Maybe I could even go pro, if I could just get over these nagging injuries…. That thought was running through Micah’s mind as he coasted on his bike down a steep Boulder street. Next thing he knew, he was blinking into bright lights in the emergency room of Boulder Community Hospital, his eyes caked with blood and his forehead full of stitches. Best he could recall, he’d hit a gravel slick and sailed over the handlebars.
“You’re lucky you’re alive,” the doctor told him, which was one way of looking at it. Another was that death was still a problem hanging over his head. Micah had just turned forty-one, and despite his ultrarunning prowess, the view from that ER gurney was none too pretty. He had no health insurance, no home, no close family, and no steady work. He didn’t have enough money to stay overnight for observation, and he didn’t have a bed to recover on if he checked out.
Poor and free was the way he’d chosen to live, but was it the way he wanted to die? A friend let Micah mend on her sofa, and there, for the next few days, he pondered his future. Only lucky rebels go out in a blaze of glory, as Micah knew very well. Ever since second grade, he’d idolized Geronimo, the Apache brave who used to escape the U.S. cavalry by running through the Arizona badlands on foot. But how did Geronimo end up? As a prisoner, dying drunk in a ditch on a dusty reservation.
Once Micah recovered, he headed to Leadville. And there, during a magical night running through the woods with Martimano Cervantes, he found his answers. Geronimo couldn’t run free forever, but maybe a “gringo Indio” could. A gringo Indio who owed nothing, needed no one, and wasn’t afraid to disappear from the planet without a trace.
“So what do you live on?” I asked.
“Sweat,” Caballo said. Every summer, he leaves his hut and rides buses back to Boulder, where his ancient pickup truck awaits him behind the house of a friendly farmer. For two or three months, he resumes the identity of Micah True and scrounges up freelance furniture-moving jobs. As soon as he has enough cash to last another year, he’s gone, vanishing down to the bottom of the canyons and stepping back into the sandals of El Caballo Blanco.
“When I get too old to work, I’ll do what Geronimo would’ve if they’d left him alone,” Caballo said. “I’ll walk off into the deep canyons and find a quiet place to lie down.” There was no melodrama or self-pity in the way Caballo said this, just the understanding that someday, the life he’d chosen would require one last disappearing act.
“So maybe I’ll see you all again,” Caballo concluded, as Tita was killing the lights and shooing us off to bed. “Or maybe I won’t.”
By sunup the next morning, the soldiers of Urique were waiting by the old minibus that was idling outside Tita’s restaurant. When Jenn arrived, they snapped to attention.
“Hasta luego, Brujita,” they called.
Jenn blew them screen-siren kisses with a big sweep of her arm, then climbed aboard. Barefoot Ted got on next, climbing up gingerly. His feet were so thickly swathed in cloth bandages, they barely fit inside his Japanese bathhouse flip-flops. “They’re not bad, really,” he insisted. “Just a little tender.” He squeezed in next to Scott, who willingly slid over to make room.
The rest of us filed in and made our sore bodies as comfortable as possible for the jouncing trip ahead. The village tortilla-maker (who’s also the village barber, shoemaker, and bus driver) slid behind the wheel and revved the rattling engine. Outside, Caballo and Bob Francis walked the length of the bus, pressing their hands against each of our windows.
Manuel Luna, Arnulfo, and Silvino stood next to them as the bus pulled out. The rest of the Tarahumara had set off already on the long hike home, but even though these three had the greatest distance to travel, they’d waited around to see us off. For a long time afterward, I could see them standing in the road, waving, until the entire town of Urique disappeared behind us in a cloud of dust.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
BACK IN 2005, Larry Weissman read a pile of my magazine clips and synthesized them into one smart question. “Endurance is at the heart of all your stories,” he said, or something to that effect. “Got one you haven’t told yet?”
“Well, yeah. I heard about this race in Mexico. …”
Since then, Larry and his brilliant wife, Sascha, have served as my agents and higher brain functions, teaching me how to turn a clutter of ideas into a legible proposal and yanking hard on the choke chain whenever I miss deadlines. Without them, this book would still be just a tale I told over beers.
