Mexico's Two Opposing Forces.

    There are two great opposing forces in Mexico. One is the church, and the other is DNA.
Mexicans love to party. They love to celebrate, it's in their blood, and they celebrate everything from birth to death. They have celebration for the birth of Jesus, the Saints, Our Lady of Guadalupe, and past presidents. They also have many regional celebration that are really incredible. One of them is Noche de los Rabanos.
I stumbled on to this celebration while spending Christmas in Oaxaca, and have been meaning to write about it for sometime now, but never got around to it. Then just a few days ago while drinking coffee, and listening to the Writer's Almanac, Garrison Keillor, started that morning episode by saying that December, 23, was Noche de los Rabanos, a celebration in the city of Oaxaca, in Mexico. I leapt to my feet when I heard him, and laughed out loud because this is with out doubt the crazies thing I have ever seen.   http://download.publicradio.org/podcast/writers_almanac/2013/12/twa_20131223_64.mp3?_kip_ipx=1236214294-1387817262
Please listen to the whole thing, the poem at the end is very beautiful.

In 2006 Margarita and I flew down to Oaxaca to spend Christmas. After we found our hotel we wandered over to the Zocalo to check out the scene. Before we had left Reno I had some how become aware that we were going to be there for Night of the Radishes. Our flight down had been changed at the last moment, and instead of arriving late at night, we were rescheduled to arrive in the early afternoon. After a nap we headed back to the Zocalo and found it completely transformed from just a few hours prior. A hundred tables ringed the Zocalo, and at each table a team was busy carving giant radishes into the most bizarre scenes imaginable; these are not your garnish your salad radishes, no these are more like a science project gone bad. I saw radishes carved into churches with weddings, rodeos, and nativities. There was a circus, and dances, and crazy looking being from other worlds. Thousands of people were there, the line to get into see the tables up close was a quarter mile long. While all of this was going on small children were running around smashing hollowed out eggs filled with flour and confetti on the heads of their dear old grandparents. We laughed in hysterics at the sight of old folks being pelted, with out mercy, by their grand children as they tried to shuffle away. It was like watching Star Fleet Fighters attacking blimps. Then a man politely ushered the crowd away from the church just in time for the fire works to start raining down from the upper walls and steeple. And when I thought that it couldn't get anymore hilarious they started launching these huge pinwheels laid on their backs. Once lit these spinning disks of potential doom spun wildly, ascending a couple hundred feet into the night sky before disappearing into the city. A man next to me turned my way and we both burst into laughter, the universal language. This party went on to the wee hours of the morning. Young and old. Parents, grandparents, and children a like stayed up to the early hours of morning. Then it was time to pay for their sins.

Paying for ones sins in Mexico starts early in the morning, and not just on Sunday. Oh no, after any big night you can rest assured that you will not be sleeping past 6:30am, because that's when the church bells start ringing, calling their naughty flock to prayer.
CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG, it goes on and on, CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG. Then a pause, followed by one last CLANG. For years I couldn't figure out this last CLANG. I thought it was the sadistic humor of a disgruntled bell ringer playing a nasty game...OH trying to fall back to sleep are you, well here is one more CLANG for you, you egg throwing, fire work shooting sinners. But at other times I would hear two, or even three CLANGS.
Years later I found out that of course the one, two, or three rings were not the work of a mad bell ringer but the first, second, or third call to Mass. What is humors is that, as explained to me by a Mexican friend, if your are in bed and hear the third call to Mass, you are late, and you better hurry up and go, or your in trouble.
What is really cool about this festival is just how old it is. I've read that the Spanish brought the radish to Mexico in the 16th century. And at some point, though no one is quite sure, a church friar encouraged the locals to not only cultivate, but to leave them in the ground until they were huge, and then carve them into all kinds of shapes. Three centuries later, in 1897, the mayor of Oaxaca formalized the festival that has been going on every year since.
Christmas in Mexico is a must do, and I highly recommend Oaxaca, and Noche de los Rabanos, as a place to visit for the Holidays.

Rodeo Beach 50k Race Report

  Four days after the Rodeo Beach 50k and I can finally walk without a noticeable hobble. That's not to say that the stairs down to the basement to retrieve the medicinal bottle of tequila were with out some whimpering though.

The course description says that there is almost six thousand feet of ascending and descending for the 50k, which is quite a lot now that I've run the thing. But when I was signing up all I could see was  running on great trails with fantastic views, and that is exactly what I got.

