by Glenn Stout
Born to Run was being made into a movie. The business deal did not involve True, and for a while he thought: Here it comes again. The film will bring as much upheaval into my life as the book. Sarsgaard—the director and co-author of the script—had warned him that no one watches a two-hour movie about himself and comes away thinking, That’s me up there.
True thought things had also taken an amusing karmic twist. McDougall, not him, was going to be the movie’s main character, and after reading a draft of the script, the book’s author, in an email to True, called it “ridiculous” and said his “high expectations for the movie had plummeted.”
True took satisfaction in that. Now McDougall would find out how it felt to be defined by someone else. In an email sent to Sarsgaard on March 26, he wrote, “As we know, I would have much liked to at least proofread, fact-check, and/or co-write what” McDougall said about him in the book. “Soooooo . . . . . . . It is hard to feel toooo sorry for him.”
True spent much of that night writing messages, but he was up early the next day. Dean Bruemmer made him blueberry pancakes. True said he was going on a 12-mile run but leaving Guadajuko behind. The dog had sore paws from their jaunt the day before.
Caballo Blanco left the lodge at about 10:00 A.M. He was seen along State Highway 15. The sun was a hot yellow beam when he entered the wilderness.
Micah True’s corpse, encased in a body bag and draped over a brown mule, was taken through the forest and out to the main trailhead in midafternoon on Sunday, April 1. Maria Walton ran up a slope to meet it, calling out, “I love you,” and kissing the end of the bundle that appeared to be the feet.
Just then, a heavy wind began to blow. Dirt spun in the air. A hearse had been parked in an adjacent lot since morning, and the driver, dressed in a coat and tie, looked away to shield his eyes.
The mule was slowly led to the vehicle, and the body bag was lifted through the open door at the rear. Walton insisted that Guadajuko be permitted a farewell, cradling the dog in her arms and taking him over. “We’re going to see Daddy, your best buddy,” she said, sobbing.
Ray Molina, haggard and exhausted, hugged Walton and then leaned against his old Mercedes and talked about finding the corpse. “Micah was bloodied up, so I think he took a tumble and then a hypothermic night did him in,” he said.
Mike Barragree, an investigator for the state medical examiner’s office, had gone with the team that reclaimed the body. He speculated that “some sort of cardiac event” was the likely cause of death, and that turned out to be correct: idiopathic cardiomyopathy, a heart ailment.
The search and recovery mission was finally over. The remembrances had already begun. The evening before, Walton and Scott Leese and many of the Mas Locos hung out at a campground that also had a few small cottages. The moon was a half-circle. The stars were abundant. Someone had thought to buy beer.
For them, this was a requiem for a dead friend. They ate tortillas and eggs and canned stew, heating the food on an old white stove and subduing their sorrow with laughter. They each had a favorite Caballo Blanco story to tell, or two or three. The past flooded into the present.
Above all, their friend wanted to be authentic, they said, and no one could doubt that he had been. This was no small thing.
His death was terribly sad, and yet there was also perfection about it.
Micah True died while running through a magnificent wilderness, and then many of his closest friends came together to search for him, stepping through the same alluring canyons and forests and streams, again and again calling out his name.
MARK SINGER
Marathon Man
FROM THE NEW YORKER
IN JULY 2010, Kyle Strode, a 46-year-old chemistry professor from Helena, Montana, ran the Missoula Marathon. Completing the 26.2-mile distance in two hours and 47 minutes, he placed fourth out of 1,322 finishers, and won the masters division, for entrants 40 and older. Strode is among the most accomplished masters marathoners in Montana, with a personal best of two hours and 32 minutes. When he toes a starting line in his home state, he knows who is among the class of the field, and he’s particularly aware of other masters competitors. The Missoula course, which is mostly flat, passes through rangeland and forest, crosses two rivers, and in its final miles offers a tour of the city’s tree-lined neighborhoods. Early in the race, Strode broke ahead of his usual rivals, and never saw them again. The second masters runner to cross the finish line, Mike Telling, from Dillon, Montana, trailed Strode by nearly four minutes. At the awards ceremony, however, they learned that Telling had actually placed third. The official runner-up was Kip Litton, age 48, of Clarkston, Michigan. Litton, who had been at the back of the pack when the race started, began his run two minutes after the gun was fired. He had apparently made up for lost time.
