Eat and Run

by Scott Jurek

  When I’ve been lucky enough to feel it, the sensation is one of effortlessness. It occurs when the intensity of the race, the pressure to win, the pain, build to a level that’s nearly unbearable. Then something opens up inside me. I find the part of me that is bigger than the pain.

  Satori can be sought, but it cannot be held. A few strides after an epic feeling of bliss, I’ll get an ache in my knees or the urge to pee or I’ll start worrying about how the person I’m chasing down is feeling. I can’t beat back those feelings or desires, but I know they’re not what really matters. What matters is the place of effortlessness, of selflessness. There might be many paths to that magical region—prayer and meditation come to mind. My way leads up to and past the point of absolute, maximal effort. It’s only when I get to a place where all my physical and psychological warning lights are flashing red, and then run beyond it, that I hit the sweet spot. I know people who get there on a 5-mile jog or by mindfully chopping a carrot. I’ve traveled to the zone myself by those activities. In an ultramarathon, though, a trip to the zone isn’t a luxury, it’s almost a given. At half past midnight, I had stopped floating. Where was Mike? At 1 A.M., surrounded by the stunted Joshua trees under a moonless, starry sky, Dusty and I heard him. He was gasping and moaning. The vest had not only melted but had dragged at Mike with its 20 pounds of dead weight. The ice helmets had been too cold to wear. Mike’s pace had been suicidal. He was suffering from hyponatremia, drinking too much water combined with his kidneys’ failure to expel enough from his body. He was stumbling, and his face looked swollen. His sodium levels were plummeting.

  As we passed, I saw the expression on Mike’s face. There’s no way he should have been standing, much less moving forward. I gained a lot of respect for Mike that night. I gained a lot of respect for Badwater.

  Dusty and I passed Ferg at 90 miles, and he passed us a half-mile later. “Sorry, Scott,” he said. “I have to do this for the folks back in Canada.”

  I hadn’t actually raced this late in an ultra since dueling Ben Hian and Tommy Nielson at Angeles Crest. For more than five years, when an ultra was 80 miles old, I had already won. Not this time. I added Ferg Hawke to the list of ultrarunners who had earned my respect.

  A few minutes later I passed him again, this time for good.

  I ran through the dried bed of Owens Lake at sunrise with my best friend, and as the darkness clicked to red and brown, Dusty slowed down and shuffled off to a shadowy pickup truck to do what only the patron saint of wild men knew. I ran to Lone Pine, where the deerflies came out, and toward Mount Whitney, and I ran past the 100-mile mark, farther than I had ever run before. A legend known as Badwater Ben sat in a car and watched me run. Fourteen years earlier he had been running the Badwater when he came upon a body. He had interrupted his race to perform an autopsy. I learned later that when Badwater Ben saw me running and gauged my speed and the distance I had come, he had remarked to his companion in the car that he was worried.

  I crossed the finish line, 135 miles from where I had started, after 24 hours and 36 minutes. No one had ever run it faster, nor had anybody won the Western States 100 and the Badwater 135 a mere two weeks apart.

  When it was done, I sat in the pine needles, and I thought about my mother, who would never walk, and my father, who had never seen me run. I thought of the coaches who had helped me, the runners and writers who had inspired me. I thought of my wife and my best friend, who even though they seldom spoke to each other anymore had both supported me.

  “Hey, Jurker!”

  It was Dusty, as usual dragging me from my reveries.

  “When’re we going to Vegas? When’re we going to see the strippers? You fucking promised.”

  FINDING THE TIME

  If you’re going to run regularly, you’re going to need to carve out part of your day, even if it’s 30 to 60 minutes. If that seems impossible, ask yourself: How much time do I spend watching television? Or surfing the Internet? Or shopping? Take some of that time and devote it to doing something good for yourself. If you’re still in a bind, double up on activities. Run to work and back. Many companies have become increasingly helpful to employees who want to exercise, providing showers, changing rooms, and sometimes even incentives; they realize that a fit worker will incur fewer health costs. Run to work and get a ride home. Run to the grocery store and have someone pick you up. Combine errands, running from place to place, and you’ll get a workout in while you’re taking care of business. And if you’re already working out regularly, you’ll be that much more fit.

