Runs Marathon In Prison. Boston’s Was Easier.


BOSTON – Out of all runners in the first wave Boston Marathon On Monday, there was a slender, muscular marathoner with slender ankles from Northern California, where all the nervous energy made a deep sense. Markle TaylorA former life sentence at the San Quentin State Penitentiary, he was running free for the first time.

Just a week ago, Taylor, who was released from prison in 2019, received news that he had finally escaped parole after three long years when his movements were severely restricted and travel required special permission. He got off the plane with jogging equipment as a free man at Boston Logan International Airport. “Man, that was such a good feeling,” he said, a trace of Mississippi family roots evident in his accent.

On the glorious morning of April 18, the coolness and crystal sky reminiscent of her Bay Area home, 49-year-old Taylor felt better and more relaxed than she had in years. In her orange shorts, she matches the Nike Alphaflys and the tank she chose in her honour. Tamalpa running club in Marin County, California set out determinedly to achieve her goal – to run a third consecutive marathon in less than three hours. “The Threes” made sense to him: His #3 parole hearing resulted in his release after 18 years in prison for second-degree murder, and it took him three years to get out of parole.

Taylor, who earned the nickname Gazelle, looked like she was out for a walk as she crossed the finish line in 2 hours and 52 minutes. She kept a steady 6:33 per mile and didn’t “go crazy” running very fast in the beginning. Noticing her performance, she was enthusiastic when the marathoners asked her to pose for selfies. “You were like a metronome, man,” said a fellow runner, who used Taylor as his unofficial pacer. “Very consistent.”

Messages from Marin, her coaches, supporters, and coworkers, began pouring in minutes later. They still are. “He’s mentally strong and pushes hard even when it hurts,” he said. Diana FitzpatrickShe coached Taylor and is the first female president of the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run. “The support Markelle has received from the community is purely for who she is.”

tight community Tamalpa RunnersThe one that recently elected Taylor to the board of directors helps keep her in the balance. Proudly 21 years sober and counting. “They hold you accountable,” Taylor said of club members who accepted him without judgment from the start. “It gets you out of lazy mode. If you tell someone you’re going to run with them, you don’t want to disappoint them.”

Taylor ran her first under three-hour marathon on the Avenue of the Giants in California last September, where she finished with the redwoods with a time of 2:56:12, finishing first in her age group and fifth overall. Accompanied by a longtime mentor Frank Ruonawho, as the lead volunteer coach 1000 Mile Club in San QuentinHelped her develop her skills.

Before the emergence of Covid-19 – which is ricochet For over two years San Quentin and the club have reduced their activities – Ruona and other successful volunteer coaches have run two half marathons and one full marathon per year. upcoming documentary.

Taylor was 27 years old when she was sentenced to 15 years to life for assaulting her pregnant girlfriend, leading to the premature birth and eventual death of her children. She grew up a victim of domestic and sexual violence, was addicted to alcohol, and had a history of intimate partner violence.

He used his prison sentence as an opportunity to break old patterns. “It forces you to grow and mature and become wise,” he said. “It makes you a better person.”

Taylor was inspired to start running as an antidote to despair after a close friend died by suicide after her fifth parole denial. The 5-foot-10 Taylor was by far the fastest runner in the 1000 Mile Club and earned a happy nickname, the Gazelle, for her long, straight strides, leg speed, and grace under pressure. “Running was a form of freedom” announced three years ago. “It was my therapy, it was an escape route. It kept me on the ground.”

In January 2019, Taylor qualified for the Boston Marathon by going through 104½ mind-bending cycles in the prison yard. He was released six weeks later. With the help of supporters—including a senior California Department of Correction and Rehabilitation official who turned out to be a runner—Taylor was allowed to run in Boston if he stuck to the coach traveling with him like glue. He ran with a relief team in the back net, but finished the first wave in 3:03:52, a personal best at the time.

When he ran hard, he recalled the mistakes of his own past through the pain in his left ankle attached with metal screws, the result of jumping off the wall while being chased by three Rottweilers (“I was drunk and thought I could jump,” he recalled).

“Anger is a secondary emotion of hurt, stress, and fear,” she said of her former self. “Like a wounded dog. If you touch it, it clings to you and bites you to protect itself because it hurts. It’s the same with humans.”

A lot has changed in his life since then. Just three years ago, Taylor lived in a re-entry facility in San Francisco’s Tenderloin area, where residents were required to take a Breathalyzer test, remove their shoes to check for contraband, and walk through the metal detector at the door. Today, Taylor lives in her own subsidized one-bedroom apartment in Tiburon, one of the Bay Area’s trendiest and most affluent communities. “Man, you can’t beat this,” she said.

Still, the challenges he faced as a previously imprisoned Black man remain formidable. Taylor has held several jobs over the past few years, most recently at a formerly homeless shelter motel run by Catholic Charities.

He said he enjoyed “helping people change their lives” as he faced similar obstacles. When the nonprofit’s contract with the government expired, Taylor was disappointed to learn that she had suddenly lost her job. To make a living, she now works at a grocery store for minimum wage.

The symbolism of marathons is not lost on him. “Running is humility,” he said. “Sometimes you have to start from the bottom, as I do now with minimum wage. It’s like trying to climb that hill after 18 kilometers – sometimes you can get cramps and things like that. It’s like being rejected from a job you want because they want fingerprints.”

“Being black and living with a criminal past, no matter how successful you are today, you’re always chasing the past,” he continued. “Just like some of these hills, the community in general isn’t very forgiving—unless they reach their own backyard.”

Still, he believes things happen for a reason. If he hadn’t gotten a life sentence, he probably wouldn’t have been a runner, kicked his alcohol addiction, or turned into the warm, stable existence he is today. She told some new acquaintances this week that she is running for a higher power, referring to her faith as one of Jehovah’s Witnesses. He or she is looking to get a job as a coach or peer counselor, which could possibly turn into a career.

Taylor started the fledgling athletic wear line It’s an idea he’s nurtured since his time in prison last year. Its logo is based on a silhouette where Taylor breaks the chains while running. And this week in Boston, the slogan on clothes came true: “Markelle Ceylan Runs Free.”



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