was being charged with criminal possession of stolen property. Because of his priors, Green was jail-bound. Sergeant Viggiano’s interest was piqued—this was the car of a woman who had been murdered only eight days prior. By 3:22 a.m. the next morning, Green had waived his rights and was in front of a camera, taping a statement regarding the Keziah Burton murder.
According to Green’s statement, January 3, 1989, had gone much differently than the way Huwe had described it in his alleged confession. The way Green told it, Huwe knocked on Green’s door that morning and asked him if he knew how to sell a stolen car. Specifically, his mother’s car. “I’ll take care of my mother,” Huwe allegedly told Green. Green then said that he heard Huwe and Keziah arguing before he heard a thud. After a few minutes of silence, Green claimed Huwe came out of the apartment and said, “I killed my mother. I stabbed her. I stabbed her.”
Then, Green said his “criminal mind” took over, and he decided he should help Huwe make it look like it was a robbery gone awry. As he told police, Green went upstairs with Huwe and dumped the contents of Keziah’s pocketbook onto the floor. He took $120 and gave $120 to Huwe. Then, they went into the bedroom, where Green said Huwe removed the knife from Keziah’s neck and wiped the blood off of it.
Green said he advised Huwe to go to school and that he would take care of the car. He never said anything about Huwe seeming high.
One week later, Green was found with the car and was telling detectives his version of events, which, at the very least, implicated him as an accessory after the fact.
In its report of the January 11 incident, the Mount Vernon Police Department noted that they intended to turn Green over to the Bronx police in order to charge Green for his involvement in the homicide. But that never happened. Green was never charged.
On March 30, 1989, the initial criminal possession charge against Green was dropped. That August, he testified before a grand jury investigating Keziah Burton’s killing. That testimony contradicted his first statement, but it held up. Once again, Green was not charged in the killing.
Within one year, Green was dead, killed in an unrelated love-triangle shooting.
His testimony would live on, however, as vital piece of evidence that would eventually put Huwe Burton behind bars.
Huwe knows the marathon won’t be easy. He is prepared for it to get difficult. He rolled through the first 10 miles of the race feeling good, but the longer he moves, the more he starts to notice things. His shoes are rubbing his feet too tightly around the toes. He is hungrier than he thought he would be at this point, craving more than just the water he keeps seeing at stops.
He knows he did not train as much as he needed to. He simply did not have the time. Huwe works as a mechanic for an elevator installation company, going into elevator shafts at sites around the city to make sure everything is in place and safe. He’s one of the people who carries his hard hat with him on his subway commute. The hours are long, especially when you’re jumping at the chance to work overtime for that time-and-a-half pay, which Huwe does whenever he can. That doesn’t leave much time to run. But Huwe did when he could, fitting in morning runs of three or four miles along Riverside Drive in Washington Heights. He worked his long run up to about three hours, but it never got up to 20 miles. He knows he is not exactly ready to set the course on fire.
Running through Brooklyn, however, he charges ahead.
The trial took place in 1991, over two years after Keziah’s murder. Huwe had been released on bail and spent time with his father during those years. Even in the lead-up to the trial, there were questions of whether the “crack-crazed teen” had killed his mother. The Village Voice ran a feature with the headline: DID HUWE BURTON KILL HIS MOM?
The piece, written by Peter Noel, highlighted the many discrepancies in Emanuel Green and Huwe’s statements, and stated point blank: “Although Emanuel Green, a convicted felon, gave several conflicting statements about his role in the slaying, police and the D.A., perhaps anxious to cross one more murder off the crime blotter, apparently snatched the nearest warm body: Huwe Burton.”
William Kunstler and Ronald Kuby were Huwe’s lawyers. The two were some of the best civil rights defense attorneys in the game—Raphael Burton did everything he could to defend Huwe. Huwe’s team focused on the coerced confession, which, at the time, was not a usual means of defense. While the science and knowledge about unreliable confessions has grown recently, in the late 1980s and early ’90s, no one could wrap their head around someone confessing to a crime they did not commit. Huwe admitted he had done it—what else was there to discuss?
Kunstler and Kuby urged jurors to look further into the confession, and they harped on Emanuel Green’s role in the crime. How, they asked, could both confessions be true when so little could be corroborated between them? Indeed, Kunstler attempted to call an expert to testify on the unreliability of Huwe’s confession, but the court denied the request.
The jury believed Huwe was guilty. Charged as an adult, Huwe was convicted of second-degree murder and weapons possession. He was sentenced to fifteen-years-to-life in prison. He was 18.
Running north on First Avenue, about 18 miles into the race, Huwe is exhausted. His mouth is dry no matter how much water he drinks, his stomach aches, and his quads and calves seize with every step he takes. He stops to walk, hoping his body will cooperate for these final miles.
Huwe is past the point of the longest run of his life now, both in distance and in time.
He can’t believe the crowd is still so enthusiastic. Spectators line First Avenue, at times three or four people deep, and constantly cheer for the runners charging by them. Thousands have already gone by, thousands more will. Huwe contemplates quitting. He has had the thought already, and he will again several times over the next eight miles, but he knows he’s not going to stop. He’s going to finish—no matter how long it takes.
Then he spots a familiar face. She is stopping to stretch, and she sees him, too.
It’s a woman he first met eight years ago.
“Let’s keep moving,” she says.
Huwe joins Laura Cohen, and they start running again, beginning their march toward the finish line.
In the late 1980s, Laura Cohen was a law student at Columbia University. At the time, Cohen says, it felt like the thing to do was go straight from Columbia Law to a high-paying job on Wall Street. Cohen wasn’t interested in following most of her classmates, though.
One day, Cohen and a few of her friends who were also interested in public service went to a lecture by Arthur Kinoy, the civil rights lawyer who was speaking about his legal autobiography, Rights on Trial. He was a professor at the Rutgers University Law School across the Hudson River in Newark, New Jersey.
Kinoy, tiny in stature, was charismatic. He spoke eloquently, pounding the podium while voicing his concerns about a serious constitutional crisis he claimed the country was in the midst of. It was unlike anything Cohen had heard at Columbia lectures. Cohen’s boyfriend—who would eventually become her husband—looked at her, impressed by Kinoy.
“We’re in the wrong school,” he said. “We should be across the river.”
She eventually would be.
Closing in on 20 miles, Huwe slowly crosses the Willis Avenue Bridge and enters the Bronx, the borough he called home until he was accused of killing his mother. The thoughts of quitting come back, but he quickly shuts them up—he certainly can’t stop now that Cohen is here with him.
He and Cohen take walking breaks intermittently. The pain in his legs won’t subside. The blisters in his new shoes keep getting worse. But Huwe is persistent. “I’m a hopeless optimist,” he told me nearly every time we met. He wasn’t going to start doubting now.
He had come through the half marathon in 2 hours, 10 minutes, and 28 seconds—right around 10-minute-per-mile pace—but the wheels were coming off. From 30 to 35 kilometers, he plods along at just over 13-minute pace.
But he keeps on going. He does not speed up as he enters Central Park, but he starts thinking about the finish line. It cannot come soon enough.
Huwe spent almost twenty years in prison. He missed birthdays, a chance at college, the entirety of his twenties.
He missed his father’s funeral, too. Raphael died in 2005. Huwe was released on parole in 2009.
Through it all, Huwe maintained his innocence. He wrote to anyone who would listen. Huwe had reached out to the Innocence Project multiple times while he was serving his sentence. DNA testing was not part of Burton’s case at that time, whereas the Innocence Project dealt primarily with cases of that nature. Therefore, they advised Huwe to contact Steve Drizin at the Bluhm Legal Clinic at Northwestern University. (Drizin is an expert in false confessions, and was on the Netflix show “Making a Murderer.”) When Huwe reached out in 2008, Drizin contacted Laura Cohen at Rutgers in Newark.
Cohen had made it to the other side of the Hudson River by then, and was the director of the Criminal and Youth Justice Clinic, formerly the Urban Legal Clinic. In its original inception, the Urban Legal Clinic was for civil legal services only. In the mid 1990s, it extended those services to criminal defense. That’s the piece that Cohen took over. She and her students are in court in Newark several days a week, taking on cases the same way public defenders would.
In late 2008, Drizin and Cohen spoke with Huwe for the first time. After that conversation, Cohen—and her team of law students at Rutgers—took his case.
Cases like Huwe’s do not move quickly. One of the biggest problems with his case, Cohen told me, is that Huwe’s legal team did a great job when he was convicted. They asserted that Huwe’s confession had been coerced. Not only was it an unreliable confession, they argued, but the information in Emanuel Green’s statement did not match Huwe’s.
Looking back, it was stymying that the jurors found there was no reasonable doubt that Huwe had committed the crime. Yet, for the verdict to be overturned, Cohen and her team were going to need to find new evidence. For many who knew the case, it was shocking that the evidence they had wasn’t enough. Now they needed to discover more? They were up to the task.