  Coco Rizo Cooler

  I learned of this combination while traveling and eating my way through Italy (thus the Italiano name), and it proved invaluable during my Spartathlon training and racing. Rice milk is cooling and tastes great, which is often overlooked but in fact a critical factor in race foods. The coconut adds even more taste, as well as another body-cooling substance and a source of quick energy. Chia seeds deliver yet a third flavor, as well as texture and easily digestible protein. The thick, almost gelatinous liquid slides down the most parched throat. For a sweeter drink with more carbohydrates, add 3 or 4 dates or 2 tablespoons maple syrup.

  1 cup cooked brown or white rice

  ½ cup light coconut milk

  4 cups water

  2 tablespoons agave syrup

  ½ teaspoon sea salt

  ½ teaspoon coconut extract

  2 tablespoons chia seeds

  Place the rice, coconut milk, water, agave, salt, and coconut extract in a blender and blend on high for 1 to 2 minutes, until completely smooth. Add the chia seeds and shake. This mixture can be poured into a water bottle for a refreshing drink before, during, or after exercise.

  MAKES 5 8-OUNCE SERVINGS

  15. These Guys Again?

  COPPER CANYON ULTRAMARATHON, 2006

  When you run on the earth and with the earth, you can run forever.

  —RARAMURI PROVERB

  The e-mail had shown up on my screen in mid-2005. It was from someone named Caballo Blanco, which in Spanish means “white horse.” I learned later that Caballo had formerly been known as Micah True and that he had been a boxer, itinerant furniture mover, and distance-running sage. But when he e-mailed me, all I knew is that he had been following my career and that he had a proposition.

  He lived in an adobe hut dug into the side of a deep, hidden canyon in Mexico. Nearby lived a group of indigenous Indians called the Raramuri (“running people”), also known as the Tarahumara. He said they were the greatest runners on earth. He wanted me to participate in an epic 50-mile race he had set up in the canyon: one of the world’s greatest runners (me) against the world’s greatest runners, with a prize of 1,000 pounds of corn and $750. I remembered the tribe. The Tarahumara were the middle-aged guys in togas who smoked cigarettes before the Angeles Crest 100 and couldn’t run downhill. The greatest runners on earth?

  I liked travel, and I liked exploring different cultures, and the guys in the togas had always interested me. But the trip would have messed up my schedule. I was training for the Austin Marathon, and running a 50-miler immediately afterward didn’t make sense. I didn’t speak Spanish, and I didn’t know how I’d get down there. Plus, it’s not as if it was a big challenge. I’d already beat the Indians.

  Caballo wrote that the Tarahumara he knew were nothing like the ones I had bested at the Angeles Crest 100. He also said that he sensed in me a purity of spirit similar to that of the running Indians. He said that the Tarahumara were struggling to survive under difficult circumstances and that if a runner from the United States visited, it might help.

  I wrote back that I’d love to support the plight of the Tarahumara, but I wasn’t going to be able to make it. That was a mistake.

  A few days later, I got another e-mail from Caballo.

  “The plight? The Tarahumara don’t have a fucking plight! They don’t need your help!”

  I thought, “Wow, this guy is really out there,” and I forgot about it. But I kept
getting e-mails from him, talking about the mystical running Indians of the hidden Copper Canyon and how they knew things the rest of the world didn’t.

  If I could figure out a way to get down there, I might go. Then the universe figured it out for me.

  I got another e-mail invitation, this one from a writer named Chris McDougall. He said he was working on a book about the Indian runners, and that he was fluent in Spanish. He, too, promised that these Tarahumara would give me a good race.