Since the early nineties, technology has made it possible to clock runners with precision and to track them at measured intervals, yielding point-to-point “split” times. Runners attach to their shoelace or racing bib a transponder tag that marks how much time has elapsed when a checkpoint is reached. Often, sensor-equipped checkpoint mats span the running lanes. USA Track & Field, the governing body for major running competitions, mandates that “gun,” rather than “chip,” times determine the official results in sanctioned races. But, as a practical matter, this rule generally applies solely to elite lead runners. In a field of thousands, it might take an entrant several minutes just to reach the starting line, so it seems only fair that the diligent middle- or back-of-the-packers’ order of finish is adjusted to reflect the chip time. In Missoula, the marathon’s organizers made this allowance.
Strode didn’t have to teach that summer, and so he had time to scrutinize the race results. Because Litton came from out of state, he hadn’t been on Strode’s radar, and Litton hadn’t stuck around to claim his award. Strode learned from Telling that he hadn’t paid Litton any mind as he passed him in the homestretch, and that he had no memory of being passed by Litton earlier in the race.
A wealth of online data about competitive running makes post-race analyses relatively easy. Several days after the marathon, Strode visited a website that displayed photographs of runners along the Missoula route. Most participants appeared in several shots, each of which indicated, down to the second, when it was snapped. Strode noticed something curious: although Litton had posted a half-marathon split time, and there were four images of him taken at or near the finish line, Strode couldn’t locate him anywhere in the preceding 26 miles.
In the Missoula photographs, Litton wore sunglasses and a black baseball cap, so Strode had only a general sense of what he looked like: white, clean-shaven, and about five feet ten, with an athletic build but not the classic lean and loose-limbed runner’s physique. Athlinks, a popular online database for endurance races, sharpened the picture somewhat: in 2000, shortly before turning 40, Litton ran his first race, a five-kilometer event in Flint, half an hour from his home. His average pace was seven and a half minutes per mile: a good novice result. He ran the same race a year later and improved his pace by almost 40 seconds per mile, and a year after that he whittled off 14 more seconds, to a respectable six minutes and 35 seconds per mile. In 2003, he finished 11 races, including his first marathon, in Jacksonville, Florida.
In all, during the previous decade Litton had run in more than 100 races, including 25 marathons. His time in Jacksonville, 3:19:57, qualified him for the Boston Marathon, the following April, where he covered the course in 3:25:06—a 7:50-per-mile pace. He returned to Jacksonville in 2006 and, for the first time, recorded a sub-three-hour marathon, winning in his age group. Four months later, he broke the three-hour barrier again, in Boston.
For a man or a woman of any age, a marathon performance of under three hours is considered a mark of distinction. (Typically, about 6 percent of the field at the Boston Marathon runs this fast.) In the year before Missoula, Litton had averaged a marathon a month, with sub-three-hour clockings in each. He’d traveled to New Me
xico, Idaho, New Hampshire, Arizona, Florida, Virginia, Missouri, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Delaware, Vermont, and South Dakota. Eight times, he’d come in first in his age group, and in the West Wyoming Marathon, a week before Missoula, he was the overall winner.
Exploring the websites for each of Litton’s marathons occupied Strode for several days. Not every race was as well documented as Missoula’s, but wherever professional race photographers had been present he hunted for shots of Litton among other runners. He found images of him at the end of a course, only twice at the beginning, and never in between. And there was the chip-gun differential: with rare exceptions, Litton started two to five minutes behind the leaders. In a crowded field, wouldn’t a swift runner want to avoid weaving through clusters of slower runners?