I'm not going to go into a detailed course description other then to say that the first climb is neither the longest or the hardest. Nope this course is all about going up hill or down hill, with a few sections of flat thrown in to connect you to the next hill.

Running ultras is all about finding out what you can do, learning, and applying that knowledge to the moment. All day I had been dealing with a low grade fatigue that I just could not over come. So when I hit the 30K mark I was feeling pretty bad. I knew what was ahead, so I just put my head down and motored on. Then at the top of the first climb my left calf started to twitch and seize. Oh no you don't, I thought, and started sucking down water, and backed it up with another salt tab. I vowed to drink a bottle of water before the next aid station, and to fuel up once there. The down hill to Tennessee Valley aid station was really painful, but once there I threw down a couple of salted potatoes, a couple of orange slices, a bit of cola, filled my bottle, and started the long climb - I had a plan.

I knew that if I could relax, rehydrate and fuel before I got to the next aid station at Conzelman that I could then take advantage of the gentle down hill back to the finish. My plan went pretty well, but the last steep down hill to the aid station told me just how worn out my quads really were - they were yelping like a couple of tired puppies. Once at the aid station I fueled up, washed down a cliff shot, and set my sights on the finish line. I told myself, don't stop running! The quicks way home is to keep running.

From the Conzelman aid station the trail is a perfect pitch for fast running. My left calf had stopped twitching, apparently I was right I just needed water and electrolytes, and I started running at a decent pace, not fast, but I was moving steady. As I got close to the finish Margaret snapped a picture of me. You can't tell from the photo but my legs are ready to burst into flames, and my face is covered in snot and drool, hiding a grimace.

The Rodeo Beach Ultra is a beautiful race, with great views, and some steep trails. I would definitely do it again. And what did I learn...hydrate, hydrate. 1) It was a cool day so I completely forgot to drink enough and paid the price. 2) I live and do most of my running at four thousand to five thousand foot elevation, so I thought that I would do great here at sea level, but the hills on this course were much steeper and that really slowed me down. 3) And this is the biggest lesson, and the one that I feel the best about - deal with what your given. All day I had been running on low energy, not sure why, or what caused it, but from the first few steps of the day I knew that my game was off. I told myself that it would turn around, but by kilometer thirty I knew that it was all about determination only, and I have to say that I'm happy with the out come.

Thanks to John Brooks and his staff for putting on this race, you guys did a great job.

2012 Copper Canyon Ultra Marathon Part 2

There in the cool morning light with hundreds of people around, the feeling of being outside of myself sweeps over me. Am I really getting ready to do this, after months of imagining it? Like many things in Mexico the start of the race is delayed. 6:30 comes and goes. We all become more anxious to go, and start tugging and gnawing at our reins. Like many others I busy myself by taking pictures, or shooting videos. At 6:40 there’s an announcement that the race will start in five minutes. I notice how fresh and cool the air feels on my body, unaware of the awful heat and suffering we will all experience in a short time. Finally there’s a count-down and at 6:45 we are turned lose. The front runners are all Tarahumara, and they go tearing out of town likes it’s a drag race. I hold my camera above my head and shoot video while laughing and howling at the hilarious scene I find myself in. Months of careful eating, running, and weight lifting, and here I am laughing like a lunatic, and howling like a mad dog. God it feels good.

Photo By Jovan Atanackovic

The first loop heads out of town, traveling up river for about two miles before it crosses the river at a concrete bridge, and starts the climb to Guadalupe Coronado. At this point the road turns from a good gravel road to a rocky, rutted jeep trail that demands all your attention lest you want to face plant. The race strings out in a double and single file line up the broken road. I watch in amazement as the front of the pack, a half mile or more ahead of me, runs up the grade, and disappears around the first corner. For me, starting at this grade, I’ll be walking all the hills. I don’t know much about ultra-running, but I do know that fifty miles is a very long way, and that energy conservation is the rule of the day.

About a mile and a half from the turn-around, the front runners pass me going the other way. All of them are Tarahumara, some of them are wearing jeans, but all of them are just hauling ass. As I reach the turnaround at mile five, a fierce canyon wind wipes the dirt road into a choking dust cloud and I stumble half blind for the last quarter mile to the aid station. It’s like a scene from a Clint Eastwood western but this movie is cast with half-crazed ultra-runners, blind and laughing at the absurdity of the scene. It’s at this point that the pancakes have had enough jostling. I ask a number of people about a bathroom, but I may as well have been asking for a space ship that can move through time by an as-of-yet undiscovered force; Caballo had warned us about this, and told us to carry some T.P. I was glad for the heads up. I feel so much better after my pit stop, and pick up the pace. After a short time I start to reel in runners who are even slower than me. Eventually I make it back to the bridge, cross, turn right, and start the section I have been dreading, the climb to Mesa Naranjo.

