It wasn’t much later after I’d talked myself into doing this in my work clothes that my friend looked over at me and said something like, OK, time to run now.

And then he took off. He’s a big guy. Bigger than me and I was a big guy. But off he went, with his dog’s leash in his hand and his dog running with him.

This wasn’t planned for. I hadn’t trained for this. I’d not even ran in a while. I’d stayed up late, having messed around with friends online and skipped breakfast because I was supposed to be out of this mess in under an hour. No food. No sleep. I hadn’t drank anything clear in a while. I wanted to stop. To quit. To give up.

Instead, with a camera draped around my neck, I broke into a dash after him.

While I had the weekend off, I’d agreed that I’d cover the 5K that morning. I was just gonna show up, shoot some photos, grab a couple of interviews and take off. I didn’t know the precise location of where everyone was meeting up at, so I decided I’d drive up to the old prison, take a bus to the starting line at the new prison, grab what I needed there and get shuttled back to my car. Done in 30 minutes, maybe an hour. Then go back to doing whatever I had planned, which was probably nothing at all.

The Pen to Pen Fun Run is an annual event in Rawlins, Wyoming. It has you running from the current location of the Wyoming State Penitentiary to the Wyoming Frontier Prison.

And it sucks. Well, it did that morning at least.

With a big Nikon draped around my neck, I hopped out of the bus and started mingling with folks. People come to this race from all over. Some people tie themselves together in a weird walking formation called a chain gang. And coming from Eastern Kentucky, which hosts the Hatfield-McCoy Marathon and attracts people from across the globe, I know what sorts of folks come to 5K’s. I know there’s a good story here. 

Everyone who participates gets these really stiff, starchy black and white prison overalls, you know, like the ones from cartoons and stuff. They’re hot as the sun and allow absolutely no heat to escape. It’s like getting vacuum-sealed into an oven. But I wasn’t wearing them that day. I’d have preferred it.

I ran into an old co-worker at the run during my picture taking and interviewing. He was in a red shirt with no sleeves, but kept the prison pants on. He had a dog. Lots of folks had dogs, but he had his rottweiler. Dang thing acted up a lot around the other dogs.

There was a sizable crowd at the starting line. Lots of good pictures, lots of good interviews. Easy. I’d made so much headway, and was feeling so confident, that I figured there was more I could do. I decided that a really good way to capture the story was to walk with my friend for a little bit and interview everyone around me. Not him though, that’s a conflict of interest.

You know, take pictures of those who were running or walking or jogging. Ask them for their name, what brought them here, if they’ve ran before, you know, the normal stuff. Provided they were up for talking of course. Some people take these things seriously. One woman was rolling herself in a wheelchair. She was a good interview. It takes a lot of arms to wheel yourself 3.1 miles. It takes a lot of legs to run yourself 3.1 miles.

I got done, but I kept walking. What am I even doing? My friend said it looked like I was doing the 5k. He let out a laugh, sometimes it kind of reminded me of a hyena. You know the one. The high cackle that sometimes has a raspy sound to it near the end.

Sure enough, I was walking at a brisk pace with my friend and his dog. In my khakis. In my loafers. Not interviewing anybody. Not taking any photos.

Are you kidding me? He’s at least got running shoes on and expected to do this. I should be asleep. Me being cognizant of my surroundings was a victory that morning. Doing a 5k would be a miracle.

-You should do it.

-What? No, that’s insane.

-You’re this far.

-No, it’s been like two-tenths of a mile, it’s not been far.

-Do it anyway.

-No. I already have my story for the paper.

-This could be one for you. You don’t have anything else going on anyway, you said that already.

I always was good at talking myself into things.

Each step wagged that camera from one side of my chest to the other and sometimes slammed it into my sternum. I thought about taking it off and just carrying it, with the neck loop just wrapped around my fist like a boxer tapes his hands. Figured I could drop it pretty easy that way though. Decided to just clutch it in my right hand while it was still draped around my neck, that way I couldn’t drop it and it couldn’t smash into my chest anymore. Was an awkward way to run though. Could only really move my left arm with each step.

Rawlins is a hilly place. There’s lots of ups and downs all across Wyoming, but Rawlins is definitely a slopey kind of town. Going downhill isn’t so bad, but all the ups are. And there’s a lot of those. We kept the walk up for a while. Long enough to where I couldn’t get out of it. It wasn’t so bad. I’d decided that yeah, ultimately, I could walk this with my friend.

I’ll hate myself afterward, but I can do that much.

But we didn’t stay walking. And I had some ground to cover to even reach him. That boy could move. His dog could too. That’s why he was doing this 5k he said, for his dog’s health.

I didn’t believe him. I don’t think I’d told him that. I figured I’d tell him once I caught up to him.