Over the next several years, law students like Carlo Fioranelli, Gwyneth O’Neill, Farah Rahaman, Adrienne Hawkins, David Baumwoll, Samantha Mendenhall, Suzanne Hoyes, Laura Garcia, Caitlin Miller, Cat Costigan, and Ian Liberty—to name a few—put in hours rehashing the case and looking for bits of evidence or problems with Huwe’s case that could be examined even more closely. They traced down William Kunstler’s files, including some in a storage unit on Long Island, and chased leads on Emanuel Green’s ex-girlfriend. They pored over court documents and police reports. They even tracked down the man who had killed Green. They did everything they could to find something, anything, that could help clear Huwe’s name.
Huwe, meanwhile, was paroled in 2009 and found a place to live in Washington Heights and got a job working at an elevator installation company. He worked hard and as much as he could. When he had extra time, he ran and worked on other hobbies like his music—“I grew up in the Bronx,” he says, “I am hip-hop. But I love all music.” He played the piano for any band he could in prison, whether reggae, rock, or gospel. He continued once he was out, writing his own songs, performing, and playing with friends if the opportunity arose. On top of the job, the running, and the music, Huwe got a side gig helping out on video projects as part of video crews.
At one of those gigs in 2013, he met Schaunta Booth. They started talking and didn’t want to stop. Soon enough, the two were dating. She lived in New Jersey, so he would go out to see her on weekends whenever he could.
But he always kept the marathon in the back of his mind. He wanted to run it one day. Sure, there was some part of him that hoped it might lead to more press coverage of his case, but mostly, he wanted to run the race.
Nearly six years after his release, that desire to run the marathon had not dissipated. That’s when Huwe and I met, in 2015. The first time we spoke, we chatted about two things. He told me he wanted to run the marathon, and he told me that even after almost thirty years, his name was one day going to be cleared. He was sure of it.
Running through Central Park, Huwe focuses every bit of energy he has on finishing. He thinks about the friends he made in prison—the ones he first told he would finish the marathon one day. He knows that when he sets his mind to something and says he’s going to do it, that he has to follow through.
He is in pain. But he knows he has to keep moving. He and Cohen have to finish this.
So Huwe keeps running. He runs through the ups and downs of Central Park, and he makes his way out to 59th Street with less than one mile to go. He is almost there.
I first met Huwe across the street from the the Armory on 168th Street in New York in August 2015. I had heard his story from Cohen. She delivered the keynote address at my then-girlfriend’s (and now wife’s) law school commencement ceremony at Rutgers Law in Newark. And in her speech, she mentioned a runner who had been convicted of a crime he did not commit.
The story piqued my interest, so I reached out to Cohen and asked to hear it. She laid out Huwe’s case as if she were speaking in front of a jury, explaining how Huwe was coerced into a confession and how Emanuel Green’s testimony, a testimony that would not be permissible in a court today, had sealed Huwe’s fate. She told me Huwe had taken up running while in prison and that he had volunteered at a few New York Road Runners (NYRR) races with the hope of one day running the New York City Marathon.
Huwe and I spoke on the phone a few times throughout the summer, and he reiterated what Cohen had told me. He said he didn’t really know what he was doing when it came to running, but that he had run a race or two and wanted to take on 26.2 miles. “You know,” he said, “I read somewhere that many people who are wrongfully convicted of a crime spend an average of about 26 years in prison. I think it would be fitting if I ran the marathon.” (The average of wrongful conviction cases that have been reversed because of DNA evidence is about fourteen years, according to the Innocence Project.) I told him I was interested in writing about him and his running. He was into it.
That’s how we ended up outside the Columbia Medical Center, across from the Armory, coffees in hand. As doctors walked quickly by us, we got to know one another. Huwe talked about his case, but I already knew that, so we spoke about his dad and his mom, and how he was a “momma’s boy.” He told me he had started running because he wanted to get in shape for the prison football league, but then he discovered he loved the freedom of it. No one had control over him when he ran. He was able to escape. And the next thing he knew, he was running laps around the yard whenever he got a chance. He continued running after his release, too. He did not have to tell his parole officer he was going for a run; he could do it when he wanted. Running was his.
He asked about me, too. Huwe listens with his eyes when you speak to him. There is a calmness to them, an urge to know more. I told him about growing up in a small town called Bath in Michigan, and how running had gotten me into college and grad school, and helped land me a job. Then we talked about our jobs and about sports. He’s a Giants fan. He likes other sports, too, but football is his favorite.
We talked about music. “Music is the universal language,” he told me, explaining that this was especially true in hip-hop, because musicians sample from so many different genres. “I don’t know,” I said, “I think running is the universal language.” Nearly everyone can run, I told him, and nearly everyone gets hooked. He liked my thought process, but still said music was his universal language, and laughed.
Then we started talking about the marathon and if he would actually be able to run it. He wanted to raise money for charity if he was going to do it—a charity like the Rutgers Law School Clinic or the Innocence Project. He couldn’t run the race in 2015, he said. It was only three months away. But 2016? Why not?
We decided to keep in touch, and I told him I would start working toward getting him into the race.
Over the next year, Huwe and I texted often and met when we could. He would give me updates on the status of his case, which moved extremely slowly—too slowly, I thought—and we would chat about running.
In November, I got us tickets to the grandstand across from Tavern on the Green at the 2015 New York City Marathon. We watched from the bleachers as countless runners crossed the finish line. The finish line of the marathon is one of the happiest places in the world. There are smiles, tears, and joy. It’s impossible not to get swept up in the glee, even if you’re fifty yards away in the stands. “That’s gonna be you next year,” I told Huwe as we watched deliriously thrilled runners stream by. He nodded and smiled.
I pictured the 2016 New York City Marathon and how Huwe would cross the finish line. I thought how great it would be if his case was resolved by then—how fitting and storybook-esque to cross the finish line as a free man. I figured he was doing the same thing in his mind.
In February 2016, we met again at the Armory to watch the Millrose Games. Sitting up in the corner, he asked me what the hell the deal was with all these people running the first few laps of a race before dropping out, and I told him about pacemakers and “rabbits.” He loved watching Allyson Felix run the 60 meters, and it was impossible not to get wrapped up in the excitement of the crowd as Matthew Centrowitz outdueled Nick Willis in the final lap to win the Wanamaker Mile.
After that, we met at Coogan’s Restaurant on 168th Street and Broadway once in March and continued to text every once in a while. In May, I got word from one of my contacts at the NYRR that Huwe was getting a spot in the marathon. I texted him the good news. “I’m crying tears of joy,” he wrote back.
We texted over the summer and met at Coogan’s again about a month before the race, which would take place on Sunday, November 6. Each time we met, Huwe was the same—always steadfast, always calm.
I also chatted with Cohen around that time. It looked like the Innocence Project was going to join the legal team, which meant Huwe would have more in his corner than the Rutgers Law School Criminal and Youth Justice Clinic. Also, as it turned out, Cohen was running the marathon, too—and she was running it for charity, namely the Innocence Project.
Huwe already had enough on his plate; he didn’t need to raise money for charity, too. But he would support the group that was doing what it could to support him. On the morning of the marathon, he slipped a red “Innocence Project” T-shirt over a long sleeve.
Huwe had taken up running because it could set him free. But on the day of the marathon, running with thousands of others and specifically with a woman who had been working his case for eight years, he knew that running was more than just for him. It made him free, but it connected him with others.
Huwe Burton crosses the finish line of the marathon five hours after he started it—5 hours, 1 minute, and 8 seconds to be exact.
Sure, it is not the storybook ending many of us were hoping for—he is still fighting his case when he crosses the line—but Huwe is happy.
I find him and Cohen in the chaos of the finish. He is exhausted and so thrilled to be done. There are rings of salt on his face, evidence of sweat that dried there over five hours of running. I snap a picture of them both and tell Huwe how proud I am of him as other finishers stream by, crying and laughing and limping.
“Keep moving!” race officials yell at all the runners, herding them through the finish chute. Huwe and Cohen acquiesce and slowly start moving. We say our goodbyes, and they walk off to find their bags somewhere in the maze of Central Park.
Huwe and I speak on the phone later that night. He’s enjoying a drink and some time with his girlfriend. “Thank you for getting me in,” he says of the race. He can barely walk, and he’s not looking forward to what pains tomorrow will bring, but he cannot believe he finally ran the marathon.
Later, I look at the picture of Huwe and Cohen at the finish line. Huwe is staring at the camera with those eyes that are always listening, and he is smiling widely. It is a smile of accomplishment, one that says I can do this—I did do this. It’s a moment of joy, even as his fight for exoneration persists.
Huwe Burton has finished his marathon. He bided his time, put in the work, and he persisted.
