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RUNNING
WITH EGEND

his wife, Betty, whom he had met while in college
(Betty died in 1974, and Red later remarried, to
Lois). The two went only as spectators, watching
from the grandstands as Rudolph won three gold
medals.
But as he watched Rudolph's stunning perfor-
mances as a sprinter, and compared them with the
general poor showing from the U.S. Olympic wom-
en's distance team, Red thought he had found the
missing link - coaching.
Rudolph succeeded in the Rome Olympics
because she was well coached, Red says. Sitting in
the stands, he and Betty decided to return to Ann
Arbor with the goal of finding a naturally gifted
young female runner to coach to Olympic-level
quality. And he was going to do it at the University
- . of Michigan.
Red was teaching weight train-
ing classes at the University, while
also studying to receive his masters
degree in Physical Education. He was
well acquainted with the Athletic Department.
"I went to talk to the (Michigan Athletic
Director) at the time, Don Canham, and he says,
'Women? Running? Sweating? They're not sup-
posed to do that,' " Red recalls with a laugh and
a shake of his head. "But I kept after him and he
finally said, 'Well, how many do you have?' And I
said, 'I haven't gotten any yet."'
After receiving the go-ahead from Canham, Red
asked his wife to pick out the best female athlete
at Slauson Middle School in Ann Arbor, where she
taught at the time. Betty chose Francie Kraker
Goodridge, who had no idea that she would become
a part of Michigan athletic history.
"It was thrown right at me,"
Kraker Goodridge says, sitting
across from me on a brisk fall
afternoon. "(Red asked), 'Would
you like to train for the Olym-
pics?' I mean, woah, I was 14."
So with a pair of recycled
shoes that Red had pulled out of
a bin at Yost, the all-female women's track club,
Michigammes, was born. And although they didn't
know it at the time, Simmons and Kraker Goo-
dridge had laid the groundwork for what would
eventually become varsity female tracksat the Uni-
versity.
Looking back, it's hard for Kraker Goodridge
to imagine the impact she would have on not only
track and field at the University, but all sports for
women. At the time, women had no place to train;
they weren't even in the conversation when it came
to athletics. But here was Red, offeringa place for
her to grow and compete just like one of the boys.
In the winter of 1961, when every varsity team
was fighting for time in Yost, Red and Kraker
Goodridge experienced their first taste of adver-
sity, surprisingly, from the man who had initially
allowed them in.
"He was kind of a rough character," Kraker Goo-
dridge says of Canham with a disquieted smile.
"He'd look at me and he'd just spit on the track. Lit-
erally, right in front of me with just this evil look."
Amid all the controversy of the day, those who
said women and athletics don't mix, Red pushed
on.
"Truly, he danced to a different drummer," for-
mer Michigan football coach Lloyd Carr says of
Red. "He wasn't interested in the mentality that
was there at the time that he began to work with
women. He's one of those guys that followed his
passion and certainly personifies, in my judgment,
the idea that if you follow your own dreams then
you're going to makea huge difference."
N EARLY SUMMER, before Kraker Goo-
dridge's junior year of high school, she took a
hard spill on the outdoor cinder track at Yost
when she looked behind her during a workout and
lost concentration. In a flash, her body crashed
against the cinders. [See LEGEND, Page 8C]

he greatest personal collection ofMichigan athletic history
can be found in a most unlikely place: in the cold, dingy
basement of a three-story townhouse off South Main Street.
The floor is cluttered with scrapbooks and boxes of
memorabilia. The tables and shelves are like intricate games of dominos;
removing one item would undoubtedly disrupt the chaotic perfection.
"Down the stairs and to the left," a voice calls. "The light switch is on
your left hand side. I'll be down in a moment."

years together, this timepiece has seen the unlike-
ly story of a man who changed the face of sports at
the University of Michigan. The watch is a witness
to the life of this quiet legend.
Ever faithful, the watch ticked on as Red spent
25 years on the Detroit Police force, where he com-
peted in races and perfected his weight-training
regimen. The watch was there when Red proposed
the idea of a women's track team to then-Michi-
gan Athletic Director Don Canham - a legend of
Michigan athletic folklore in his own right. It saw
the discovery of Red's first prot6g6 on the track,
and, for the next 16 years, it loyally calculated the
splits of the girls who traveled across the state to
be coached by the man who dared to call women
athletes.
And after all these years, the watch hands still
tick past the hour markers.
"See, it still works," he says with a satisfied
grin.
ED WAS BORN January 5, 1910 in Red-
ford, Mich. - a small farming community
1 just west of Detroit. Red's eighth-grade
teacher, Mr. Pontius, spotted a talent in the young
man and asked his parents to allow him to attend
nearby Redford High School so he could train to
be a runner. Pontius had convinced the farmers in
town to mow a track into the field behind Beech
Road Middle School. And it's here, in Redford,
off 7 Mile Road, where Red and a few other boys
would train after school.
Red discovered he had natural talent and soon