The next two miles is a gravel road that climbs almost continuously. It’s in this section that the front runners pass me again going downhill. Daniel Oralek from the Czech Republic and a group of Tarahumara race past me. I clap and cheer them on, not having lost any of my enthusiasm. Following close behind them is more Tarahumaras, then Will Harlan and Hiroki. Intermixed with these runners are the guys in jeans. I’m not kidding.

The big, wide, well-groomed road is followed by miles of rocky trail that climbs as steep as any trail I’ve hiked on. I’ve been dreading this climb since I hiked down it on my way to Urique a few days earlier. But it’s during this section that I see some extraordinary strength. 

This part of Mexico has been in a drought for a number of years, and the crops that the Tarahumara live on have been failing. Caballo’s race not only pays out cash prize money, but also gives food vouchers to any runner who can complete even the first loop, twenty-two miles, with maybe four thousand feet of climbing. The gringos are here to run with the Tarahumara, in this fabled race, and many of the Tarahumara are here to race for the win. But for many, the incentive is to feed their families. It’s during this hellish section that I witness the meaning, or spirit, of this race. 

Photo By Jovan Atanackovic

I catch-up first with a mother and her daughter, both are wearing the traditional brightly colored dress and long sleeved blouse, and both are very tired, but the daughter is exhausted. The mother is quietly urging her daughter on. The girl runs, then walks, and then runs a little more, then stops. As I pass them I urge them on, but what I really want to do is cry. Their struggle and quiet determination is like nothing I have ever seen. The sun is climbing, and the heat is starting when I come across two young girls, also in traditional dress. One of the girls would run or walk from one shady spot to the next, then coax her friend to follow. Finally I come across a family from Mexico City. Mom and Dad are looking rather beat up on, but their son, who is thirteen, is doing pretty well. Funny though, but very late in the day I would see not the father and his son, but mom, still struggling along, looking like death twice warmed over. The race might be miles ahead of me I think to myself, but the heart of the drama is here at the back of the pack.

Finally I reach the aid station at Mesa Naranjo, pick-up my wrist band, grab some fruit and start the long descent back towards Urique. Unfortunately this section is steep, rocky and rutted. An attempt to run fast leads to a tense moment as I leap over a giant rut and land in a pile of loose rock. “Slow down John” I tell myself, “Remember, if you break an ankle out here you’ll have miles before you reach help.”  I reel in a few more runners who are also having trouble with the grade, and after almost an hour I reach the big gravel road. I pass the bridge, and jog the two miles back into Urique. It has taken me four hours and forty-five minutes, which is about thirteen minutes a mile, not exactly a blistering pace, but pretty much on target. At this point I feel pretty good, but little do I know.

The descent from Mesa Naranjo

After refueling at my drop bag, I head out of town with Roy from Michigan. From Urique the course heads down river for six miles of rolling dirt road before it crosses the river and heads up the brutal climb to Los Alisos. Having Roy’s company during this section is a great help. We talk, run, walk, and interact with the local spectators. Roy’s enthusiasm for this event and life in general, is contagious and is carrying me along, but at mile twenty-five/six I start to feel the heat and the effort. After another mile we reach the aid station at the suspension bridge. I’m hungry, and I feel awful. It feels to about ninety degrees, and all systems are flashing red. I get a bottle of water, a cup of pinole (ground corn mixed with water) one whole banana, two orange slices, and a ham sandwich. I sit in the shade and contemplate the meaning of this madness. At this point a young Tarahumara lad limps across the bridge on his way back from Los Alisos. He has a hard time bending his legs to negotiate the four tall steps at the end of the bridge, and then he finds a spot in the shade just to my left. His eyes are glazed, and he stares off into that middle ground. He looks absolutely beat so I get him a bottle of water and a cup of pinole, but when he takes them from me his eyes say “I don’t think I can eat or drink.”