But there is more work to be done, and much more than 26.2 miles to go.
It is late 2018 when everything starts coming to a head, and it actually seems like something might happen for Huwe. After thirty years of fighting, thirty years of authorities telling him he was wrong, thirty years of the system saying he had murdered his mother, thirty years of being hopelessly optimistic, Huwe finally has something to believe in.
For Huwe, life returns to normal after the run. In late 2016, his landlord asks him to leave his apartment, so Huwe moves up to Larchmont, New York, with his cousin. He notices the police keeping a close eye on him when he walks to the train station each morning. His commute balloons to two hours, but Huwe still shows up to work on weekdays and on weekends when there’s overtime available. He keeps making music, and he keeps seeing Schaunta as much as he can. Plus, he chips in whenever he can with his case.
The Innocence Project joined Drizin and Cohen’s teams in 2016, but there was more news. Darcel Clark was named the Bronx District Attorney that year, as well. She was the first woman in the position and the first African-American woman to be elected District Attorney in New York State.
Clark was presented with details of Huwe’s case in early 2017, and she tasked the Bronx District Attorney’s Conviction Integrity Unit (CIU) to, with the help of Huwe’s legal team, reinvestigate the case. They focused on two aspects: the confession and Emanuel Green.
Since 1991, scientific and scholarly research has confirmed that psychologically coercive techniques used by detectives can and do produce false confessions. On the day of his confession, Huwe was 16. He was isolated from his father and his guardian, he was threatened with additional criminal charges, and he was offered leniency if he confessed to the crime. At the time, these tactics were common practice for detectives seeking a certain type of answer, especially when questioning juveniles.
Unsurprisingly, the detectives from the 47th Precinct had a habit of using these techniques. Frank Viggiano, Stanley Schiffman, and Sevelie Jones were the officers who questioned Huwe. Only three months before arresting Huwe, they had brought in two men they believed were involved in a robbery-murder inside a grocery store. They used interrogation techniques similar to the ones they would use on Huwe, and the two individuals confessed to helping a man named Amonte, who the detectives believed had committed the act, carry out the crime, acting as lookouts and getaway drivers.
Amonte, however, was in jail the day of the murder. Still, Cross and Parker were tried for murder. On the stand, both men testified that they were fed stories by the detectives, who told them they would not be responsible for the homicides and that they would be able to see their families once their confessions were complete. The two were acquitted in less than an hour after waiting two years to be tried.
Then there was the case of Emanuel Green, who had somehow escaped a charge in the case of Keziah Burton’s murder in 1989. The detectives did not dig up any information about Green’s criminal past, which included two convictions—a knife-point robbery and violent rape. The CIU and Huwe’s legal team discovered that Green had repeatedly lied to investigators in the rape case, much like he had in the Burton murder. The re-investigation also uncovered that a psychologist who evaluated Green determined he had a “schizoid personality disorder of adolescence, with depressive and aggressive trends, and underlying trends toward explosiveness.” The more that was discovered about Green, the harder it was to believe he was telling the truth in the Keziah Burton murder.
Because Green was dead at the time of Huwe’s trial, however, Huwe’s legal team could not question him. Green’s criminal past was not a part of the case. Instead, his statement was presented as is.
Over two years of investigating—in addition to the six-plus years prior to the joint effort—the Bronx DA’s Office and Huwe’s legal team pored over everything they could find in the case of Keziah Burton’s murder.
Just over thirty years after Huwe Burton’s mother was killed—at 8:50 P.M. on January 17, 2019—he sends me a text message.
“Hey Liam,” it says, “long time no hear. Can you talk for a few I have an update you may enjoy hearing.”
I’m leaving the gym when I see the text. Huwe is right. It has been a long time. We haven’t chatted much since we caught up at the end of 2017. I immediately feel guilty knowing how long it’s been since we last saw one another. I don’t have any excuses; the two of us simply haven’t spoken much lately. But here is Huwe reaching out. I respond saying how great it is to hear from him, and that I’m around any time to chat.
“Yes I have great news,” he writes. “Please tell me you can come to the BX thurs about 12.”
“I will be there,” I respond. I’m walking to the subway, and I can’t believe what he’s typing. It’s been long enough that I’m not completely up to date on his case, but my heart rate rises and my mind starts racing. Could he actually be free? “Just give me the location and I’ll make sure of it.”
“We’ve always wanted to do a piece about my fight,” he writes.
“I’ve been exonerated.”
I read the rest of the message through eyes welling up with tears. “This Thursday will be the official court date. They suspect a lot of media, so my guests are asked to arrive around 11. I would love for you to be there to share this moment with me!!! Laura of course will be there.”
I cannot believe it. “Huwe, I’m so fricken happy for you,” I write. “That is simply incredible. And we will do a piece about your fight. A long one. People need to hear about it.”
“You are a true inspiration,” I write in another message. “Thank you for inviting me, I will not miss it.”
“Thank you my friend,” he writes, and the word means the world to me.
I text my family and friends who I had told about Huwe to let them know the good news. I am giddy, so I cannot imagine how happy Huwe is.
The man spent thirty years fighting to prove his innocence. Labeled a “Crack-Crazed Teen,” he remained a great, optimistic man despite all that he went through. I never saw him waver. And finally, he was going to be free. Finally, his story was going to come out.
My phone buzzes again as I near home. It’s Huwe. “Gonna run this year again,” he writes. “Let’s do it.”
“Certainly it is a tragedy that Mr. Burton spent some 20 years in jail for a crime he did not commit,” Judge Steven L. Barrett says in a courtroom on the third floor of the Bronx County Hall of Justice on January 24, 2019. “For this, I apologize on behalf of a system that failed him.”
The hearing is a formality. Huwe, now 46, sits before the judge with his legal team. To his right are Susan Friedman and Barry Scheck of the Innocence Project. Laura Cohen is directly to his left, and Steve Drizin is next to her. The courtroom is filled with people close to Huwe, including Schaunta. There are so many former Rutgers Law students and lawyers who worked on the case throughout the past nine years in attendance that many have to go into an overflow room where they watch the hearing on a video screen.
The lawyers sitting with Huwe each take turns speaking about the case, highlighting the mistakes that were made and explaining why Huwe never should have been convicted in the first place.
Justice Barrett announces that he is vacating the conviction and that it will be expunged from Huwe’s record. Then, he gives Huwe a chance to speak.
Huwe chokes back tears. “I want to thank the people who didn’t get to see this day,” he says. “They’re the reason I’m standing here. One of those people is my mother. She was one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. She gave me a strong set of values. I stand here today for her, because if I don’t, who will?
“I stand here today for my father who never made it through this journey. He had the responsibility of dealing with his wife’s death and dealing with his son’s defense at the same time. I didn’t know who could manage that. But somehow, he managed it. He managed to balance it for thirteen years. He died in 2005. I stand here for him.”
Huwe walks out of the courtroom a free man and speaks at a press conference in the hallway. His smile seems permanent as he explains to the press how happy he is and how he never gave up on his belief that he would be free.
Before January 24, 2019, if you had googled Huwe Burton, you would have discovered a crack addict who had killed his mother. Now, however, he will be the man who was wrongfully accused. He will be in the New York Post and the New York Times. By February, he will even be in a video feature on the Today Show. He will say more than once that he is not bitter, but he tells me that does not mean he is not angry. “I am angry,” he says. “I’m mad as hell.” He says law enforcement and others cut corners in the late 1980s. New York City was a dangerous place, and people wanted answers. No one cared how those answers were obtained, though, and we cannot simply ignore that now. “There has to be a degree of accountability,” Huwe says.
On the day of the exoneration, he spends time with his legal team and shares with the world what he has known for thirty years: that he is an innocent man.
One reporter asks him what he’s going to do next, now that he’s free. He says he will still be working, and he says one more thing: “I’m going to run the New York City Marathon this year.”
I’m speaking with Laura Cohen when I hear him say it. I’ve introduced myself to Schaunta and everyone I’ve met at the hearing as “the guy who helped Huwe out with the marathon,” and now that he has said it to the media, I know I’m going to be the guy helping Huwe out with the marathon once again.
I cannot wait.
Huwe Burton walks through the hallway on the third floor of the Bronx County Hall of Justice. He’s just told everyone he’s running the New York City Marathon for the Innocence Project in 2019. A photographer from the New York Times is hoping to get a photo of Huwe and his legal team, and Huwe is walking toward a wall to pose.
It has been over a year since we have seen one another in person, but Huwe spots me. It’s like we are old college friends who haven’t gotten together since graduation. He has hugged countless people already today and will hug countless more. He pulls me in anyway, and I tell him how happy I am for him.
“I might have to do this year’s marathon with you,” I say as we end our embrace.
“I’d like that,” Huwe says. “I’d like that a lot.”
