Rahsaan Thomas Became a Runner in Prison. Now, He's Running the NYC Marathon.
Rahsaan Thomas rounds the corner for his 105th—you read that right, 105th—lap. He's running the San Quentin Prison Marathon, where he doesn't exactly have the privilege of breezing past landmarks and skyscrapers and adoring fans. Hence the 105 laps, round and round in the prison yard, dodging rogue geese, flying basketballs, and dudes who simply don't give a shit about the race. In the home stretch, the 52-year-old Thomas has all the markings of a well-fought marathon. Pit stains. Legs like cinderblocks, plodding left and right, left and right. White headband, sopping wet. When Thomas crosses the finish line, he beams and throws his hands in the air like a certain Philadelphian boxer.
"Woo!" he yells. "For all the people who come in last, this is for you." The time? Six hours, 12 minutes, and 23 seconds. Last place, sure—but damn, Rahsaan Thomas just finished a marathon.
This moment comes near the end of 26.2 to Life, September's stunning documentary about the famously grueling San Quentin Prison Marathon. When I catch up with Thomas—who was released on parole this past February—I ask about his 105th lap proclamation. Is there any beauty in a last-place finish? "When I grew up, they said nice guys finish last," Thomas tells me over Zoom. "There was a lot of pressure to do things that were supposed to be cool—and if you weren't doing these things, you were square. But all the squares are running the world right now. So if it takes longer? It's better, man."
In 2000, Thomas was sentenced to 55 years and six months to life for second-degree murder conviction and other charges. During his imprisonment, Thomas co-hosted a Pulitzer Prize-nominated podcast, wrote for The Marshall Project, and founded Empowerment Avenue. It's a collective that uses journalism and art to, as Thomas explains, "break into the direction of trauma, cycles of poverty, and intergenerational incarceration." In January 2022, California Governor Gavin Newsom commuted Thomas's sentence. He was granted parole the following August, and after a widely publicized delay, he was released from the San Quentin Prison in February 2023.
So, what does a man who became a marathoner in prison do when he leaves prison? Run this Sunday's New York City Marathon, of course. Here, Thomas tells us about his journey from San Quentin to New York City, and everything between.
This conversation has been edited and condensed for clarity.
ESQUIRE: Before we get into it, I just need to know what your post-marathon meal on Sunday night will be.
RAHSAAN THOMAS: I have not thought about that. I'm so busy just hoping I survive it. But I know it needs to be something high in protein—because I know I'm gonna deplete a lot of protein, and a lot of sugar. So something ridiculously high in protein fiber, with some seafood and vegetables in it.
That's so healthy. I'm looking at a chicken parm for mine.
That would be great, but no carbs. I heard that your body converts muscle and energy way faster than it does fat. So in a crunch, it's going to take the muscle instead of taking all this fat on my stomach. [Laughs.]
Tell me a little bit about your life since February. How have you been feeling?
I came home very grateful, but I didn't know what parole was and that I wouldn’t be free. It shocked me for a minute. But then I realized I'm home 33 years early. So that gave me a new perspective. And I met somebody who served more time and is in a worse situation. So they helped me gain perspective. And so now I'm 100 percent grateful. It's completely different than the past, when society won't let you back in once you have a criminal conviction. I've been to more basketball games and more baseball games this year than my whole life combined. I have the most I've ever had in savings. I'm having a great life.
In 26.2 to Life, you said something similar—that 20, 30 years ago, it would’ve been unimaginable to leave jail with a murder conviction.
Yeah, I would say 20 years ago. That's crazy. Society understands what crime is. There was a time when it was really easy to scare society into voting for laws that didn’t make sense. Because we didn't understand what crime was—we thought it was evil. We thought if we put the evil in jail, we'd be safer. But we know now we know it's way more complicated than that. Because locking somebody up for gang-banging doesn't address why someone joined the gang in the first place, and it doesn't stop gang membership. We wasted money that could have gone to solving real problems. We live in a society that [pays] $108,000 a year to keep somebody in prison, instead of giving us $30,000 to go to school.
In the documentary, some of the men spoke about the stigma people place on them, simply because they’re in jail. When you run the New York City Marathon, you’ll be completely anonymous. I’m curious how you feel about that.
I don't know if I'll be anonymous anymore. I'll be anonymous to most of them, right? I regret what I've done, but I'm not exactly ashamed of it—I feel like it's normal. If you grew up how I grew up—and if you've been through what I've been through—you might have made worse decisions, you know? What I'm really looking forward to is that in spite of whether they know who I am, I’ve heard the energy in New York is amazing—and that it's a very supportive running community. It’s gonna be so much love. It’ll help me finish this race before the sunset.
I'm not sure if I'm ready for it. It's making me more nervous.
Yeah, nothing is gonna be motivating. I feel like the cameras at 26.2 to Life [helped]. The fact that I talked a lot of crap about race made me do it. [Laughs.]
When you hit mile 20, what will your internal monologue look like?
I made it through the Bronx, baby! I made it through the Bronx! Let's go!
In a piece for Outside Magazine, you wrote, “I'm running for punishment and redemption all at the same time.” How can running be all of those things—punishment, penance, and redemption—all at once?
I [asked] 1,000 people, “Is there a training routine I can do? Is there a magic trick?” They all say, “Yeah, it’ll make you feel better, but at a certain point, it's gonna hurt.” I'm doing that knowingly—taking that pain—because I feel like it's working. We're getting publicity. The GoFundMe is gonna raise something. I feel like I owe that. There are a lot of reasons why I committed my crime—it was a fucked-up multiple choice test. But there's no excuse for it. I still picked the wrong choice. I'm holding myself accountable for that. And I don't feel like sitting in a cell was paying my debt to society. I actually just cost society probably a million [dollars] more. I want to pay my debt in a way that's meaningful. What’s drawing attention—more than just donating money—is spreading the philosophy of inclusion.
The only thing we don't have is the freaking willpower to love each other. I'm showing that it works, man. At San Quentin, 30 people made parole while I was there—zero recidivism rate. Seven of us make six figures. Dudes are doing incredible work. To see that, and know that, that's what I'm running for—to get to the world we can have.
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