Daniel Oralek heading to Los Alisos.
Photo By Jovan Atanackovic

Roy is ready to go, but I’m not, so I send him on. I know what’s coming and I really don’t need any witnesses. I cross the bridge and run the short distance to the start of the climb. For the next hour and fifteen minutes I gasp, stumble and curse my way up through the burnt landscape. I plead for relief, but God, who has a devious sense of humor, only turns up the heat. At the two aid stations I grab a bottle of water and pour half on my head. It hisses into steam. Warning lights that I have never seen before start to flash. Runners passing me on their way down urge me on with kind words of encouragement. You’re looking good, they tell me, and your only ten minutes from the top. “Yeah, bullshit” I think to myself. “Your skin and eyes are bright red, your brains are cooked, and I look like death.” But then I stagger into the little slice of heaven called Los Alisos. I sit on a rock in the shade of a giant tree for a very long time. Barefoot Ted lays curled in the fetal position a short distance away, a victim of the heat. I pour water into myself, take more electrolytes and eat some more fruit, but still all I want to do is lay down. I began to realize that I am not going to make the 4:30 p.m. cut-off time back in Urique to complete the full fifty miles. Emotions swirl around my cooked brain. I’ve trained hard to be here, so to not finish the full fifty miles is a huge disappointment. Worse yet is not to be able to contribute my full five hundred pounds of corn to the Tarahumara. This is a blow, and I feel that I’ve really let them down. But I also realize how badly I’ve had to flog myself to get to this point, and then I remember that I still have nine miles between me and Urique; two years ago  nine miles was a long run. Then, in the back of my poached brain, one last brain cell raises its hand and quietly says “Caution steep grade ahead.”

A short time later Luke from Wales, and Steve from Liverpool arrive. To make room for them at the table I wander a short distance away to stand in the shade. Then it’s time to go.

The next three miles are a blur. The heat is terrible, and half way down there is a nasty up-hill that faces south and is in the full on blazing sun. This section of trail throws my recovering brain back into the red zone and the warning lights flash on and off, on and off. My scrambled brain decides that it would be good to run, well, because it’s downhill, easy, right? I jog some gentle grade and feel pretty good, I’m making up time, I think to myself. Then the trail steepens and I pick up speed. When I hit the first hard left turn I have just enough strength to slow down to make the corner. Now my legs are complete jelly and I’m in neutral, coasting downhill out of control. I have just enough brain power to stare at the trail a few feet in front of me and that’s when that one last brain cell screams “LOOK UP!” I look up to see a yawning abyss for a catcher’s mitt waiting for me, but down in the bottom right hand corner of the blurry picture is a hard, rocky, right turn. “Oh Crap!” I say out loud. I slam on the brakes, but the pedal goes to the floor.  My legs are shot. I pump the pedal furiously and my body reacts by throwing itself into a crouch, facing right with its left leg stretched out and weighted hard like a downhill ski racer. Rocks and dust are thrown up as I skid into the corner, and as I do, I force my left hand around to keep myself facing right. While all of this is going on, multiple images of my demise play out in the sauce that was once my brain. In one scene, I whip off the edge, tumble hundreds of feet down the steep mountain side and come to rest broken in a thousand pieces at the bottom of a dry, desolate ravine. In the other scenario I whip off the edge, take one great rolling bounce, then get tangled up in a cactus that saves my life. I make the turn, and with the help of adrenalin, manage to slow down before the next corner, but the experience frightens the hell out of me, and I decide to walk.

Sometime later I make it to the river and cross the bridge. The aid station is packing up but they gladly get me water and a banana. Luke, Steve, and a young man from Mexico City cross the bridge and join me at the aid station. We talk about our day and what we have seen. To my surprise the three of them are still pushing for the full fifty miles, but it’s already past 4:30 I tell them. No matter they say, and off they go at a slow trudge. This is such a great sport I think to myself.

It’s a very long time before I reach Urique, but I don’t care. Twice I’m offered a ride back to town, but turn them down. The air has cooled off enough for my brain to reboot and I’m able to appreciate what has taken place, and also the beauty around me. Long rays of afternoon sun light blaze through gaps in the canyon rim. The opposite walls light up in mossy green, burnt orange and copper, colors hidden during the heat of the day. Underlining all of this runs the Urique River, coursing quietly in the bottom of this broad canyon.

For a couple of miles I have the company of five local children: two girls, and three boys. There are hundreds of half-empty water bottles that litter the road back to Urique, and I get caught up in a running war between the kids. The boys pick up a bottle or two and when the girls get close enough they fling the water at them. A couple of times I get caught in the cross fire, but when they see that the bright red gringo is laughing, they laugh even louder. Then the girls screech and race off down the road. I’m completely astonished as to how fast, and agile these girls are. They hold hands and race down the rocky road, leaping over ruts, with grace, and ease. Okay. I get it now. If you grow up in a place like this, you get to run like that.