  I agreed, but not because I needed another good race. I found plenty of those. I raced the White River 50-miler, the Miwok 100K, the Way Too Cool 50K, the grueling Wasatch Front 100, and—on the East Coast—the Mountain Masochist 50-miler and the Vermont 100. I was on the winning teams in Japan’s Hasegawa Cup and in the Hong Kong Trailwalker, where we set a new course record. I had my own physical therapy practice, my own coaching business, was working 50-plus hours a week (and still just scraping by), and had started a running camp a few weeks before the Western States, where I tried to share what I knew about technique and will. At my camp, I served hearty vegan meals. I was making a living doing something I loved. I was teaching others. Had running ever given anyone more? My problem was: I wanted more. My bigger problem: I wasn’t exactly sure what more I wanted. I told McDougall I would meet him in El Paso.

  There were nine of us: McDougall and his coach, Eric Orton. Caballo. Me. A pair of wild rookie ultrarunners from Virginia, Jenn Shelton and Billy Barnet. A man named Ted McDonald, who called himself Barefoot Ted because he recently started jogging without shoes. My buddy and photographer Luis Escobar and his father.

  Caballo told us the race would start from the village of Urique. To get there, we’d have to hike 35 miles, over a series of knife-edged canyon ridges, through land where entrepreneurs with small armies and automatic weapons harvested marijuana, over an invisible route that no one but the guy who lived in the mud hut really knew. Caballo mentioned that a group of Tarahumara might join us.

  We hiked for 3 hours, but we didn’t see any Raramuri. Caballo, our guide, told us he had heard that a mysterious virus had swept through one village, that maybe it had spread. He said we should be patient. But he said we should also be prepared for the possibility that we’d be making the trek without company. We crashed across rivers and up cacti-lined ridges, over burro trails so faint that without Caballo, we almost certainly would never have found our way out.

  At 9 A.M. we arrived at a group of wooden and adobe one-story buildings huddled together at a riverbank. We were at the bottom of the Copper Canyon, 5,000 feet below the rim. The sun was up, and we were sweating profusely. Caballo suggested we wait, that maybe the Tarahumara would join us here. He warned us that they were incredibly shy, that we should not be too loud or aggressive if they showed up. We shouldn’t try to shake their hands. Their greeting consisted of lightly touching fingertips, nothing more. He also mentioned that it would be good etiquette to bring gifts. He suggested Coca-Cola and Fanta sodas.

  I was appalled. I hadn’t traveled the length of a country in order to bestow on an indigenous group of athletes plastic containers filled with high-fructose corn syrup. Why not just bring some blankets infested with smallpox? But Caballo insisted.

  We huddled in the shade of the little store, trying to stay cool as the sun beat down the deep canyon, holding on to our sweating bottles of Coke. Caballo suggested we start hiking up the trail, that maybe—or maybe not—our hosts would join us on the trail. No one saw them step out of the woods or around the bend. One minute the trail was empty, the next, a group of five men in skirts and bright blouses were approaching. They had popped up like a herd of wild deer.

  We touched fingers and, without a word, started climbing 5,000 feet to the top of the canyon; once we reached it, we would leave to descend again. Somewhere between 10 and 40 minutes later—no one was sure—there were six more Tarahumara with us. They appeared out of the woods, like smoke.

  One of the tribe seemed to be watching me with special interest. I was watching him, too. He looked stronger than the others, and there was something in his eyes—pride, confidence, maybe even a little wariness—that I recognized. I had it, too. His hair was jet black, and he had a movie cop’s powerful jawline and muscles like climbing rope. It was Arnulfo, the great Tarahumara champion, the swiftest of “the running people.” McDougall had told me about him. And Caballo had told Arnulfo about me, that I was a great champion, too.

  We climbed in clusters of gringos and Indians, with Caballo leading us. We climbed through cacti and small brush, through desert oak and onto patches of arid, open land dotted with agave plants. During our brief stops, while Jenn, Billy, Ted, and I took pulls from our water bottles, the Tarahumara fell to the ground, almost as if their calf tendons had been cut. The first time I was shocked. Then I realized that they were resting, that it was a highly efficient way of conserving energy. I watched their feet as they climbed and saw that there, too, the Tarahumara moved without wasted motion. I was beginning to learn one of secrets of this ancient tribe. It was the secret of efficiency.