A stitch in my side had started to form. It kind of hurt to move. But I was right there. And he was so close. I hadn’t dashed like that in a while. The last time was probably when I played football in grade school or something. He’d sprinted past joggers that I was just now weaving by. But in my loafers, I caught him. With a camera in my hand, I caught him.

I could have overtaken him, but I’d have died and he’d have passed me. I remember asking him, between breaths, when we were gonna stop, when we could get back to a normal pace. I was yelling at him, not out of anger or anything, but because that was the only volume I had. It’s hard to talk when you can’t breathe, and Rawlins sits at around 7,000 feet.

It was another minute or so until he just flat out stopped his sprint and started speed walking. Not a word. He hadn’t responded to my earlier pleas, just looked over at me and smiled a smile that said keep it up, bud. Big guy. Tattoos. The most unlikely friend I’ve probably ever made in my life and the only one I probably did make in Wyoming.

We kept the pace even farther. One foot after another. Kept on moving. I thought we’d be done by now. Not even close. The path winded down the street I lived on. Heck, we actually walked past the small three-room house I was renting.

For a brief moment, I thought about quitting again. But I’d made it that far, maybe about a third of the way, so like a mile, plus I’d feel like I was abandoning my friend. I couldn’t do that.

Plus, he had challenged me. I had challenged me.

And my car was at the old pen. I’d have to get it eventually and I’d have to walk that way sooner or later. Yeah, I wouldn’t have to walk at that pace or break into sprints like we did on the next turn we came to, but I’d have to get my car.

There were actually several more sprints we did. I don’t know how he did it, how his dog did it or how I did it. During one part of the 5k, you go under the road into this really dark tunnel that isn’t really that dark, but it’s actually wildly dark because of the sun that’s been bouncing into your eyes. It takes a minute to adjust, but it takes a minute to get out of that tunnel anyway. Grates and standing water and puddles and it’s just the worst. Even more so when you’re in loafers with a camera in your hand and you’re not happily sauntering, you’re speed walking.

Once you’re out of the darkness, you head up a slight ramp you’re in the city proper. The business area. It’s small, but it’s not far from where I worked and there were handfuls of restaurants and bars. It’s all uphill from here. Rawlins is slopey. And the Wyoming Frontier Prison, in all its gothic glory, sits atop that slope.

Make it there, and you’re done.

After a few more sprints on a few more blocks, rushing past windows where diners were watching the race from within, I could see that prison between my gasps for breath that were getting harder to catch with this void tearing into my side, threatening to rip me apart. I wished it would end, forever, but, I remained amongst the running.

We didn’t talk much during our time together, but we didn’t have a ton to say to each other, really. Too busy inhaling as hard as we could just to spit it back out and go for seconds. And his dog didn’t bark any, he was sucking down wind too. Walks into sprints into walks into sprints in silence and breaths. It was nice.

Once you get out of the business area, you’re into the neighborhoods. Houses lined the sides of the road as the path veered from the asphalt onto a broken sidewalk with cracks and weeds growing up through the spaces, like tiny hands reaching out to grab your ankle and pull you down. A great place to trip. A wonderful way to break this camera still draped around my neck.

I’d soon leave my friend behind. I didn’t mean to. I figure I’d show him. Every other time we’d sprinted, he’d initiated it. Not a word was said besides something like “let’s go” to his dog and he’d take off. His stamina was amazing. I wanted to emulate it. I decided to.

I said something like “let’s go,” and I took off up this haphazard mess of concrete, the camera clutched in the hand of my perfectly still right arm, my legs shifting against each other in these khakis, making a sound as unpleasant as it felt. I ran away from my friend past the green lawns that had white and blue and red campaign signs, which clashed with porches that bore Denver Broncos flags and banners.

He didn’t follow me though. I was nearly at the top when I looked back and saw that he’d been overtaken by those who were behind us. And we’d been quite a bit ahead of them.

Guilt rushed into me where air should have, kicking down the door and making a mess of the place. But I couldn’t stop now. With a final big gulp of that sweet invisible stuff down my gullet, I turned my back and marched on.

When I first approached the old pen, I saw a person who was part of the direction crew or something. She was short, had long brown hair and was wearing a promotional shirt. She had something in her hands, like a flyer or something, and was pointing to the right. Must be the end, she’s gonna hand me a congratulations or something. Good. I deserve this. Especially after that sprint I just did up that sidewalk. Especially having not fallen. Especially doing this alone now.

“Make it there, and you’re done.”

I’m an idiot, a fool, to think it would be that easy.

Turns out, she was pointing me to the rest of the course. See, there’s an area behind the prison I didn’t know existed. In order to get the whole 3.1 miles and some change, you gotta go a bit further. You gotta go through this garden area that prisoners, I guessed, kept up through the years when the building was operational.

And I thought I’d won. I gave everything I had left to get up that sidewalk because I thought it was the home stretch. Thought I was done. Thought I was gonna beat my friend. That satisfaction was yanked away from me like a punishment. But on I walked, thought no longer on a sidewalk or asphalt or anything. It’s a dirt path behind the prison. And I walked it alone.