The kids are a great deal of fun, and when they reach their destination and we part company I’m a bit sad and fall back into my solitary trudge.

When I reach Urique the party is in full swing. Jeremy is the first to see me. He wraps me in a hug, and congratulates me as though I have just topped out on Everest. Many others are there to welcome me back. Roy, Dennis and Tyler are there with a hug and hardy congratulations. Then out of the night comes Lynette, cheers go up for her fifty mile effort, and a short time later there are more cheers when Hans crosses the line. We take pictures of one another, and tell our stories. The sense of admiration and camaraderie is wonderfully thick. For the moment I forget my exhaustion and find myself buoyant with glee, and on the verge of tears - to miss people whom you only just met.

Jeremy, Tom, Myself, Hans, Caballo, and Dennis

I make it to the sanctuary of Mama Tita’s restaurant but I’m too worn out to speak Spanish so Chris orders me soup, dinner and a coke. Sitting at a long table surrounded by people I become lost in my own thoughts. Voices fill the room and music from the party filters in with the cool night air. As the food starts to rejuvenate me I begin to remember things I had seen, funny things. Like the armed guard at Los Alisos who climbed down from his perch with his AK-47 to bring me a chair so I could sit in the shade and rest. Or the Tarahumara woman in the long dress and blouse wearing rubber slip on beach sandals who raced past me on her way down from Guadalupe Coranado, she was flying. And what about those guys in the jeans? They were still in the top twenty runners heading back into Urique from Los Alisos; at about mile thirty-six, could that be possible? Later that night back at the hotel room I ask Hiroki about it and he shows me a video he shot at 15K. He is behind the guys in the jeans, and they are just flat out running, we both laugh in complete amazement. Then he tells me that it took him another fifteen minutes to pass them, we laugh even more. Finally I sleep.

The next day our group, the Mas Locos, pile back into the vans for the drive out of the canyon and the journey home. When we reach the rim Doug stops at an overlook. The view of the canyon is immense and the scope of the distances we traveled the day before really sets in.

Looking down at Urique.
Photo By Jovan Atanackovic

Miguel Lara at finish line.
Photo By Jovan Atanackovic

Miguel Lara of Porochi, Urique was the winner. He ran fifty miles with over nine thousand feet of climbing in six hours and forty minutes. Daniel Oralek of the Czech Republic was second at six and forty-six. German Silva of Mexico came in third at six and fifty-one. All three broke the course record, a completely astonishing feat considering the temperature was over ninety degrees. The heat would take its toll on everyone. The last ten mile loop was littered with exhausted, half conscious runners going for the maximum in food vouchers; two hundred and fifty kilos of corn will be a big help to the family. Will Harlan, who won the race in 2009, collapsed a short distance from the finish line and had to be given an I.V. Hiroki finish seventh and he is happy with his effort. He tells me that the pace was very fast and that the heat was terrible. But he is more happy that a Tarahumara has won, and that they also took fourth, fifth, and sixth place. This is their race, he says.

Photo By Jovan Atanackovic

The universe is an unpredictable place.

On March 27^th Caballo Blanco went for a run in the Gila Wilderness of New Mexico. Five days later a close friend, who is part of a massive search and rescue effort, would find him lying peacefully in a remote creek canyon with his feet in the stream...he was dead. I had planned on finishing this story several months earlier, but Caballo’s death tore through me, and I found that I couldn’t write about the event. Now that time has passed though, I have become grateful. I am so very glad that I went, and that I was able to be there, to be witness to, and to be part of Caballo’s last race. His dedication toward the Raramuri, and generous nature made a big impression on me – have compassion for others, and give without wanting anything in return. Imagine what the world could accomplish if this became the new paradigm. But I also wonder about, and marvel at, all of the events that had to line up just right. If that young man in the shoe store had not said anything, would I have clicked that register button? 

I'd like to send a special thanks to Ethan and Anne-Marie for lending me their kitchen table for the writing of this story, and to my new friends that I met there. THANK YOU!

2012 Copper Canyon Ultra Marathon Part 1

I completed this story while staying in Guanajuato in November of 2012, and my friend Flint was nice enough to post it on the race site.

 When does an adventure begin? 

