On A Road All His Own

by James Raia

Re-printed by permission of Runners World Magazine.

Copyrighted 2002. Rodale Press, Inc.

 All Rights Reserved

Daily life in Las Vegas begins just after dawn for Anthony Crudale. Like others who suffer from autism, he is focused to near obsession. He wants to run fast marathons. And he knows the cool hours of early morning are prime time for the day’s first workout. 

When I arrive at 6:30 a.m., he is dressed and ready to drive to nearby Henderson, where he often trains on a hilly suburban course. Crudale would prefer a 15-mile loop among the Joshua trees and red rocks of the high-mountain desert, but the suburbs are closer and more convenient for today’s planned 10-miler. 

Despite the convoys of construction trucks that dominate many Las Vegas byways, Crudale skillfully navigates his SUV through the crowded streets. He has other skills as well. In December 2000, at 23, he received an art degree from the University of Nevada at Las Vegas. Three months later, he won the Sutter Home Napa Valley Marathon in 2:42:27, making him the only autistic runner to have won a marathon. Before long, we arrive at an upscale neighborhood, where Crudale parks the car and slips the key into his shorts. I tell him to lead the way. He has remembered to bring a bottle of ice water, a simple act of logic that I’ve overlooked.

Crudale was just 18 months old when he was diagnosed with autism, a neurological disorder that affects the communication area of the brain. He was lucky. Most autistics aren’t diagnosed as early or given help in special schools. As a result, they may never speak or learn other basic aspects of self-sufficiency.

Crudale himself was found to have 12 of the 14 criteria used to determine autism, including self-abusive behavior. His mother still shudders when she looks at videotapes of Crudale at a young age. But early intervention and 3 years at the Behavioral Development Center in Providence, R.I., helped him over many hurdles.

From first grade on, Crudale attended mainstream public-school classes until high school, where he went to an all male prep school. After graduation, he applied to the University of Nevada at Las Vegas, because he had fond memories of trips to visit his uncle in the gambling mecca.

Crudale didn’t mention his autism anywhere on his college application, because, his mother explains, “it wasn’t asked.” After he was accepted, the family informed the university of his condition. College wasn’t easy. Crudale required tutors and classroom note takers, but he went on to became the university’s first autistic graduate. He’s an accomplished artist who did many college projects with pastel-colored chalk, but since graduation, he hasn’t pursued his art.

“People hear the word ‘autism,’ and they think of the movie Rain Man,” notes Crudale’s mother Donna Martinez, who several years ago married Deloy Martinez, a past president of the Las Vegas Track Club. “But that movie simply showed what happened to autistic people in the 1950s and 1960s when they were institutionalized out of ignorance.”

While Crudale can do many things that escaped the Dustin Hoffman character, such as shaking hands and making physical contact that most other autistics avoid, he does share certain similarities. Crudale often answers questions with one-word responses, and his deliberate speech pattern often repeats key words that he’s just heard. He can look directly at, or away from, strangers for long periods, and he tends to rock back and forth in a restless manner.

Crudale first realized he was a talented runner when he joined the track team during his junior year in high school, and quickly progressed from the 400, to the 800, to the mile. He suffered from asthma and severe food allergies as well as his autism, but nothing slowed him down.

When he moved to Las Vegas to attend college, he joined the Las Vegas Track Club, and decided to train for a marathon because “it was something not too many people were doing. I wanted to excel at it.” Before long, he did. As he got in better shape, he often had to run solo on his long runs through the desert, because none of his track-club teammates could keep up with him.

Crudale finished his first marathon, the 1998 Suzuki Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon, in 3:19, a time he describes as “not too horrible.” His mother had a different reaction, however. Because of loosely made family plans, and the usual post-marathon confusion, she couldn’t find him for more than 3 hours after the race.

By that time, he had the appearance of...well, a very tired and very lost marathoner. “After running and then walking around for 3 hours, Anthony looked like he was going to fall over when we finally found him,” says Donna Martinez, a registered nurse. “Oh, man. He didn’t look good.”

Despite the ordeal, Crudale was cap­tivated. He has run all three subsequent editions of the Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon, finishing in 2:44, 2:36, and 2:41. The 2001 race left him deeply frustrated, even though he had won Napa Valley several months earlier. Apparently unable to understand that marathoners don’t improve with every race, Crudale kept repeating, “I can’t start running again until I have a coach. I am in serious need of a coach, I think my program is in serious jeopardy.”

By October, bouncing back in the manner typical of marathoners, he was ready to toe the starting line again. He completed the Ocean State (R.I.) Marathon in 2:45:38. This March, he hopes to defend his title at Napa Valley.

Today, Crudale lives in Las Vegas with his mother and stepfather, but is largely independent. “People meet Anthony and sometimes say, ‘Oh, he must have been misdiagnosed,’” says his mother. “But they don’t know his history or what we’ve been through.”

Crudale doesn’t have many friends, but he goes grocery shopping and lifts weights at a local health club. A bit of a computer whiz, he searches the Internet for races, and studies course records, weather patterns and the course topographical maps to the point where he has them memorized.

Crudale’s mother and stepfather hope that he’ll be able to live on his own someday, but recognize that it won’t come easily. They worry he won’t be able to find a job. “People don’t understand that Anthony would be a perfect employee,” says Donna Martinez. “People who are autistic focus on exactly what they’re doing. They try to master things. 

If Crudale does land a steady job, someone will have to look after his paychecks. He doesn’t understand the value of money, and has trouble with other quantities as well. As a result, he has bought many pairs of running shoes on the Web without comprehending what he paid for them, and occasionally comes home from the supermarket with dozens of bags of pasta. “I’m a runner,” he tells his mother. “I have to eat pasta.”

And then there’s the larger worry.  “We’re not so much concerned about the things Anthony does,” says his mother. “But he doesn’t understand vices. He would be an easy crime target.”

A mile into our workout in Henderson, it’s easy to see that Crudale is a good runner. He runs with a strong, erect stride, carrying 135 pounds smoothly on his lean, tanned 5’7” frame. He wears his dark hair in a buzz cut, and times every run with an expensive digital chronograph he bought for himself. When I ask how long we have been running, he answers with precision: “Thirty-two minutes.”

I’m starting to get a little tired, but decide to hang in there. At 60 minutes, I’m wilting, so I ask Crudale if we could shave a few miles off the workout. “Okay, sure,” he says. But moments later, he disappears over the next hill, and I realize he’s not about to cut his route short. That leaves me to fend for myself. I have to ask a gardener and two guys in a pickup truck how I can get back to our starting point.

When I finally arrive, Crudale walks toward me, smiling. I don’t think he realizes that he abandoned me in a foreign neighborhood. I ask if he was testing me. He says, “Yeah,” and smiles again. 

Back at his house, Crudale goes his own way, and I shower and chat with his stepfather for a few minutes. Soon it’s time for our good-byes. When sum­moned, Crudale bounds down the stairs, toothpaste smeared across his face. We shake hands.

Outside, at my car, we shake hands again. I back out of the driveway, and turn onto the road. Through the rearview mirror, I see that Crudale is walking down the street behind my car.

James Raia is a freelance writer and long distance runner in Sacramento, California