I’ve run the Los Angeles Marathon eight times. Eight times I’ve stood in the pre-dawn darkness outside Dodger Stadium, waiting — sometimes dreading — the start. Eight times, I trekked 26.2 miles across the sprawling, racially segregated, but oh-so-beautiful City of Angels. Struggling up hills, high-fiving spectators as they jangle cowbells, cheering on other Black folks I passed — or, more likely, who passed me. 

Real talk: I only ever took home a finisher’s medal — the runner’s equivalent of a participation trophy.

In the years I don’t run, I’m out on Sunset Boulevard at mile 7, handing cups of water and snacks to the thousands of people who want the finisher’s medal, too. But when a Black runner comes through, I cheer a little louder. Give them that extra-special, I see you, fam. You got this!   

A Rare Sight at the Finish Line

Less than 1% of Americans will ever complete a marathon. Out of that relatively tiny sliver of the population, Black runners are rare. The most recent Running USA data shows Black folks account for about 3% of distance runners in the U.S., far below our share of the population.

It all makes Nathan Martin’s victory on Sunday that much sweeter.

Martin, a 36-year-old high school cross-country coach from Jackson, Michigan, became the first U.S.-born Black man to win the L.A. Marathon. It was a dramatic finish: he trailed Michael Kimani Kamau of Kenya into the homestretch, but surged at the end to beat him by .01 seconds. It was the stuff of legends. 

“At a mile and a half to go, I could see the leader and with 800 meters to go,” Martin told the Los Angeles Times. “I was thinking, ‘I’m catching him.’”  

The historic moment was also a reminder of how rare it is to see an African American — not our Kenyan or Ethiopian cousins from the Motherland — taking home the top prize in a big-city marathon.

The Myth of Running

Distance running sells itself as the great equalizer. All you need, the pitch goes, is a pair of sneakers and the great outdoors. But for Black America, the outdoors is the problem, and the sneakers — not to mention race entry fees — ain’t exactly free.  

Almost 1 in 5 Black Americans live in poverty, putting race entry fees for major events, which routinely run $150 to $300, out of reach. Quality running shoes, the kind that will protect your feet and joints from pounding out hundreds of miles on the pavement, can set you back $200 or more. Over the months of training for a marathon, you’re buying several pairs because you’ll wear them out. 

Marathon training also requires 40, 50, sometimes 60 miles of running per week. Those miles require motivation and discipline, sure, but they also require time. It’s a precious commodity usually in short supply for folks struggling to make ends meet.

Studies also consistently show that Black neighborhoods have less park space than white ones. Running in areas with wall-to-wall concrete and heavy traffic means breathing in car exhaust and all the cancer-causing fine particulate matter that comes with it. 

Black folks also require safety. We have to consider: Where can I run? Who’s going to see me? Will they call the police? Will they shoot me?  

The murder of 25-year-old Ahmaud Arbery, shot and killed by three white men while jogging in a Georgia neighborhood, is a reminder that worrying about these things isn’t paranoia. Arbery was unarmed, not doing anything but getting in some good old-fashioned exercise. But his killers decided he didn’t belong. They chased him down like prey with their pickup trucks, then cornered and shot him.

“For Black people, it really boils down to the systemic racism in our society, and really where Black people can and can’t go because of who they are,” Boston-based running advocate Adrienne Benton told GBH News back in 2022 when it was marathon time in the city. 

I know from personal experience that that’s true.

I trained for my races with a running club, which required me to schlep 20 miles from my neighborhood to Santa Monica every Saturday morning. I joined because these folks knew what it took to get through a race, and because it’s safer to run two-by-two with a pack of a few dozen other runners in my pace group. If I couldn’t make it to our group runs, I went to the gym. I didn’t run 10, 12, or 15 miles on a boring indoor treadmill for fun. I did it to keep myself safe.  

“If you can’t go further than a mile outside of where you live because you’re fearful that you won’t be accepted in certain communities, then, basically, you’re probably not going to run more than a mile,” said Benton, who is a member of the National Black Marathoners Association and Black Girls Run.

Organizations like Black Girls Run, Black Men Run, and dozens of local running clubs across the country are trying to change things by creating opportunities to train together, build community, and benefit from the mental and physical health running brings. Plus, safety comes in numbers and they’re declaring Black American runners belong on every road.

Nathan Martin certainly showed that in Los Angeles, sprinting through the equivalent of seven football fields to chase down a lead most would have said was impossible to close. And isn’t that so Black? We’ve been running against all odds for so long and winning despite the race already seeming like it’s decided. 

“In any race, I just want to give 100%,” he told the LA Times. “I saw an opportunity to race at the end and give one last push. All I wanted to do is push myself.”

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