It will not be easy, this year’s marathon. Once you are exonerated, all of your problems are not solved. Huwe, who now lives in Piscataway, New Jersey, had 20 years of his life taken from him. But the hopeless optimist has always persisted—which is why he is running the marathon this year, too.
He told me many times that this all had to have been for something. Now that he’s free, he is making the most of it. Huwe is putting his case, and others like it, in the spotlight. He knows he is not the only one who has been wronged. “It’s amazing how running affected me,” he says. “A person can find running even in the circumstance I was in, and it’s like you can just see freedom on a face, even when you’re running around a prison yard.”
He started running because he could own it. He has continued running because it’s a connection to others. Like music, it is a universal language for him now.
He is running the marathon for the Innocence Project. He is running the marathon for the Rutgers Law School clinic. He is running the marathon for his mom and his dad. And yes, he is running the marathon for himself.
For Huwe Burton, there is still a long way to go. But that has never stopped him before.
Written by: Liam Boylan-Pett
Edited by: Ashley Higginson and Allison Goldstein
Photos in Courthouse and Portraits of Huwe Burton by: Sameer Abdel-Khalek, courtesy of the Innocence Project
Photo of Huwe Burton running by: MarathonFoto
All other photos by Liam Boylan-Pett
Special thanks to the Innocence Project and the Rutgers Law School Criminal and Youth Justice Clinic
Meet Audrey Smoot.
While we’re still trying to build followers and our subscription base, we’re going to try something out: A post-mortem of our monthly feature story.
This piece will be available without a subscription to the site, and it will act as more of an ad to say, “Hey, please come subscribe to LØPE Magazine!!!” But it will also act as a recap of that issue of LØPE in hopes that it may attract more readers to the site.
We’re kind of going ass-backwards by publishing only one piece of content per month versus the Buzzfeed strategy of throwing as many pieces of everything against the wall as you can—so this will be our way of getting at least a few more eyes on the site.
And in our first edition of this practice, we’re taking a look at our story on Heather (Dorniden) Kampf eating it, getting up, and then winning the 600 meters at the 2008 Big Ten Indoor Championships: The Fall.
The reaction to this story has been what writers dream of. Alison Wade, the force behind Fast Women, a phenomenal newsletter you should subscribe to if you like women’s running, told us she couldn’t remember the last time she had that much fun reading a story.
One Twitter user said reading the story was like reading a thriller novel.
We were pumped about that one … In fact, we had modeled the structure of the story loosely off of Gone Girl, so we can’t express how excited we were.
But we were most delighted by an email we received from someone involved in the story. But before we tell you who that was…
If you want to read the piece with fresh eyes and haven’t looked on our Instagram account yet, subscribe to the site first.
Now that you’ve been warned: The “big suspenseful bit of info” we’ve been keeping from you is that Heather Kampf did not actually win that race in Minneapolis that day. Audrey Smoot, an Indiana University junior ran faster in the slow heat. Her 1 minute, 31.59 second time to win the “B” heat was faster than Kampf’s 1 minute, 31.72 seconds.
And we tracked down Smoot. She remembered that day better than she remembers yesterday, she told us. Her side of the story is one of the most under-told and one of the most charming stories in track and field.
Everyone remembers the viral video of Heather Kampf—does anyone know about Audrey Smoot?
Her parents, Mark and Diane, emailed to thank us for the story. And we’re going to leave you with the words they sent us and a plea to subscribe to LØPE Magazine. We don’t think you’ll be disappointed.
“That was indeed an unbelievable day back in March 2008, and we were able to witness a little piece of history be made for the world by Heather, but also for our part of the world by our daughter. Thank you for telling her story. You are the first to do so after all these years.”
That’s what we aim to do at LØPE: Find the stories that may have been forgotten. Please keep in touch. The more subscribers, the easier it is going to be for us to find stories like this even more.
Remember, Hurry, but slowly.
Over a decade later, stories are still coming out of the women’s 600-meter dash at the 2008 Big Ten Indoor Track and Field Championships, where Heather Kampf (née Dorniden) shocked everyone.
LØPE MAGAZINE – Issue No. 005, January 2019
Written by: Nicole Bush and Liam Boylan-Pett
Images Courtesy of Minnesota Athletics and Audrey Smoot
“Oh no,” Heather Kampf says.
Only milliseconds earlier, her left foot drove forward like it had done thousands of times before, ready to land and propel her forward into the bell lap of the 600-meter dash at the Big Ten Indoor Track and Field Championships. But on the path towards its next step, Kampf’s foot hit a snag. Clipped by Fawn Dorr’s stride, it careened into its partnering leg’s calf. The next thing Kampf knew, she was going down. Her arms shot out as if she was sliding into home plate as her legs came out from under her. Which is when she says, “Oh no.”
She says it calmly. Too calmly for someone falling to the ground in the middle of a conference championship race. But that calmness is why things are about work out the way they will. She gets up in an instant, like the fall was all just part of the plan to fit a burpee into her race, shooting off the ground like Flo-Jo exploding from the blocks. The three other runners have distanced themselves, but to Kampf, they are still in reach. So, she begins chasing them.
The lead shrinks slowly at first, but with each step she picks up steam. A combination of fitness and rising confidence seem to buoy her. Like an avalanche growing in strength, Kampf keeps upping the pace as she inches closer to Dorr—who is faltering after nearly falling during the trip-up with Kampf. She blows past Dorr with 100-meters to go, but it still seems unlikely she will be able to catch the leaders.
The crescendo will not abate, however. Around the turn, Kampf continues to move faster, her back arching as if it can’t quite control the flood of speed. And she continues to reel in the field, even if it still seems impossible that she’ll catch the final two runners in the last 50 meters, when the track straightens out.
However, Kampf remains calm and collected. She hears the P.A. announcer say, “Look out for Dorniden,” and she thinks to herself, “Yeah, look out for me.”
The final straight is a rush—Kampf simply swallows up the field. She goes by the runner from Indiana with less than 15 meters left and finds herself in second. Then it’s one final push, and she blitzes past her teammate in the final steps, crossing the finish line to take the race.
What happens next is no surprise. The Internet, while not quite as fast as it will be in 2019, moves quickly. Kampf’s race goes viral. A combination of clickbait—“This inspiring runner took a nasty fall, but she didn’t stay down for long”—and inspiration make for the perfect online clip.
It remains so today: On January 9, Cracks, a Spanish-language sports media company, posted the video on its Facebook page—where it garnered over one-thousand likes. Over eleven years later, the video and the race still resonate.
But, as is the case with every race, there is more than one story to be told. And, as is the case with many a viral video, there is more to the story than what is captured in the frame.
Part I Heather
“It’s funny because I absolutely hate it,” Fawn Dorr says. “I hate it so much.” She is, of course, talking about seeing the video of the race. Sure, it’s an amazing performance, she knows, but who wants to be reminded of a race where they’re involved in a fall? Especially one where they end up finishing last? And she is reminded. People still post the video to her Facebook page.
Dorr is retired from professional running now, but she had a successful career, making multiple national-team appearances for Canada after a storied stint at Penn State University. On the track, she was brash. Her pre-race stare was piercing, and she competed with energy, which often came through in yells and roars at the starts or ends of races.
In 2008, Dorr was running her first Big Ten Championship meet for Penn State. She was more of a sprinter—her specialty was the 400-meter hurdles—but this was the conference meet, and athletes were taken out of their comfort zones for the good of the team. This meant Dorr was going to have to be flexible.
Team is the key word when it comes to a college conference meet. Whether it’s the Big Ten, Pac-12, S.E.C., or A.C.C., conference meets are circled on the calendar each year for collegiate teams as the meet. Winning the N.C.A.A. team title is nearly impossible for most programs, but pulling together enough points to win a conference meet is much more attainable. Plus, most athletic departments and athletic directors place a priority on winning conference championships—including the practice of sprinkling monetary bonuses for a conference title into a coach’s contract—and that culture is passed down to the coaches and athletes. Runners, throwers, and jumpers alike get excited for the meet, often competing in more than one event to maximize points. Add in the rowdiness of crowds—especially indoors, where spectators bear down on the track—and bragging rights, and a conference meet is track and field at its best.
And the 2008 Big Ten Indoor Track and Field Championship at the University of Minnesota Fieldhouse was no different. The atmosphere was electric, and athletes were doubling and tripling to bring home as many points as possible in the team race. Penn State was in the mix for a Big Ten title, so Dorr was running the 400 and the 600 meters.