Runner’s World magazine, and especially then-editor Jay Heinrichs, first sent me into the Copper Canyons and even briefly (very briefly) entertained my notion of publishing an all-Tarahumara issue. I’m indebted to James Rexroad, ace photographer, for his companionship and gorgeous photos on that trip. For a man with such a huge brain and lung capacity, Runner’s World editor emeritus Amby Bur-foot is extraordinarily generous with his time, expertise, and library. I still owe him twenty-five of his books, which I promise to return if he’ll join me for another run.
But I’m especially grateful to Men’s Health magazine. If you don’t read it, you’re missing one of the best and most consistently credible magazines in the country, bar none. It’s staffed by editors like Matt Marion and Peter Moore, who encourage absurd ideas such as sending oft-injured writers into the wilderness for footraces with invisible Indians. Men’s Health allowed me to train for the race on their dime, then helped me shape the resulting story. Like everything I’ve written for Matt, it came into his hands like an unmade bed and came out with crisp hospital corners.
For a clan so consistently misrepresented by the media, the ultra community was extraordinarily supportive of my research and personal experimentation. Ken, Pat, and Cole Chlouber always made me feel at home in Leadville and taught me more than I ever wanted to learn about burro racing. Likewise, Leadville race director Merilee O’Neal filled every request I could think of and gave me a race-finisher’s hug even though I hadn’t earned it. David “Wild Man” Horton, Matt “Skyrunner” Carpenter, Lisa Smith-Batchen and her husband Jay, Marshall and Heather Ulrich, Tony Krupicka—they all shared their remarkable stories and secrets of the trail. Sunny Blende, the ace ultra nutritionist, staved off disaster in the desert when Jenn, Billy, Barefoot Ted, and I fumblingly crewed for Luis Escobar at the 2006 Badwater, and provided the best definition of the sport I’ve ever heard: “Ultras are just eating and drinking contests, with a little exercise and scenery thrown in.”
If you didn’t feel overwhelmed by weird digressions while reading this book, you and I both owe thanks to Edward Kastenmeier, my editor at Knopf, and his assistant, Tim O’Connell. Also to Lexy Bloom, a senior editor at Vintage Books, who offered her valuable insight and comments down the stretch. Somehow, they figured out how to cut the fat out of my writing without sacrificing any flavor. Likewise, my friend Jason Fagone, author of the excellent Horsemen of the Esophagus, helped me understand the difference between storytelling and self-indulgence. Max Potter first let me write about Leadville for 5280 magazine and is the rare writer noble enough to cheerlead another writer on. Patrick Doyle, 5280’s amazing researcher, confirmed many facts about Caballo’s mysterious life, and even unearthed that lost newspaper photo from “The Gypsy Cowboy’s” prizefighting days. Years ago, Susan Linnee gave me a job at the Associated Press that I didn’t deserve, then taught me how to do it. If more people knew Susan, fewer would bash journalism.
To be a great athlete, you need to pick your parents wisely. To survive as a writer, you should do likewise with your family. My brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews have all been tremendously supportive and forgiving of missed birthdays and obligations. Most of all, I’m indebted to my wife, Mika, and my glorious daughters, Sophie and Maya, for the joy that I hope is evident in these pages.
I now know why the Tarahumara and the Más Locos got along so beautifully. They are rare and wonderful people, and spending time with them is one of the greatest privileges of my life. I wish I had time for one more mango juic
e with that great gringo Indio, Bob Francis. Shortly after the race, he died. How, I don’t know. Like most deaths in the Copper Canyons, his death remains a mystery.
While still absorbing the loss of his loyal old friend, Caballo got the offer of a lifetime. The North Face, the popular outdoor sports company, offered to become his race sponsor. Caballo’s future, and his race’s, would finally be secure.
Caballo thought it over. For about a minute.
“No, thanks,” he decided. “I don’t want anyone to do anything except come run, party, dance, eat, and hang with us. Running isn’t about making people buy stuff. Running should be free, man.”
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Christopher McDougall is a former war correspondent for The Associated Press and now a contributing editor for Men’s Health. A three-time National Magazine Award finalist, he has written for Esquire and The New York Times Magazine and is the author of Girl Trouble, based on his reporting for The Times. He does his own running among the Amish farms around his home in rural Pennsylvania.
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
Copyright © 2009 by Christopher McDougall
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A.
Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in
Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
www.aaknopf.com
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and colophon are registered trademarks of
Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2009922861
eISBN: 978-0-307-27191-4
v3.0
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Acknowledgments
A Note About the Author
Copyright
Born to Run Page 32