The book Born to Run by Christopher McDougal kept popping up in my life for almost two years before I finally read it. A triathlete friend of mine asked me a number of times if I had read it. Then while shopping for new running shoes in the hope of curing a tendon problem I had an encounter with a young man who glowed about “The Book”. There in front of the shoe rack, trying to make up my mind, a voice from behind me asked, “Have you tried these yet? They completely changed my running. “ The voice was connected to a young hippie looking guy with long dread locks. He was very earnest as he explained how the minimalist shoes had corrected his stride, and how his joints no longer hurt. Then he asked me if I had read Born to Run, the book about the Tarahumara, and how they run in tire tread sandals. That night in mid-November of 2011 I picked up a copy and read it in a hand full of days.

Chris McDougal’s book tells the story of why we run, its history, its anatomy, and how running shoe companies have wreaked havoc on us all in the name of big profits. But the story revolves around the character Caballo Blanco, who in the mid-90’s wandered into the Copper Canyon to live near, and if possible, learn from the Tarahumara Indians; this is the name that the Spanish gave to them, they call themselves Raramuri, and they are considered the greatest long distance runners in the world. Caballo is also the creator of the Copper Canyon Ultra Marathon, the race that caps off the book. 

The night I finished Born to Run, and switched off my bed side lamp I had no idea of the door I was about to open. The next morning I woke thinking about the incredible story that I had just finished when it hit me…does this race still exist? Later that day a Google search took me to the race web site that included pictures of Caballo Blanco, stories from past participants, and there staring at me was the date for the 2012 event, March 4^th. I looked at it for a very long time. Deep in my brain the worm took notice and started to squirm. I passed the cursor over the register button, it

highlighted. The worm whispered yeah go ahead, register. I quickly closed out of the site. 

At this point in my life I had been training for short distance triathlons for two years. I swam, biked, and ran five to six days a week, but I was not a long distance runner. Still I had discovered that I really enjoyed trail running, but this was fifty miles with over nine thousand feet of climbing. I’m not fit for this I told myself, but the worm payed no notice to my reasoning, and kept squirming. The next day I looked at the web site again, and again I highlighted the register button. I thought about how I had wanted to see the Copper Canyon, and about my love for Mexico. Then without any more hesitation I clicked the register button. The worm rolled over laughing.

On February 25^th 2012 I flew to El Paso to meet up with Doug Rhodes, our driver/tour guide, and a group of runners affectionately known as Mas Locos, for the drive to the Copper Canyon. Our group consisted of people from all parts of the country, Idaho, New Mexico, Kansas, Washington State, Michigan, and California. We also picked-up four internationals from Ireland, Australia, Germany, and trail running hero Hiroke Ishikawa from Japan. Hiroki took second place behind Will Harlan in the 2009 race that is legend. For the next two days we drove from the burnt desert south of Ciudad Juarez to the pine cover up-land that surrounds the Canyon, and the small town of Cerocahui. We spent the night in the working class city of Cuahtemoc and had an exciting stop on the second day at Divisadero to ride the zip lines. Our guide for all of this is an American Doug Rhodes. Doug has been living in Mexico for over twenty years, and is the owner of the beautiful lodge Parasio Del Oso. He has carved for himself an incredible niche, and from what I can tell has helped many people young, and old in his area. 

After two long days of driving we finally pull up to Parisio Del Oso, and there standing on the porch, wearing a big grin is Caballo Blanco. 

As we unload the vans I introduce myself to Caballo and his girlfriend Maria Mariposa. Caballo is over six feet tall. He has a shaved head, long arms, and a medium build. He has flashing blue eyes, and this trade mark broad smile that he wears regularly- his smile seems to always say, “Hi, nice to meet you, that sounds great, yeah let’s go.” But from the moment I meet him the trip takes on a new shape, or, a something other, that I was never able to put my finger on. It’s as though reality is being mixed up. I’m in rural Mexico, and a character from the book that propelled me to travel here is standing in front of me. Non-fiction characters are real, you can rationalize, but until you meet them, they are just words. Good words perhaps, arranged in a well-written description of the character, but still just words. But this was only half of the problem, or a partial description of the dilemma. When the van pulled up and we all piled out I started to have an unusual feeling of being written into a story, a story that was being constructed page by page as I watched. But that’s not entirely correct either. It’s was more like the story had already been written and we were just a couple of lines behind, like we were just there to live it out, to give form to destiny, but the thing about it is that we all seemed to know. This something otherness, or other reality, would hover around me the entire time I was there. It would pursue me all the way home, and it would stay with me for nearly a week. Then weeks after I was home, and with events that came to pass, I wondered about the strange feeling I had experienced, and I would be further dumbfounded. 