A Google search led Strode to a website for the dental practice of Kip Litton, DDS, in Davison, Michigan. It also led to Worldrecordrun, a site, conceived and maintained by Litton, that chronicled his peripatetic habits. “World record” apparently referred to his goal of running sub-three-hour marathons in all 50 states. The quest had formally begun at a marathon in Traverse City, Michigan, in May 2009, and Montana was his 14th destination. On the site, Litton had posted his finishing times and a recap of each race. He explained that his training regimen and diet, along with nutritional supplements, had “allowed me to maintain my rigorous schedule and even improve my recent performances.” His tone was alternately hortatory (“Imagine Inspire Impact!”) and emotional (“I have been blessed with the greatest wife and kids a guy could ever ask for”).
“Who is Kip Litton?” he asked. “I am a lifelong resident of Michigan and an alumnus of both The University of Michigan and UM Dental School. Currently I live in the town of Clarkston and have an office in Davison. I began running in the year 2000 to lose weight. I am an ordinary guy with an extraordinary desire to make a difference. At the onset of this mission I had run 11 marathons, all in the range of 3:35 down to 2:55. . . . After superficially committing to this mission, I soon discovered the devil was in the details. . . . Was I born to do this? Hardly. As a high schooler, I did play tennis, but HATED to run. My teammates and I never ran as far as the coach told us to or thought we had.”
There was another, poignant motivation behind “the mission.” Litton and his wife, Lisa, an attorney, were the parents of two boys and a girl. The youngest, Michael, was born, in 2001, with cystic fibrosis. A congenital illness, it most commonly clogs airways in the lungs, making breathing difficult. The average life expectancy for cystic-fibrosis patients is about 38 years. Litton wrote, “The goal is to raise a QUARTER MILLION DOLLARS for CF during the course of the mission.” His site featured the logo of the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, and people were invited to make donations by clicking on a link to the organization’s website, by writing a personal check to Worldrecordrun, or by sending money to a Pay-Pal account.
“My hope is that I can inspire others to take inventory of their talents, find their passion and pursue it relentlessly to effect a cause or impact their community,” Litton wrote. “This is MY mission. It is the only thing I feel passionately about enough to ask you to PLEASE consider a donation to this worthy cause. I will also be bold enough to ask you to please alert others to this site or send a link to your e-mail list. When all is said and done, no one will care about the endless hours of training, my detailed work-out logs or fancy awards.”
The compassion that Strode naturally felt upon learning of a child’s illness, along with admiration for Litton’s readiness to put his body on the line to raise funds for Michael’s future and for medical research, was tempered, he told me, by his belief that Litton “had cheated in almost all of his 2010 marathons.”
On July 24, 2010, Strode received an unexpected inquiry from Jennifer Straughan, the Missoula race director, who asked him to look at a photograph of a runner wearing bib number 759. It was Litton. “There is some question as to whether he was seen along the course,” Straughan wrote. “He finished in a time similar to you so theoretically you would have noticed him.”
While Strode had been immersed in what he’d assumed was his own private Kip Litton obsession, the official timer at Missoula had been contacted by his counterpart at the Deadwood Mickelson Trail Marathon, in Deadwood, South Dakota, where Litton had turned up the previous month. Photographs taken in Deadwood showed him crossing the starting line fifth from last and finishing in 2:55:50, putting him first in his age group and in third place overall. The fourth-place finisher protested: he’d been running third at the halfway mark and said that no one had passed him after that, an assertion bolstered by the fact that most of the remaining course was a trail only six feet wide. Litton had registered a half-marathon split, and the Deadwood timer was skeptical of the protest against him—“I was trying to prove Litton was legit,” he told me—but he changed his mind after determining that Litton had, improbably, run the second half 11 minutes faster than the first. In addition, he found photographs of Litton only at the start and the end of the course. Deadwood disqualified Litton, and Straughan followed suit in Missoula.
Strode, who in a later web post described his mind-set as “sucked in, fascinated and pissed off,” broadened his investigation. He sent an email to Richard Rodriguez, who on the website of the West Wyoming Marathon was identified as its race director; Litton had a listed winning time there of 2:56:12.
“I’m writing to ask about the winner of your marathon a few weeks ago, Kip Litton,” Strode wrote. “He was recently disqualified from the Deadwood Mickelson Trail Marathon for cheating (not running the whole course) . . . I don’t know the guy—I just hate cheating in running. I wonder whether he may have had a legitimate performance at your race or whether he may also have cheated in Wyoming.”
