Londrelle Hall, admittedly lost while living in Florida, was wallowing in doubt, debt, angst and self-pity when he decided to run toward suicide.
Ray Mills, equally lost and living part time in California, was trying to run too, from ridicule. A plea he’d released on social media had made him the butt of cyberbullying.
Both men, once Atlanta acquaintances, were fleeing the trials of life. But neither got very far until a guy they’d never met — a teen in Ferguson, Mo. — died a violent death that led them to run for real. Not just to something or from something. But for something. A cause.
Hall, 28, was already searching for direction when he heard the news on Aug. 9 that would become his compass: 18-year-old Michael Brown, an unarmed black man, had been fatally shot by a white police officer, his corpse left on a Ferguson street for four hours.
Two years prior, Hall had reached what he thought was the end of his rope. Living in Daytona Beach, where he was a student at Bethune-Cookman College, he was an emotional wreck.
“I didn’t know myself. I was trying to find myself. Trying to find a purpose,” said Hall, a videographer. “Dealing with relationships. Personal issues. Sallie Mae.”
Hall remembered a bridge about four miles away from his place. That’s where I’ll jump, he thought. But he didn’t want to drive to the bridge and leave his car there. Too easy for others to figure out what he’d done. Better to leave them guessing. So he ran the four miles. And with every pounding of the pavement, his life played out before him.
“Running to the bridge,” he says, “I came to the realization that I didn’t need to (kill myself). Running, instead of driving, saved my life.”
So for the next two years, Hall ran. And looked for a purpose in his life. He said he had an idea about doing a run that would inspire people. “But I didn’t have a reason.”
Then Brown was shot and killed in Ferguson, launching a movement — and rekindling Hall’s idea.
“I went out for my morning run and it started raining. I just ran and ran. Three, four hours in, the idea came back to me,” Hall said. “But now I had a purpose. The image of black men is not pretty. I wanted to do something to change the face of black men.”
Mills, 29, was in Los Angeles, where he splits his time managing his bi-coastal credit repair business, when Hall called. The two were not particularly close, having met just a couple of times in Atlanta to work on video projects. Which is why Mills didn’t pick up the phone when it rang at 4:30 a.m. Pacific time.
Mills, by his own admission, was in “a very dark place.” He had become a victim of Internet bullying. Earlier this year, he came home to find that his daughter had been taken from the baby sitter by his estranged ex-girlfriend.
Instead of calling the police, he made a desperate plea on social media, claiming, “My daughter is missing.” For reasons only the Internet knows, his plea became a national punchline. His image was memed. He was the object of cyberwide scorn.
“I wondered why this would happen to me when I really thought my daughter was missing,” Mills said. “One day I was on top of the world and the next day nobody wanted to have anything to do with me. I had a public breakdown and I have never recovered from that.”
The morning after Hall called, Mills called him back.
Hall wanted Mills to fly back to Atlanta. Then the two would run 540 miles from Atlanta to Ferguson as a form of protest for Brown’s death. Mills, who ran track in college, hadn’t run in 10 years and barely knew Hall.
Of course he said yes.
“I believe in purpose and destiny. We all have our battles in life,” Mills said. “It seemed like everything around us was negative. This had a purpose. I think we met a couple of years ago for this.”
A NATION REELING
“I could understand it,” Hall said. “If you had gone through what they had been through for 100 days, you understand that when this decision was finally made, they were crying for help.”
Countered Mills, in a rare instance in which the two disagreed: “I couldn’t understand why they would destroy their own city. They could have done it a different way.”
TWO MEN RUNNING
At the restaurant table, the two recalled how Hall suggested they train for two weeks before embarking on the run. Mills begged for a month of training.
“My body was not ready,” said Mills, who ran track at Florida International University. “I went to the gym, but I didn’t run anymore. So my preparation was more mental. You would be amazed at what your body can do once you convince your mind.”
On Nov. 3, from the crypt of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., the two started their journey toward Ferguson.
They traveled along U.S. 41 — through Georgia, Tennessee, Kentucky, Illinois and Missouri — on mostly two-lane stretches, dodging cars, dogs and semis.
Weather also played a key role, as it rained constantly and temperatures often dipped into the 20s. Before fatigue, swollen muscles and aches could set in, they would run as far as they could for up to 12 hours a day. Then they’d find a Subway for dinner (they ate at Subway every day), before finding a place to sleep.
“We stayed at random hotels along the way,” Mills said. “One-star hotels. Then we started out as early as we could. As soon as we could muster the strength to get out of bed to start over.”
It was pouring and freezing when the two finally arrived in Ferguson on Nov. 23, a day before St. Louis County prosecuting attorney Robert McCulloch announced there wouldn’t be an indictment.
They made it to West Florissant Avenue, where most of the initial demonstrations occurred immediately after Brown’s death. Then they made the final trek down shallow Canfield Drive, where a memorial marking where Brown’s body fell was still growing.
Their arrival — they were greeted by dozens of onlookers — played out like the end of a movie, said Mills. That final walk was one of the “saddest moments in my life,” said Hall.
“The last mile was the same route Brown took to his death. It was like walking into death,” Hall said. “It was emotional, especially with all of the baggage I was carrying. There is no way to fully explain how I felt at that moment.”
Under the weight of it all, Hall collapsed. In the rain, he got on his hands and knees in front of the Brown memorial and cried like a baby. Mills stood tall next to his friend. He placed his left hand on Halls' back as the rain did little to hide their tears.
“The run taught me a lot about myself,” Hall said. “I am a lot more peaceful now.”
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