Minnesota had a heck of a team, too—and they were on their home track. Heather Kampf was one of many Gophers in more than one event, entering the mile, the 600 meters, and the 4 x 400-meter relay. Kampf was already the school’s most decorated runner. As a freshman, she had won the indoor N.C.A.A. title at 800 meters, becoming the school’s first national champion. By the time she graduated, she was an eight-time All-American and owned ten school records. But the first weekend of March in 2008, none of that mattered. She was simply running for as many points as possible. Minnesota was the defending champions, but winning at home would make it extra sweet. Doubling was no easy task, however. At that point, the men’s and women’s events were held in different locations. With no men’s 60 meters or 5,000 meters held before or after the women’s version of each race, there was less time between events—which, in turn, meant there was less time to rest.
But this was conference. And it was at home. There was no time to worry about rest.
“That morning,” Kampf (who is now married, but went by her maiden name of Dorniden at the time of the race) says today, “I remember thinking, ‘Oh my god, this is going to be so hard.’” Eating breakfast that first Sunday in March, her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. “Oh,” she thought, surprised by the spike in heart rate, “I must be getting ready for what I need to do today.”
The day before, she had taken care of business in the prelims of the mile—finishing second in an automatic qualifying spot with a run of 4 minutes, 48.18 seconds—and the 600—winning her heat in 1 minute, 29.65 seconds, the fastest time of the day. Sunday would be a different beast, though.
The mile field was stacked, with a slew of talented runners like Nicole Edwards of Michigan, Angela Bizzarri of Illinois, and a future Olympic Gold Medalist in the triathlon, Gwen Jorgensen of Wisconsin. Kampf, who knew the mile was in her future (today, calling her the queen of the road mile is no stretch), stuck her nose in it.
Edwards proved too strong for Kampf and the rest of the field, and ran away with the race, running 4 minutes, 41.04 seconds to win by over two seconds. Kampf finished fourth in 4 minutes, 44.26 seconds. That meant five valuable points in the team score. She only had about forty-five minutes until the 600 final. She went out into the Minnesota cold and did a cool-down and a warm-up all in one.
Dorr, meanwhile, had qualified for both the finals of the 400 and 600, and had won the “slow” heat of the 400 to take fourth place in the event, bringing in five valuable points.
The “slow” heat is common in indoor conference meets. Because eight athletes score at the Big Ten meet, there needs to be at least eight runners in the final (the Big Ten takes nine runners through, so one unlucky runner will leave the final without scoring a point). But because most indoor tracks only have six lanes, a final is run in two heats. At the Big Ten meet, the first—“slow heat”—would have five, and the second heat would have four. The times from both heats are combined for the final score. If, by chance, a runner wins the first heat in a faster time than the second heat, that time would stand as the winner. Dorr ran faster than one runner from the fast heat of the 400, thus her fourth-place finish.
She wouldn’t be in the slow heat of the 600, though. And that was important, the team race was turning into a three-team battle between Minnesota, Michigan, and Penn State. Dorr needed all the points she could get.
Like the mile, the 600 was loaded. Along with Kampf and Dorr, Molly Beckwith, Indiana’s star half-miler who would eventually run 1 minute, 57.68 seconds for 800 meters, and Minnesota’s Jamie Ditmar were fit and ready to roll.
After Audrey Smoot won the slow heat in 1 minute, 31.59 seconds, the second heat lined up. The final four finalists of the 600 stood in their lanes and waited for the gun.
Dorr ran hard from the first step, gliding through the first two turns and moving with determination into the lead. Kampf was close on her heels as they came through the first 200 meters in just under 29 seconds. Beckwith had let a small gap form between her and Kampf, and Ditmar was just behind in fourth.
Dorr continued to lead through the next lap, but slowed ever so slightly. Kampf could feel the pace lag, so moved onto Dorr’s shoulder around the turn. Beckwith and Ditmar inched closer, too, as the pack of four hit the homestretch of the penultimate lap.
As the turn straightened out, Kampf moved to the outside and began to pass Dorr. But Dorr wasn’t going to give up the rail easily—that wasn’t her M.O., she always raced aggressively. She pushed harder, hoping to hold off Kampf. But that’s when Kampf moved inside—which is when Kampf fell.
Beth Alford-Sullivan was on the backstretch. She was at the point just after the first turn and had a perfect view of the start/finish line. At the time, she was the director of Penn State’s track and field program hoping for a heroic performance from Dorr. Then she saw Kampf fall face-first into the track.
“I saw her go down,” Alford-Sullivan, who now coaches at the University of Tennessee, says today. “And you know, as a coach, you have a split-second reaction of ‘Oh, good!’”
Dorr reacted quickly, jumping over the falling Kampf and led the field into the final lap as the bell rung. Coming through in just under 60 seconds, Kampf’s fall took Dorr out of her rhythm. She was already tired from the 400, and having to hurdle a competitor didn’t help. Ditmar went by her with 180 meters left, and Beckwith was by her quickly, too.
Kampf, meanwhile, was up almost as quickly as she had gone down. The way she remembers it, she has no recollection of going down—only that her hands had kept her from falling and had pushed her up so she was running again in an instant. She didn’t quite understand how everyone had gotten so far ahead of her in such a short time, but she does remember the noise.
Everyone remembers the noise.
“The air got sucked out of the room for a second,” Kampf says. “And I was just like, ‘Geeze, is that for me?”
“Everybody went, ‘Ohhhhh,’” Emily Langenberg, a Michigan State runner who was watching that day, says.
“The place went crazy,” Alford-Sullivan says.
The beauty of indoor track and field is its intimacy. Sure, the Olympic stadium when Australian Cathy Freeman won gold in Sydney in 2000 was electric, but being packed inside a fieldhouse with over one thousand fans and athletes at a conference meet is its own kind of crazy.
When Kampf started reeling in Dorr, Beckwith, and Ditmar, the roar inside the University of Minnesota Fieldhouse was palpable—and it only rose as the final lap unfolded.
Alford-Sullivan laughs looking back on it. She was a Minnesota grad, so had mixed feelings throughout the last 30 seconds of the race. After the initial bit of joy she had felt that the top Minnesota runner was likely to end up out of the scoring, her mindset turned quickly.
“I saw her get up,” she says, “and you’re like, ‘Oh no, oh shoot, she’s coming.’”
By the time there was 75 meters to go and she could see that Kampf had a shot at doing something incredible, she got swept up in the moment. “I’m kind of cheering for her even though I’m thinking, ‘I can’t be cheering for her right now.’”
She wasn’t alone. Like Kampf’s pace, the noise kept growing.
“There was this crescendo of noise,” Kampf says after she passed Dorr. “There were people I could already see like out of the corner of my eye. And I got that, like, hungry feeling, like, I could maybe get this, and how cool would that be?”
And it was, indeed, cool. As we all know now, she ran past Beckwith and Ditmar in the final straight and into history. In the moment, she didn’t realize just how crazy the accomplishment was. She knew it was special, but it wasn’t until she watched the video that she knew how bad of a fall she had taken.
She has a theory why she doesn’t remember the actual fall. “Belief is so powerful,” she says.
“You need to have a really powerful vision of what you accomplish in your mind before you start a race, because when stuff like this happens, you don’t just sit there. You bring a powerful version of what you want to do, and that overpowers the barriers that get in your way.”
The immediate aftermath was of shock and awe. No one could believe what they had just seen. Kampf had fallen on her bike earlier that week, and had cuts on her knees—so it looked like the fall was even worse than it was. Her coaches and teammates hugged her and congratulated her. She didn’t have much time, however. After what was perhaps the greatest race in Big Ten history, Kampf needed to get ready for the 4 x 400-meter relay. Her team was still in the mix for a team title, thanks to her heroics in the 600.
There wasn’t a person in the stadium who could believe what they’d seen.
“As a Minnesotan, as a former gopher,” Alford-Sullivan says, “I was caught up in the Hoopla. I thought it was the greatest thing I’d seen in forever.”
But there was one more thing Alford-Sullivan had to consider: She was the Penn State coach. And as far as Penn State fans and athletes were concerned, Kampf had cut in early, no matter if it was the greatest thing they’d seen on a track.
So that’s how it came to be that Heather Kampf was almost disqualified from the race that remains an internet sensation today. After some mental gymnastics in her own head about whether to do it or not, Alford-Sullivan officially filed a protest.
She walked up to a race official she had known since the eighth grade, and told him she thought that Kampf had cut in early, and that she’d like an official review—and yes, she knew how amazing of a race it was.
He looked at her and said, “Really? You’re going to do this?”
But it was the right thing to do, she knew. It was a tight call, Kampf was moving in, and Penn State was in a tight battle for the team title. Dorr, meanwhile, had finished out of the scoring, and if Kampf was out, it would mean less points for Minnesota while tallying one more onto the Penn State score. So, Alford-Sullivan filed a protest.
The officials didn’t have the technology then that they do now. There was no hi-tech, slo-mo replay to see if Kampf had cut in too soon, and nothing to go by other than what the officials remembered seeing. In the end, they decided there was not enough evidence to disqualify Kampf.