The path serpentined upward. More slopes, what a shock. Zigging hard to the left and zagging back twice as hard to the right. Grass was between the path, you weren’t allowed to cut through, signs said as much, and on each switchback, it was slippery due to all the extra foot traffic it was experiencing that day. It wasn’t made for running or jogging or walking quickly or anything.

I’d left my friend behind and kept walking about, oh, a week ago it felt like, maintaining the pace the two of us had once shared. No friend. No dog. Just me and this stupid camera. In my loafers. With no water stations anywhere. It’s just a 5k. I could have bent down and started eating the sandy dirt that I was marching on and my mouth wouldn’t have been able to tell any difference.

I looked behind me when I summited the top of the mountain behind the old pen, but couldn’t see my friend. I hoped he was OK. I felt bad. Emotionally, yes; but I also wanted to die.

This was too much. I wasn’t prepared for this. People drink water before they do these things and I couldn’t remember when I’d had my last sip. They train. They, at the least, expect it. And here I was, atop this dirty hill behind an old, haunted prison. The hill just before the finish line, I hoped. In loafers. With this camera. Searching for a nice thick chunk of air to chomp down on in this sea of thin wind more than a mile up in the air.

All for what? Why was I doing this again? I got my story. I got what I wanted. But my feet wouldn’t stop moving. I had to finish this 5k. I’d talked myself into it and I wasn’t about to talk myself out of it after having done like 90 percent of it.

Down a path of rough gravel, I turned the corner and saw what appeared to be a set of pillars and a banner hanging between them. That had to be finish line. It had to. I wasn’t sure if my heart could take another surprise like I had earlier, after abandoning my friend on a sprint up a 10-percent incline only to have to keep going. Then again, I wasn’t sure my heart could take any more anything.

With each step, my whole body felt like that one magic trick. Like I’d been shoved into a box and someone had started jamming swords into it.

Rawlins is classified as a high desert, and deserts have mirages. But, as it turned out, it was the finish line. And each step brought me closer to it. I thought about busting out into one last sprint, to get it done and to pull the last little bit of energy I had left, but I was already scraping the bottom of the barrel. The only thing that kept me going was the satisfaction of the finale.

I kept my pace, but I glanced behind once last time to see where I’d come from. To see how big a hill I’d rather have just rolled my way down. And I saw my friend. And his dog.

They were still with me. He’d either caught a second or third or fifth or whatever wind we were on by that point or I’d significantly slowed down. For a moment, I thought about stopping so that could cross the finish line together.

I kept going though.

The final time was 59 minutes and some change. It was under an hour at least. At that point, I decided that was my goal. I hadn’t had one besides finishing, but under an hour unprepared sounded like a good one to me.

There was no tape to break. There was no confetti. Just a handful of people cheering those who’d made it the whole way. That was enough for me. Being done was enough for me.

There’s a barbecue get-together that everyone’s invited to after the 5k. You don’t pay to eat if you ran, that was part of the buy-in. This whole thing’s a way for the prison to make money to keep being a major tourist attraction. It’s a haunted prison, after all.

I smiled as I crossed to the whoops and hollers from the few folks who were at the finish line. And thankfully, there was water. I rushed over to it, but soon slowed myself down and gingerly made my way to a shady area in the old pen’s greenspace where I could finally stop.

There, I found another former co-worker and her friend. Apparently, they’d done the 5k as well. They called me crazy for doing what I’d just done. “You did it wearing that?” I shrugged it off and laughed with what little breath I could offer them without choking. We basically had a picnic once my buddy and his dog finished, sitting in the grass and eating some boring hamburgers.

When I first stirred, I instinctively grabbed for the phone that sat atop the makeshift nightstand I’d conscripted from a foldout dinner table. Only it wasn’t there.

That’s what woke me up. I had places to be.

Well if it’s not there, it’s gotta be in this bed somewhere. The sheets were beige and fleecy, kind of like what you’d find on the inside of a nice warm jacket. I’d not switched out of the winter sheets. It’s May or June or whatever and in Wyoming, it can still snow then.

I raised myself up and crooked my right arm to support me while my left arm raced up and down the empty side of the bed, like I was clearing dust off a shelf.

Nothing. I flipped over and felt underneath the pillows and finally raised to my knees and slid my arm down into the space between where the wall and the head of the bed meet. You’ve got surprising agility when you’re awoken in a panic. When I felt the rounded edge of my cell phone, all was right in the world. At least I knew where it was. But my phone not being in its normal spot was a sign of the kind of night I’d just had.

Fortunately, it’s time revealed the good news: I wasn’t late. I was gonna make it. I had to get to prison that morning, but I had to look the part. Typical work attire: Khakis. White undershirt and a black polo. Loafers.

In and out, done in 30 minutes, maybe an hour.