Photo By Jovan Atanackovic

The next day, Tuesday, Caballo led a group of runners up a pretty creek canyon. I, along with a few others, opt for a shorter six mile run. Then on Wednesday Caballo led an even larger group, about forty of us, on the eighteen mile hike to Urique. It is this morning that I become acquainted with Hiroki Ishikawa.

In 2009 Hiroki was leading the race, but he didn’t want to win. He told me that it wasn’t his race, that he wanted one of the Raramuri to win. So he slowed down, and went for a swim in the river to cool off. Once Arnulfo Quimare had caught up, Hiroki ran along with him and tried to urge him on. Will Harlan had passed them both, and Hiroki was hoping to pace Arnulfo back to the front. But the day was hot, and Arnulfo had nothing more in him. So even though neither one of them spoke a single word that the other could understand, Arnulfo convinced Hiroki that he should go, that it was okay. Hiroki crossed the line in second with his arms stretched out from his sides like wings. He dipped and turned, swooping from one side of the street to the other like a graceful winged dragon, an act that earned him the nickname “El Dragon El Japon.”

But I didn’t know any of this when Hiroki politely asked me if I knew what the model name, ’Rufous’, on my Gregory hydro pack meant. I said no and he told me, in carefully spoken English, that it is a type of humming bird. He says he knows this because he named this pack, and that he helped design it. We get a great laugh out of this, but even more of a laugh when he starts questioning me about all the things I had cut off of his design. Then I tell him that I would be happy to help modify the pack he is wearing, but he politely declines, and we laugh even more.

For almost eight hours Caballo led our group from one rocky drainage to another. First we climbed for five miles to a saddle with a cross erected in a heaping pile of rocks. Then we start the endless decent to the canyon floor, and the small town of Urique. For hours we descend steep trails not cut in by a well-equipped Forest Service crew, but walked in by centuries of people, and their beasts. Now and again the feeling of other reality came over me, and I found myself looking back over my shoulder half expecting to see a Jesuit monk or Spanish conqueror on horseback walking behind me. This place is very old I thought to myself.

At a point about seven miles from Urique Caballo holds us up. From this point on he tells us no more cameras, put them in your packs, and don’t take them out until we get to Urique. A short distance later his concern becomes obvious as we pass irrigation lines that snake along the hills, cross the trail above our heads, and lead to patches of marijuana. More ominous though are the fields of poppies. One, a very large field, borders the trail that will be part of the race course. This is the new reality that has invaded the Copper Canyon – the Cartels and their drug business.

Six hours of hard walking down steep rutted trails leads us to the top of the first loop of the race course, a broad open plateau called Mesa Naranjo. From here we descend past the large poppy field, and into the last steep drainage, a piece of trail that we will be running up on race day – it’s here that I start thinking “Oh Johnny what have you signed up for?” Another hour of walking and running and the group arrives in Urique.

Urique is a small dusty town that lies at the bottom of the canyon near the Urique River. The main street runs north and south, and is lined with small cramped stores that sell everything from chips to beds, and stoves. There are also a few restaurants and hotels. Between the dusty stores and the rustic street is a stone and cobble sidewalk. Growing in the sidewalk is a line of enormous cieba trees. To the east of the main street is another road, then the river. Running from the main street to the west, steeply up-hill, are three or four streets that are lined with small homes, more shops, and two schools. At the top of one of these streets is the main grocery store that sells everything from produce to toilet plungers. It is dimly lit and has a wood floor that creaks as you walk amongst the half-empty shelves. At the top of these streets I find an unusual street that is three or four times the width of any other street in town. No cars seem to drive on it, and it is paved with concrete. Later I’m told that it’s a landing stripe, built by the Cartels.

But for me and the other runners, who have traveled from all over the world, Urique is the center of the universe, and at its heart is Mamma Tita’s restaurant. Mamma Tita is another character from the book Born to Run, and it is a great pleasure to meet her. She is very small, about five feet two, but it is obvious from the moment that I meet her that she has a big heart. And reserved within her heart is a special place for the runners who now occupy every inch of her restaurant, and who consider it race headquarters. From a table there, Caballo checks runners in as they arrive in Urique, and the night after the race it is the place for glassy-eyed, exhausted runners to be fed and to lick their wounds. Mamma Tita and her staff spend day and night cooking and serving hungry runners’ plates of hot delicious food. By the end of the trip, I come to revere her as a saint.