  They carried no water bottles but seemed to know every hidden seep in the wilderness. Whenever they were near one, they would quickly move toward it, bend down, take a few quick sips of water, then return to the trail. When we offered our gifts of Coke, they accepted the bottles without a word, guzzled the entire contents, then flung the empty containers to the side of the trail. (It wasn’t that they didn’t care about the environment, they just didn’t understand the notion of nonbiodegradable.)

  At the end of our canyon trek we landed at a road, 5 miles from the village. There was the sheriff and his pickup truck. We Americans stood and looked—we didn’t want to sully our spiritual day with a car. The Tarahumara immediately jumped in. It was efficient. The next five days, we got to know the Tarahumara. When we pulled out energy gels and bars, they laughed and chattered among themselves. Then they reached into their capes and pulled out pinole, roasted corn ground into a powder and mixed with water. It’s their corn Gatorade. For food, they would carry tortillas with beans. Everything they ate was whole and pure. It was on that trip that I began to appreciate how much energy was packed into a single avocado. When we sat down to share meals, I also learned to sit at the end of the table where the guacamole would be set down. I would advise no one to get between a Tarahumaran and a bowl of guacamole. I watched Arnulfo. He watched me.

  I had traveled here because the Tarahumara fascinated me, and I had some time. I looked at the trip as a learning vacation. But I was starting to get the idea that there was going to be nothing leisurely or just-for-fun about this race, especially not to the Tarahumara. I knew that I would go all out. It would be disrespectful to do anything less.

  The race started five days later at 8 A.M. As soon it began, I realized what I had been suspecting ever since the Indians appeared from nowhere on the road by the river. The guys I had raced at the Angeles Crest 100 were the Tarahumara B-team. Three of these guys launched themselves from the starting line as if we were running a 5K. They were in their twenties, and none of them were smoking. They carried no water, and if they had food, it was in the folds of their capes.

  I started out at a comfortable, winning pace. I knew that no one could keep up the pace they were setting, especially in this 100-degree heat. Ten miles later, they were still keeping it up, but I wasn’t worried. I knew what distance did to a man’s body. I kept up my pace and ate—as usual—200 to 300 calories per hour. I carried two bottles of water. I ate oranges and bananas. I also tried pinole at one of the aid stations.

  After 20 miles, I had passed a dozen Tarahumara and was slightly surprised that there were still a few in front of me. Ten miles later I was even more surprised. After 35 miles, hot, tired, and thirsty, when I realized there were two Tarahumara in front of me, wearing robes and rubber sandals, I was not only surprised, I was amazed. And worried. The leader was Arnulfo, wearing a deep crimson running shirt.

  I ran faster, until I
was ticking off 7-minute miles. I have passed other ultrarunners late in a race doing 7-minute miles. I have seen the looks in opponents’ eyes when I sped past. I knew a move like that could break a man. But they were still ahead.

  I was a professional racer, trained almost year-round. I was at the height of my career. These guys had never heard of “tempo runs” or interval training. That’s when it hit me, the real secret of the Tarahumara. They didn’t prepare for runs. They didn’t run to win or for medals. And they didn’t eat so they could run. They ate, and they ran, to survive. To get someplace, they used their legs. To use their legs, they had to be healthy. The first great secret to the Tarahumara’s endurance and speed and vigorous health was that running and eating were essential parts of their lives. The second great secret—one I try to remember every day—is that while the Tarahumara run to get from point to point, in the process they travel into a zone beyond geography and beyond even the five senses.

  They run—and live—with great efficiency, without a lot of needless thought. They don’t reject technology in order to be fashionable or to make a political point. If technology is available and helps them lead a more efficient life, they embrace it. They’ll jump into a pickup truck for transportation. They’ll improve their huaraches with the rubber from discarded tires. It’s exactly what I had been trying to do—to blend intuition with technology.

  Maybe it’s presumptuous of me to describe what the Tarahumara probably don’t articulate themselves, but when I was with them I couldn’t help but feel that they were experiencing a peace and a serenity, that they—through running and through living with great simplicity—were able to access a state of being, a zone, a “sixth sense,” where they were in touch with the world in its purest form. It’s the zone I had been seeking for so long.