(One week later, a note arrived in the mail for Alford-Sullivan. It was a handwritten letter from Kampf, apologizing for cutting in.)
Kampf would go on to help Minnesota take third in the 4 x 400, too, and Minnesota would win the meet by eight points over Michigan. Penn State finished in third, fifteen points back of the Gophers.
Not only had Kampf gotten up from a fall, it was the points from that race that carried Minnesota to the team title.
That part rarely makes the viral video. Everyone knows Kampf pulled off the impossible, but they don’t necessarily know her heroics helped Minnesota win the 2008 Big Ten Championship.
There’s one more detail that is not so well known. In fact, it’s something that came as a surprise to Kampf, too.
Because of the tight schedule of races, meet officials were unable to hand out awards for many of the races that took place throughout the day on March 2. So, once the 4 x 400 concluded, the women were asked to stick around for multiple awards ceremonies. The Minnesota women knew they had won the meet, and, as the runners gathered around to receive their medals for the 600 meters, the Gopher faithful were ready to show Kampf their appreciation.
Kampf lined up behind the top position on the podium—the place reserved for the winner. But someone else was standing there, too: A runner from Indiana, who seemed to want to say something to her. It seemed weird that someone would be standing in her spot. Hadn’t she seen Kampf cross the finish line in first? In fact, it was a little awkward. Then, all of a sudden, Kampf remembered the slow heat. She could swear she heard the announcer say after the race that she was the Big Ten champ in the 600 meters. There was no way she hadn’t won the thing, was there?
“Wait,” Kampf said to the Indiana runner, “what was your time?”
Part II Audrey
Audrey Smoot had a good feeling about that weekend. That’s why she urged her parents to go to Minneapolis on March 1 and 2 in 2008. It was going to be good, she told them. It would be worth the ten-hour drive, she said. It was her goal to make the final of the 600 meters at the Big Ten meet, and she wanted her parents, Mark and Diane Smoot, to be there if, and when, she did.
So, Mark and Diane drove all the way up to Minnesota to watch their daughter run.
Smoot was a 20-year-old junior at Indiana University then. Today, she works in legal and compliance for a broker dealer in downtown Indianapolis, but, as she says, she remembers March 2, 2008 better than she remembers yesterday.
Despite having a good feeling about the weekend, the prelim did not go to plan. “I had a bad race,” she says. “I felt terrible.” Fortunately for Smoot, she was able to win her heat, which meant she automatically qualified through to Sunday’s final. Her time of 1 minute 33.95 seconds was the slowest time to make it through the heats, so she was going to be in the first heat as the ninth seed. That was fine for Smoot, who was relieved to have achieved her goal of making the final. Same went for her parents, whose ten-hour drive was going to at least be for two races instead of only one.
It was time for a new goal, though, so Smoot came up with a race plan for Sunday: “I only have to beat one person, and I can score at Big Tens,” she thought.
She barely slept that night, twisting and turning thinking about the race. But when she woke up, her legs felt amazing, better than they had maybe ever felt. She started thinking that, not only could she maybe score a point, but maybe she could run a personal best.
She knew the five runners in her heat and came up with a plan to finish in at least fourth to secure that sought-after point. Penn State senior Brienne Simmons and Ohio State senior Chandra Krempel were runners that Smoot was unlikely to beat—they were both perennial Big Ten scorers—but she decided to key off them to run her best race.
So, when the gun went off, she settled in behind the two of them, who she figured and hoped would go out too quickly. Smoot says Simmons and Kremple came through 400 meters in about 56 or 57 seconds. She was in third and felt pretty good. Then, “They started to kinda die, I guess,” Smoot says.
Smoot is giddy when she talks about that last lap. She speaks quickly and in bursts, her midwestern accent bringing just a little more joy and sense of awe to it all. “I caught Chandra,” she says, “and I’m like ‘Oh wow, I’ve never passed Chandra before.’ Then I made the final turn onto the homestretch and there was Brienne, and she was tying up, and I felt like I was charging the finish line. And I passed her and I will never forget the finish line: Not only did I make the Big Ten final, I just won the final. And I got at least fifth place, dude.”
She also PR’d. That feeling she had before the weekend? It turned out to be pretty spot on. She found her parents by the finish line to watch the fast heat. Maybe she could even sneak in front of a runner or two from the second heat and finish higher than fifth, they thought.
Then Heather Kampf fell. “She smacked the ground,” Smoot, who was about ten meters away, says. Like everyone else in the fieldhouse, her and her parents had the same reaction: “Oh my gosh, is she going to catch everyone?”
She was amazed by the race and by the roar of the crowd. She couldn’t believe what she had just seen, Kampf had just fallen down, gotten up, and won the Big Ten 600 meters. At least that’s what everyone thought.
The race times started showing up on the scoreboard. Next to Kampf, the time was 1 minute, 31.72 seconds.
Smoot’s heart dropped into her stomach. “Mom,” she said, “Oh my god, I think my time is better than this heat. I think my time carries over. Do you remember my time?”
Smoot did remember her time. It had flashed on the scoreboard less than five minutes ago, and the 1 minute, 31.59 seconds was the best she had ever run for 600 meters. She couldn’t have remembered it incorrectly, could she?
“One-thirty-one-fifty-nine is what I ran,” she told her mom.
“Oh my gosh,” her mom said, “I think you’re right.”
“What is happening?” Smoot said.
What was happening was this: As the roar of the crowd died down in the aftermath of one of the most amazing races a Big Ten crowd had ever seen, Audrey, Mark, and Diane Smoot knew something that no one else did.
At most track meets, there is a results wall. It’s often under the bleachers or next to a bathroom in a gym, and it’s the place where sheets of printed out results in Courier New font are taped to the wall, kind of like an F.B.I. crime board, but without all the connecting strings.
That day in Minneapolis, Smoot walked over to the results board to see if her crazy hunch was right—to see if she had somehow won the 600 from the slow heat.
And sure enough, there on the wall was the proof:
“It finally set in,” Smoot says. “I not only made Big Ten finals, but I won.”
She lets out a small giggle. “I couldn’t believe it.”
Smoot’s memory of the medal stand is the same as Kampf’s.
“They’re lining us up behind the medal stand for the 600 meters and I kind of lightly stand behind the first position,” Smoot says. “And so does Heather, and that’s when it crosses my mind that she doesn’t know. Then I saw Jamie Dittmar stand behind second position, and I’m like ‘They don’t know, and if they don’t know, no one knows.’”
Her mind raced. “How am I supposed to tell her? I’m thinking of all the ways this could awkwardly go down and hoping that someone will walk up to us and sort it out before they start.”
Finally, after what seemed like minutes, Kampf turned to her. “Wait,” she said to Smoot, “what was your time?”
“Ohhhh,” Kampf said, her eyes wide. She congratulated Smoot and moved behind the silver-medal spot of the podium, telling Dittmar to move into the third place spot on the podium. Smoot says Kampf was a fantastic sport about it.
The Minnesota fans weren’t exactly sure what to do when it was announced that Kampf had finished second. But it was those eight points that made the difference—it was the greatest second-place finish ever.
For Smoot, meanwhile, it is the story she gets to tell whenever the video shows up on Twitter or Instagram or Facebook like it does so much. She loves the story, and smiles whenever she tells it—and she’s okay with the fact that her side of it might not be remembered as much.
She loves saying that she had a good feeling about the weekend, and that her goal was simply to make the final. She loves saying that it was “the highlight” of her track life. She had never won state in high school, had never even come close to winning a Big Ten title. But on that day, she did, and it’s something she will always cherish.
She always adds one extra part to her story, just to make sure that whoever she is telling knows there is always more than one story to every race.
“Yes, I won,” she always says, “but have you seen Heather’s video on YouTube?”
Imagine it is July 2001, and that you are 15 years old at a ski lodge in the middle of the summer in Southeast Michigan, crammed into the dining hall with forty to fifty other toothpick-legged, sleep-deprived high school runners.
It’s the middle of the week at cross-country camp, and you, like everyone else, are exhausted. You have run four hilly miles each morning with the rising sun, then you do hill repeats or a fartlek or a tempo in the afternoon as the heat bears down. In between, you eat in the dining hall and talk about running. All you do is talk about running. Speakers come in and relive their glory days, thinking they’ve imparted a lesson on you. Coaches come in to say what makes a champion. You revel in it, envisioning that one day you’ll be the one these coaches are putting on a pedestal.
Then Ron Warhurst stands before the group. He is the men’s cross-country coach at the University of Michigan, and he is the camp director. He is usually spouting off instructions about what each day’s run will be in his nasally voice. He’s a storyteller, talking in gruff, short sentences, pausing for effect just when the time is right. You want to impress him because, well, he’s one of the best coaches you’ve ever met.