developed into a great runner. In the fall of 1929
he enrolled at Michigan State Normal College -
now Eastern Michigan University - after he gar-
nered the attention of coach Lloyd Olds.
"I didn't have anything for (the first) month
and a half, maybe longer," Red says. "I hitchhiked
... and every day I carried my lunch, went to class
and never bought a book."
He washed wrestling mats in the basement
of the school's gymnasium to pay for tuition -
which cost $18.50 per semester.
Red points to a photo in his basement, torn at
all four corners and matted behind a dark mahog-
any frame. It's a picture of his eighth grade class.
"He changed my life," Red says, pointing to Mr.
Pontius in the back row. "If it hadn't been for
this man, none of this stuff would have been here
today." Red looks around his basement, survey-
ing the images, before turning and pointing to
himself.
Next to this hangs another memorable image
for Red: a photo of his mile relay team at Michi-
gan Normal. Despite being a hurdler, Red wanted
a spot on the relay team because he knew it had
the best chance at a national championship. For
three years he won the fourth spot in the time
trials.
At the Penn Relays in Philadelphia in 1932, Red
received a perfect handoff and a four-stride lead
going into the second leg of the race. The lead
lessened during Red's 400 meters, but it didn't
matter. His teammates knew it would be difficult
for anyone to catch him.

After winning the race, the four runners were
led to a man seated at the awards table near the
far end of the track. The man asked for Red's
name.
"Kenneth G. Simmons," he responded, as the
man pried the glass face off of a small golden
watch and wrote his name between the hour
markers.
ED CHECKS HIS watch: an hour until din-
ner. Plenty of time, he says, for more stories.
He gets up from the rocking chair and
walks over to an old photograph clipped from a
Detroit newspaper in 1937. "Kenneth Simmons,
Detroit policeman, captures the 100-yard dash,"
the caption reads. Red is pictured onthe inside lane,
head thrown back, as he pushes his chest forward
and he sav 'WIomen IRunnincj S
to beat the other competitors with a lean.
"I call this one 'Daddy just made 12 dollars,' he
says.
Red graduated from Michigan Normal in 1933
with a degree in Education, entering the workforce
during the darkest year of the Great Depression.
Luckily for Red, the Detroit Police Department
had heard of the "Crimson Flash" from Ypsilanti
and wanted him for its track team. The police track
circuit paid cash prizes back then for the first four

spots in each race, and Red was runningup fo seven
events a meet.
He had no intention of staying on the force for
long, he just needed some money to get by until he
could find a job as a track coach and teacher. He'd
make some money in the police circuit races and
then be out ina year or two, he thought.
"It didn't get over in a year. And the next thing
you know, I've got 12 1/2 years in the police depart-
ment," Red says, pointing out the knife wounds on
his hands and the bullet slugs in his legs. "They're
still there," he says. "I promise." He went on to
spend 25 years in the force, leaving in 1959 after
becoming pension eligible.
As he got older, Red's natural speed no longer
proved enough to win like he used to. He realized
he needed to find a way to make himself stronger
and placed a call to the
~- ) 0 C n NewYorkBarbellClub. He
soon began training with
wea q ~i"' weights. Through stud-
ies of anatomy, Red put
together a fitness routine
that helped prolonghis racingcareer until he was in
his mid 80's. Red would bring this weight regimen
with him when he went on to coach women's track
at Michigan, implementing it at around the same
time the football team began lifting weights.
ILMA RUDOLPH WAS the star of the
1960 Olympics in Rome, setting a world
record in the 200-meter dash from the
inside lane. Red had made the trip to Italy with

After a few minutes perusing the seemingly
endless wall of photos, light footsteps are heard
descending the stairs, and into this shrine of Mich-
igan sports history walks Red Simmons, the father
of women's sports at the University of Michigan.
He takes a seat in a wooden rocker, his leather
moccasins tapping lightly against the frigid floor.
Red celebrated his 100th birthday yesterday, but
if you happened across him on the street or in the
gym - where he still works out five days a week
- you wouldn't be able to tell. His hair is flecked
with red strands; his blue eyes shine with the vigor
of a man years his junior.
Shifting his weight in the chair, Red pulls up
the sleeves of his navy Michigan sweater, reveal-
ing what his eyes and hair could not show. For a

moment, he unclenches his fists and wrinkles like
a mountain range form on his hands.
His age is in his skin.
"It's old man skin," he says, only slightly joking.
Red reaches to check the small golden watch on
his left wrist. He has dinner plans with his wife,
Lois, ina few hours, and he wants to make sure he
has enough time to tell his story.
He won the watch in 1932 at the Penn Relays,
then considered the National Championships for
collegiate track. In those days, it clung tight to his
wrist. Looking at it now, hanging loosely on his
slender frame, it's clear the strain 100 years has
put on the man. He didn't have old man skin then,
he jokes.
It's fitting that Red stillhas the watch. In their 78

Clockwisefrom top right: Red holds his 1932 Cham-
pionship watch from the Penn Relays/ A newspa-
pe lping shows Red winning the 100-meter
ash 9)/ Red in his basemest / Red's Natiosal
Championship-winning mile relay team from
Hichigan Normal College in 1932/ The 1977-78
Hichigammes womens track team/ Red and Ann
Forshee-Crane stand together after a race