Two days later, Strode received a response: “Wow, that’s quite a scenario! It would have been very unlikely for the same thing to have happened at our race, as there were only 30 participants and the lead 2 runners ran almost the entire race together. I have not received any complaints. I will keep my ears open though. If there is an update, send it my way. Take care, Richard.”
Strode began to wonder if his suspicions were misplaced, but he kept investigating. At the Providence Marathon, in Rhode Island, where Litton had finished first in his age group, photographs showed him wearing shoes and shorts at the end of the course that were different from those he was wearing at the beginning. (A costume change at Deadwood had involved shoes, a hat, and a T-shirt.) In the Delaware Marathon, Litton had finished first in his age group. After being prompted by Strode, the race’s director, Wayne Kursh, found that, among the finishers, Litton alone had failed to register split times. On an out-and-back portion of the course, Kursh had taken photographs of the top runners at the turnaround point—but Litton was not among them. He also failed to find images of Litton elsewhere on the course.
Kursh had a blog, and on August 6, 2010, he posted a blind item about Litton titled “Another Rosie Ruiz?”—a reference to the scammer who was briefly heralded as the winner of the women’s division of the 1980 Boston Marathon, before it was determined that she’d jumped onto the course less than a mile from the finish. Kursh wrote in a follow-up that he had been exchanging concerns with other race directors, adding, “I smell a rat.”
In an email exchange initiated by Kursh, Litton claimed that photographs of him would be hard to find, because his shirt had covered his racing bib. He added, “Wasn’t there a timing mat at the turnaround?” Kursh ultimately decided to disqualify him, explaining, “From your comment here it is pretty obvious that you have NO idea where the timing mats were on route. They definitely were not at this turn-around point.”
On occasions when Litton responded to such pointed challenges, he never did so in a hostile or nakedly defensive manner. After a disqualification, he simply deleted the result and the recap from his website, as if he had never registered for the race. His default demeanor was equable mystification.
Clarkston, Michigan, is an
exurban town within commuting distance of both Detroit and Flint, which ranked first and fourth, respectively, in the latest Forbes survey of America’s most dangerous cities. Those grim statistics don’t seem to impinge on Clarkston. The subdivision where Kip and Lisa Litton live with their three children—large brick and stone houses on oversized lots, with expansive lawns and SUVs parked in circular driveways—is threaded with undeveloped woodlands and streams. In Davison, 22 miles north, Litton’s dental practice occupies a one-story brown brick building on a commercial strip, tucked behind an auto-repair shop, next door to a drive-through bank, and a short sprint from the requisite conveniences (McDonald’s, Jiffy Lube, Taco Bell). A few miles south of Flint is the comfortable suburb of Grand Blanc, where Litton grew up. In 1979, he graduated from Grand Blanc High School. A strong tennis player—as a junior, he won a state championship—he is remembered as bright and charismatic, with smart-aleck tendencies. “The first party I had after I bought a house, I invited him,” a high school friend told me. “Part of his way of getting attention at the party was to eat all the food. Kip does odd, silly things for attention. But they’re harmless.”
In 1990, two years after graduating from dental school, Litton started working in Davison with a dentist who was nearing retirement, and in 2001 he acquired the practice. Today, Litton’s office has a website, which notes that, “when the General Motors Company cut benefits for retirees, Dr. Litton devised a cost-sharing plan that allowed patients without benefits to continue receiving quality dental care.” One day a year, Litton says, he provides free dental care to underprivileged children; each Halloween, he offers to buy back patients’ candy for a dollar a pound, then has it “shipped overseas to the troops, along with toothbrushes.” A Google review of Litton’s practice, posted earlier this year, said, “After trying several other dentists in the area, I was so delighted to find Dr. Litton . . . Great friendly staff, painless, lowest costs, no interest payment plans and Dr. Litton is SO funny! I finally have my fantastic Hollywood smile. I have already convinced several of my friends and relatives to come to this office, despite almost an hour drive. My search is now YOUR gain.”