In this moment, he waxes about his favorite workout. It’s a simple workout when he explains it. You start to think about how you might run it. You let your mind wander and can see Warhurst talking to a group one day about how you ran so and so getting ready for the Olympics.
Then, Warhurst explains how Kevin Sullivan ran it, and how he somehow ran every rep faster than you have ever even thought about running.
And your world crashes down around you. He couldn’t have run that fast, you think to yourself. That’s impossible. But you know he did. Warhurst wouldn’t lie about his workout, his pride and joy. You have a long, long way to go.
Now go run 1600 meters at 10-kilometer pace. Then rest for about twenty seconds before going into a 2-kilometer tempo on a road loop. Finish back at the track and roll into 1200 meters at 5-kilometer pace. Then do another road-loop tempo before you hammer 800 meters at mile to 3-kilometer effort. Go out for one last tempo and come back to tag 400 meters. As fast as you can.
And that’s it. You’ve completed the workout that Warhurst is so proud of. The workout that mixes strength and speed. The workout that is great for cross-country and the track. The workout that coaches and elite athletes nationwide have incorporated into their repertoire. The workout that is so well known it goes simply by one name.
That’s The Michigan.
A workout so nice they only named it once.
LØPE MAGAZINE – Issue No. 003, November 2018
Written by: Liam Boylan-Pett
Illustration by: Bobby Peavey
It is cliché to start a running story with Steve Prefontaine, but that is exactly where The Michigan begins.
Ron Warhurst was about one year into his coaching stint at the University of Michigan when he met famed Oregon Coach Bill Dellinger for the first time when walking through an airport. It was only a few weeks after Pre died, and as coaches are wont to do, they, as Warhurst puts it, “were B.S.’ing” and talking about workouts.
Before he died, Pre had done this workout in Eugene that piqued Warhurst’s interest. “We ran him a 1200 on the track,” Dellinger told him. “Then he went out to the trail and ran two or three miles at five-minute pace.” Then, Dellinger explained, Pre came back to the track for another 1200-meter rep.
It was genius, Warhurst thought. “You’re busting your ass on the track,” Warhurst says looking back on the conversation today. “Then you go do some pace work. Then you bust your ass again.” He couldn’t get the workout out of his mind, and the seed was planted.
The story passed down through the Michigan track team is that Warhurst jotted the notes that would bore The Michigan onto a beer-soaked napkin. And, according to Warhurst, it’s not far from the truth. All you have to do is ask him.
When he talks about creating the workout today, he speaks quickly, giggling at times when he remembers how he conceived the thing. He’s 75 now, so he says some of the details may be a little off, but he remembers sitting down, having a few beers, and devising The Michigan…
It wasn’t long after his chat with Dellinger in the Summer of 1975, and Warhurst could not stop thinking about Pre’s workout. It reminded him of a cross-country race. But he thought he could make the workout even more suited for a race over hill and dale.
“OK,” he thought to himself, visualizing how a race begins. “Everybody goes out like a bat out of hell. Then they settle into a pace.” A mad dash to get to the front of the pack with the other contenders. “So,” he decided, “we’ll start with a mile on the track.”
Then, to mimic that “settling in,” he would have the team do a tempo run off the track. He’d send them out around Michigan’s football stadium, he thought to himself and laughed. The climb up South Main Street is no joke—this was going to be hard.
But no cross race stays on pace, Warhurst knew. Eventually, someone would test the field to find out who the players were. “They’re gonna make a break,” he thought. “So, now we’ll do a 1200 on the track, and you gotta run your ass off.” Warhurst scribbled notes. He tried thinking like a runner who felt good. That was the mindset he wanted to be in as he created this thing.
After the 1200 rep, the pretenders would gone. Time to settle in again, he thought. One more tempo loop around the Big House. They would only be about seven kilometers into the workout at that point, and this was a 10-kilometer race he’s trying to get ready for. Someone would try to break the field one more time before the final sprint. So, Warhurst decided, let’s do an 800 on the track. He cussed at himself that the workout still wasn’t long enough, so he added one more tempo loop.
But a race does not end with a tempo. It ends with a sprint. So Warhurst prescribed one more 400.
“A.U.G.,” he thought for the final rep.
All. You. Got.
A.U.G. is exactly what Warhurst gets from the majority of his athletes. He began his coaching career at Michigan in 1974 after running for Western Michigan in the 1960s. He served in the Marine Corps until 1970 and brought both a toughness and loving attitude to his coaching. Like many old school coaches, he’d yell at you in one moment and wrap his arm around you in the next. He cares. And it showed in his 35-year career at Michigan, which ended in 2010 when he retired.
There are staples at many collegiate track programs, workouts and races that teammates reminisce about for years. Routes are passed through generations. Workouts are spoken about in lore. Races are dissected and scrutinized. For the Michigan track team, The Michigan is mentioned just as frequently as the unforgettable races.
Warhurst remembers Alan Webb, yes the same Alan Webb who was the subject of a book during his one year at Michigan, running 3 minutes, 2 seconds for the 1200 rep. He remembers a handful of guys running 1 minute, 54 or 55 seconds in the 800. And he remembers Nick Willis getting down close to 53 seconds in the 400. Willis says it was 51, and he has training partner Will Leer’s running log as proof.
Willis is Warhurst’s most accomplished athlete. He has won silver and bronze in the 1500 meters at the Olympics and is a sub-3 minute, 50 second miler. He remembers what he calls the greatest Michigan of all time—and he isn’t the one with the accolade.
The New Zealander came to Ann Arbor in the fall of 2002 as one of the best recruits in school history—he was more comparable to Webb than most remember, despite Webb’s 3 minute, 53.43 second national high school record. Willis had run 4:01.32 in the mile as a 17-year-old, and he was redshirting his sophomore track season because he was going to represent New Zealand in the Athens Olympics.
It was the weekend of Penn Relays, and he was back in still-chilly Ann Arbor with sleet whipping down, working out with two other Olympic hopefuls: Kevin Sullivan and Tim Broe. Sullivan was fifth in the 2000 Olympic 1500 behind a who’s who of the some of the 1500 meters’ best of all time. Kenya’s Noah Ngeny upset Hicham El Guerouj of Morocco, who won silver. Bernard Lagat, of Kenya at the time, was third, and Mehdi Baala of France was fourth. Broe, meanwhile, would be an Olympian in the 5,000 meters in 2004, and was a world championship team qualifier in the 3,000-meter steeplechase. He graduated from The University of Alabama in 2000, and in 2004 was training under Warhurst in Ann Arbor.
The three of them met at the Michigan track for a crack at The Michigan. It was the year after journalist Chris Lear spent the year chronicling Webb as a freshman in the maize and blue. On this day, not even Warhurst was at the track. Instead, Willis found himself with two veterans who were ready to hammer the hell out of a benchmark workout.
“I jumped into the big league with the big boys,” Willis says.
Normally during the workout, you take turns leading. One guy takes the first half of the mile, then someone takes the second. Another gets the 1200, then the 800 and the 400 are decided based on who is feeling good.
This day, however, Sullivan was on a mission.
At the Ferry Field track in Ann Arbor—which is home to the location where in 1935, Jesse Owens set four world records in one day—The Michigan starts near the steeplechase pit, 200 meters from the standard finish line. “That’s so they can go right into the tempo,” Warhurst says.
On that April day in 2004, Sullivan walked to the 200-meter start line and took off in front of Broe and Willis, taking the three athletes through what Willis calls the most impressive Michigan he’s ever seen. Not that Willis was really a part of it. “We took off and we never saw him again,” Willis says.
Despite the wind and sleet, Sullivan ran 4 minutes, 17 seconds for the opening mile. At that point, Willis had never broken 4:30 in the workout. He ran 4:23 with Broe, but it was a fool’s errand to keep up with Sullivan, who didn’t have time to wait with them to begin the tempo. For Willis, it was all a blur after that point.
He went through the motions. Hammering up the hill to the Big House, doing his best to keep Sullivan in his sights. But he couldn’t make a dent in Sullivan’s workout. “He was all business that day,” Willis says. “That was when I was introduced to what being a professional runner was. No joking. No complaints about not having pacemakers. He just got the job done that day.
“It was also bloody frustrating.” Willis wanted to keep up. But he couldn’t on any part of the workout—the reps or the tempos.
Which is the beauty of The Michigan; there are so many different areas a runner can excel. If you’re more of a strength runner, you push up the hill on the way to the football stadium. Middle-distance runners survive as long as they can hoping to get to the final rep. The 5,000-meter runners hope to master the entire thing.
Somehow, the workout that was developed on a napkin has turned into one of the most versatile pieces of training in the world of track and field.
“I didn’t realize how smart I was back then,” Warhurst jokes.
