SLC and the creator of "The Whale" take 630 victory laps around a beloved public artwork. 

On a chilly, overcast morning in February, a fit man in his mid-40s jogged steadily in small concentric circles, looping a roundabout in the middle of Salt Lake City's eclectic 9th and 9th neighborhood. His gait was smooth and practiced, the stride of someone who has likely run marathons—someone familiar with the rigors of pushing through 26 grueling miles.

But on this day, he ran in tight, dizzying, .04-mile loops—630 of them, to be precise—around a fiberglass whale.

Tom Mi, founder of the Salty Star Run Club, said the image is a regular occurrence. He can't help but laugh when he thinks of Jackson Bradshaw—the first person believed to have ever completed a full marathon around the whale sculpture, now dubbed the first official "Whale-athon."

"It started as a joke," Mi said. "But now it's almost like this semi-religious cult following. Obviously, I don't think any of it is super serious, but people love it."

Word spread fast, and soon others began to follow in Bradshaw's footsteps. What began as a tongue-in-cheek endurance stunt gradually turned into a badge of honor among Salt Lake City's quirky and tight-knit running community, particularly among younger runners looking for something different and memorable.

The Whale—officially titled "Out Of The Blue"—has become a full-blown local phenomenon, (and featuring a mural painted on the sculpture by Michael Murdock titled "Point of Reference").

Runners gather there weekly, some wearing whale-themed shirts, others with temporary tattoos of the sculpture or faux devotional candles made in its likeness. One runner is known to bring a Bluetooth speaker and play whale songs during his laps.

• Tom MI
• “Out of the Blue”—commonly known as “The Whale”—rises from a roundabout at the intersection of 900 South and 1100 East.

And it isn't just the running community that worships at the altar of the Whale—The Church of the Sacred Whale account on Instagram has more than 4,500 followers and is a parody that pokes fun at the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—sometimes with a light, satirical tone, and other times with more direct jabs.

On social media, the hashtag #ChurchoftheWhale has become popular for sharing not just workouts, but also moments of reflection, joy and local community.

The Whale has become more than just public art. It's a hands-on (and feet-on) destination for joggers, jokesters and daydreamers alike. On any given day, you might find someone hanging a disco ball from its dorsal fin, snapping selfies or even lounging beside it in a chair, book in hand, soaking in the scene.

But it wasn't always this way. Artist and creator Stephen Kesler recalls the early resistance to his quirky addition to Salt Lake City's outdoor art.

"There was automatic pushback against it." Kesler recalled.

Troubled Waters
It started as soon as plans for the whale were made public.

At first, the concept seemed absurd. Why pay tribute to a whale in landlocked Utah, more than 600 miles from the nearest ocean? Why not honor something more regionally appropriate—like an American Bison or the California Gull?

Some residents—including a group that once decorated the roundabout with garden gnomes—objected loudly. People took to yelling from their car as Kesler worked, and at least one suggested someone should "blow up the whale." At one point, there was talk of installing a chain-link fence to protect the sculpture.

Drive-by commentary from self-appointed art critics was common. As Kesler toiled under the midday sun, twisting 900 pounds of heavy metal tubing into what would become the sculpture's fabricated skeleton, he got an early taste of the backlash. One woman, zipping through the roundabout in her car, rolled down her window and shouted, "Boo! The whale sucks!"

It wasn't a one-time outburst—the woman returned repeatedly during the weeklong installation, sometimes multiple times a day, to express her hatred. "I came to peace with it," Kesler remarked, "realizing people are always going to find something to be unhappy about."

• Tom MI
• Runners attempt a “Whale-athon,” or 26.2 miles of laps around “Out of the Blue.”

Despite early criticism, Kesler felt the piece belonged in the neighborhood he'd called home for decades. Traveling west on 900 South, drivers ease down a modest hill and find themselves on a paved plateau that seems to appear "out of the blue"—a sudden change in the city's rhythm.

Just beyond the slope lies a neighborhood known for its offbeat charm, eclectic storefronts and a community that embraces creativity and open-mindedness. It's a pocket of Salt Lake that feels both unexpected and entirely itself.