At Columbia University (where, full disclosure, I ran track), our coach called our version of The Michigan “Baker Blast”—after the name of the stadium. Coach and agent Stephen Haas recently posted on Instagram that his star athlete Edward Cheserek ran a “Michigan” in Flagstaff, Arizona, and that they were thinking about calling it The Lumberjack, with it being at seven-thousand feet and all. Warhurst remembers telling North Carolina State coach Rollie Geiger the workout—they started running it with a name of The Frasier, the restaurant where Warhurst told Geiger*.
The Michigan has lived many lives. Will Leer, who ran at Pomona Pitzer before heading to the Oregon Track Club and placing fourth at the 2008 U.S. Olympic Trials in the 1500 meters, ran his first version of The Michigan in Eugene under coach Frank Gagliano. Running at Eugene High School and on a flat loop of the Amazon Trail, it wasn’t that bad. A few years later, he was training with Willis and Warhurst wondering how the hell anyone could ever finish one of these workouts. “For it to be done properly,” Leer says, “it needs to be done at Ferry Field. I needed Willis to hold my hand through the whole thing because I was convinced that there was no possible way I was making it.”
That feeling of despair, according to Warhurst, is the point. There is a simple adage in running: You must learn how to run fast on tired legs. You can go into the science behind it and look into lactic acid, or you can think about it logically and within the parameters of how a race plays out. Warhurst remembers watching Kenyan runners dominate the 1970s running scene by throwing a 61-second lap into the middle of a 5,000-meter race. They would then drop back to 68 seconds, but because no one went with them, the race was done for anyone who didn’t respond to the move. So, Warhurst thought, we must throw surges into our workouts. He laughs thinking about the torturous workouts he would create, like 20 by 400 with a 50-meter jog between each one and times ranging from 68 to 61 seconds. To contend at a world level, however, an athlete had to learn how to get through it. When he created The Michigan, he had a workout that forced a runner to “get through it.”
“This is something that is very unique,” Warhurst says. “It’s not just an interval session. This gives the athlete an opportunity to explore where his or her head is at. Where their emotions are. When the grinding starts, it tests your mettle.”
Warhurst loves the mental side of it. He loves that the athlete has to get it done on the tempo loop when no one is watching. “I think it’s a good, true test of becoming physically and emotionally tough when no one is around to browbeat you into it,” he says.
He loves that it makes the athlete tougher. Or, as Warhurst says about The Michigan, “It’s like eatin’ dirt and spinach.”
Dirt and spinach are acquired tastes.
“I’m not sure it’s so great for everyone,” Willis says of The Michigan. “From my experience, nearly everyone fails on their first attempt.” He coaches runners of all levels through his Miler Method program, and he understands how daunting a workout that interchanges track and tempo work can be for an athlete not ready for it.
Warhurst solves that problem by telling coaches to adapt. When he speaks to high school coaches, he recommends doing a 1200-meter rep to start. And he also suggests measuring out a shorter tempo loop. “Most high schools have some loop around campus that has to be around 1200-meters,” he says.
Or, if you’re Lex Williams, a Michigan grad who was living in Normal, Illinois as a coach at Illinois State a few years ago, you create your own version of The Michigan by finding a loop that resembles the route around the Big House. Williams combed over the terrain around Normal’s track and put together a loop worthy of The Michigan.
“Lex is such a believer in this workout,” Leer says. “He believes in its effectiveness to transform athletes.”
And while the workout has trickled out to the rest of the running world, it’s still at home in Michigan. Sullivan is the head coach of the Wolverines now, and he has his athletes run The Michigan. It is still part of the lore.
Warhurst still coaches, even if it’s not for Michigan in an official capacity. He works with professionals and helps out with Sullivan when he can. He is, however, still very interested in The Michigan. “I go down there when Sully has the team do it,” he says. “I get them fired up for it.” He is also still prescribing it to his athletes.
On November 12, a little over forty-three years after its inception, Warhurst meets Willis at the Ferry Field track at the University of Michigan. They have been working together for nearly 15 years, and they both know what they’re there for that day.
Willis, 35 now, is getting ready for the Manchester Road Race on Thanksgiving Day in Connecticut. It’s a 4.78-mile road race that historically gets out extremely quickly thanks to a slightly downhill mile. The second mile is a drastic climb, however, so the pace slows. Then there’s a downhill third mile before the pace relaxes in prep for a final push for home. The ups and downs and pace changes are a lot, Warhurst knows, like a cross-country race.
So, ten days before Thanksgiving, Warhurst and Willis are at Ferry Field getting ready for another go at The Michigan. It’s cold day in Ann Arbor, but the weather is supposed to be even worse the next day, when the workout was originally scheduled. Willis ran 2 hours and 8 minutes on Saturday then 10 miles on Sunday. It’s not the ideal lead-in, but it’s the card they have been dealt.
Willis’ best version of the Michigan included a 4 minute, 16 seconds mile, 3 minutes, 8 seconds for the 1200, 1 minute, 58 seconds for the 800, and 51 for the 400. That was in the midst of the spring track season. On this day, he runs the first mile in 4 minutes, 22 seconds. It’s a good start. Nothing amazing, but for this time of year Willis will take it. He heads straight out and hammers the loop around the Big House. The 1200 goes well, too: Willis runs 3 minutes, 15 seconds. As he slowly makes his way over to the start of the tempo loop, Warhurst yells at him: “Put it in your head that you better run sub-2:06.”
Warhurst wants him to focus. He wants him to get through the grind. That’s the whole point. Willis can’t ease up on the climb up to the stadium, but he has to be ready for another surge, too.
He returns to the track and leans into the 800 as Warhurst clicks his watch. Warhurst encourages him as he runs, Willis’ smooth stride nearly unchanged from his days on the Michigan track team. Warhurst stops his watch after two laps: 2 minutes, 5.5 seconds.
No time to revel in it, however. There is one more tempo loop to go before the A.U.G.
Willis does not slack. No, Warhurst isn’t out on the loop shouting to keep pace. But that’s what Warhurst and Willis love so much about it. The workout forces the athlete to contemplate the pain. “It’s not a bee sting,” Warhurst says. “It’s a steady thing that keeps coming at you. It’s a toothache, a grind. But you can function with a toothache. It’s an annoyance, but you can’t feel sorry for yourself. You get through it, and when you’re done you feel like you climbed Mt. Everest.” Willis keeps grinding through the last tempo lap and rolls into the final quarter-mile.
“Then he ran a 56,” Warhurst laughs of Willis’ last rep.
It’s still a thrill, The Michigan.
And it still connects.
Later that day, Willis texted Leer. “He only sent four numbers,” Leer says.
“I knew exactly what they meant.”
*This article has been updated to note the name the N.C. State track team called the workout. h/t Emily Pritt
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When the Fifth Avenue Mile Was Yuuuge
In 1997 and 1998, Donald J. Trump sponsored the 5th Avenue Mile. But two years into a six-year deal, he opted out.
For Jake LaSala, mostly everything about the Fifth Avenue Mile in 1997 was business as usual. As the start-line coordinator for many of the New York Road Runners races not named the New York City Marathon, he knew how to handle the pressure of a race with multiple waves and start times. In the midst of the controlled chaos of runners gathered at 82nd Street in front of the steps at the Metropolitan Museum of Art—not to mention all the tourists and New Yorkers—LaSala corralled and directed runners throughout the day. He calmed eager youths itching to burst from the start line and patiently gathered masters competitors who gingerly made their way to the race course. There was a media race, too, which sometimes brought in some minor celebrities. Plus, there was the elite race, where there was bound to be a sub-four-minute mile on the men’s side, and the women were likely to dip under 4 minutes and 30 seconds.
LaSala, who today is the owner of a road racing consulting firm, was too busy to notice anything out of the ordinary—except that there was something about the start and finish line banners hanging about twelve feet above the street. Those were different this time. They normally weren’t so …
The race had a new sponsor this year, and the signage was not the blue with white-blocked letters that had become the standard at N.Y.R.R. races. This sign was white with gold, glittery lettering that sparkled as the sign swayed in the wind. It had a graphic of a runner dressed in a suit (presumably depicting the sponsor) crossing finish-line tape with his arms raised in victory, too. The gold on white was difficult to read from far away, but it did make sense with the sponsor. In fact, it seemed like it would have fit right in at an Atlantic City casino.
The sign wasn’t something LaSala was worried about, though. The sponsor had been around the start line at one point in the day, and he had been quite pleasant. LaSala had seen some demanding celebrities in the past—like the one who needed a tent for meditation at a charity race—but this guy seemed easy, walking around in his hat, chatting and posing for pictures with runners and fans on the street.
Little did LaSala know: In about twenty years, the sponsor would be the most powerful person in the world.
That’s right, long before he became the forty-fifth president of the United States of America—and long before he said he could shoot someone on a certain avenue in New York and not lose any voters—Donald J. Trump was the title sponsor of the New York Road Runners Fifth Avenue Mile. Gold banner and all.
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