That's the spirit the Salt Lake City Arts Council hoped to capture when they awarded the commission to Kesler. As part of the process, the council surveyed the neighborhood, asking residents not only what they envisioned for the artwork, but also how they saw their own community.

Felicia Baca, Executive Director of the Salt Lake City Arts Council, anticipated that the whale would spark conversation, invite whimsy and perhaps even stir some pushback. She was right on all counts—but what she didn't expect was that the whale would become a hands-on shrine to eccentricity. Its interactive nature went far beyond what she had imagined for the piece. In many ways, the community's response was, fittingly, out of the blue.

"We never could have predicted this kind of response," Baca said. "I think that's the great thing about public art. An artist may begin with a vision or intention, but in the end, it's about how the public responds. An artist has to release their work into the public space—and they may never truly know how it will be received."

The public's embrace of the whale is vindication for Kesler and the Arts Council, with the memories of angry drivers shouting from their cars replaced by the admirers like Grace Barratt, who recently met up at the sculpture with about 20 of her friends for a birthday bike ride up Emigration Canyon.

"The whale is iconic," Barratt said. "It's the perfect spot. Everyone loves the whale."

Larger Than Life
Former Salt Lake County Council member Jim Bradley—an avid art collector whose wife owns a gallery at 15th and 15th and whose Avenues home is filled with original works—has long expressed his admiration for The Whale. He often imagined a companion piece on the city's west side: the tail of a whale rising from another roundabout, echoing the front half in 9th and 9th.

In his vision, the two sculptures would create a whimsical throughline across the city, connecting neighborhoods with a shared artistic identity.

Bradley assumes the tail of the whale would stir just as much controversy as the head did when it was planned. But in his plainspoken way, he says he'd welcome it—just like the reaction to the whale at 9th and 9th.

"Everybody who lived around that area had an opinion, something to say about it," he said. "It seemed like it was about 50-50—maybe even a little more negative than positive. And my response to that is: that's exactly what art is supposed to do. It's serving its purpose. It gets people talking. And to me, that's a serious measure of what makes something art."

• Stephen Kesler
• During construction of The Whale, passing drivers would regularly shout insults at sculptor Stephen Kesler while he worked.

The sculpture has become one of those rare pieces of public art that people interact with and create rituals around. National examples include Chicago's famous Cloud Gate (known as "The Bean"), where tourists and locals line up to see their reflection. Or there's New York City's Charging Bull and Fearless Girl, which have sparked not just tourist selfies but broad conversations about capitalism, feminism, gender representation and the evolving roles of American women in public and economic life.

Closer to home—and on a smaller scale—there's the bust of Abraham Lincoln on the second floor of Utah's Capitol building. During the legislative session, lawmakers, lobbyists and tourists rub the 16th president's nose for good luck—so often that the bronze has worn down to a shiny patina.

Downstairs, near the north entrance of the Capitol, Brigham Young's statue gets similar treatment. Young's outstretched hand has invited so many touches that his finger, too, gleams like polished gold.

It's about connections to place, to memory and to each other. Art in public spaces creates shared experiences, and interacting with it gives people a sense of ownership and belonging. The tactile interaction—a rub on a nose, a lap around a sculpture—activates the senses and creates lasting impressions.

In an age when so much of life is digital and fleeting, physically engaging with art can be grounding, joyful and even healing. When a piece of art becomes a landmark, like "Out of the Blue" has, it invites inside jokes, social rituals and stories that outlive the artist's original intent.

"A lot of groups have kind of come up with their own stories, and storytelling of what it represents," Baca noted. "That's exciting to us."

While Kesler's whale has received both local and national attention, he continues to face the realities of life as a working artist. He's able to pay his bills and keeps busy with other commissions, but he never expected fame or fortune.

"It's about the art," he said.

Many artists spend their lives creating without ever knowing if their work will connect with anyone. For Kesler, knowing that "Out of the Blue" has resonated so deeply—with runners, residents and visitors alike—is more than enough.

He often thinks about the early backlash—the bomb threats, the jeers from passersby, the woman who circled the roundabout daily to shout her disapproval. And yet, today, that same sculpture is embraced as a symbol of joy, creativity and community.

"Maybe my ultimate—not revenge, but payback—is they have to live with this colorful whale next to them," he said with a smile.