I know that another eighteen mile day is a completely mad idea, but when you consider that I’m being carried along in an altered state of reality, and everyone else is going, well, I have to go. The morning after we walk into the canyon Caballo gathers us up in front of race headquarters for another eighteen mile walk to preview the second loop of the course. First we walk down river for almost six miles before crossing on a suspension bridge, and then start the three mile climb to Los Alisos, the turnaround point. The trail to Los Alisos is well groomed but incredibly steep, and although it’s early in the day it’s already hot, too hot. During the race this is the piece of trail that will chew people up, and where a few of the really lucky ones will have a conversation with God. But today is mellow, and our group reaches the grapefruit orchard at the top of the trail in good spirits. We relax in the shade of giant old trees before heading down.

On Thursday afternoon, and that evening the Raramuri start to arrive in great numbers. Some have walked to Urique, others have ridden the public bus, but most arrive in the back of trucks. Flatbed trucks with wooden gates carrying twenty people, all standing up, arrive in the middle of town. When the gates are removed they climb down quietly, no fuss, no hooray we are here, just a quiet no-hurry exit. The men are dressed in white loin cloth skirts, tire tread leather sandals and beautifully colored blouses. Their blouses are turquoise electric blue, reddish pink or bright yellow gold, this in contrast against their deep brown skin. The women, some carrying babies, are dressed in brightly colored dresses that drape to their ankles, multi-colored patterned blouses with long sleeves to their wrists, and many are wearing brightly colored handkerchiefs on their heads. Their arrival and presence in town adds to the growing festival-like feeling, and I find that I’m smiling at nothing in particular. Also the sense that I have fallen into a story prevails even more strongly around me. ”This is the most alien thing I have ever seen” I think to myself.

For the next two days I rest, drink lots of water, and eat. I have walked, and run about forty-two miles in mountainous terrain over the last three days. Not exactly following the formula of tapering, but nothing can be done about it now.

By Saturday afternoon Urique has been transformed from a dusty little town at the bottom of a very deep canyon, to a dusty little town hosting a crowded street party. I sit on an old wooden bench in the shade of a cieba tree and watch as people from around the world pass by. Government officials and dignitaries arrive; some land their planes on the Cartel landing strip. More international runners arrive. South Korea, Scotland, South Africa, and the Czech Republic are represented. Runners from fourteen different countries are here; Caballo is very happy with the turn out. And there, mixed into this international gathering, are the Raramuri- brightly colored clothing against dark skin, quiet, expressionless, taking it all in.

Mexico knows how to do a celebration. A large stage had been erected in the square adjacent to the municipal building, and starting Saturday afternoon, official after official takes the microphone to give a speech. Then there’s a Mexican guitar band, and more speeches, followed by the drum and flag corps, and more speeches. This goes on for hours. The runners have been given signs with their country, or location, printed in nice large letters to hold on to, but what none of us realize is that at the end of all the speeches we are to be paraded up on stage to represent our country. Unfortunately by the time this is to take place we have all left to go eat, and to get ready for tomorrow, race day. 

The night before the race Hiroki and I agree that 4:20 a.m. is a good alarm time. I prepare my running pack so that I will have plenty of time to stretch before Mama Tita’s opens at 5:00 a.m. At 9:30 p.m., we switch off the lights and I’m fast asleep. I’m not anxious or nervous about the next day; I’m as ready as any complete novice can be. And really, I think, what kind of experience do you need when tomorrow you’re to be flung into the volcano? The ability to scream? Check. Faith in God and knowledge of a few prayers? Check.  Uncommon beauty and an intact virginity? I am so screwed. This serenity is broken at 10:00 p.m. when a mariachi band starts blasting away in the hotel parking lot below our room. Because of the high walls around the parking area the music is amplified, and it’s as though the band is playing at the foot of our beds. When I go out on the walk way I find other runners staring in disbelief at the party below. Hiroki will have none of it and stomps off down stairs. Through a sleeping pantomime he gets the hotel owner to understand that the runners need to sleep, and much to our relief, it is the bands last song.

When the alarm sounds everything goes like clockwork, and as I reach Mama Tita’s at 4:59 in the predawn light she is just opening her door. The thing that surprises me though is how many people are already up, not runners but shop owners and people preparing for the race. Trucks with mountains of bottled water are heading out of either end of town, and shop keepers are busy sweeping up last night’s party. 

For breakfast I eat a stack of pancakes, scrambled eggs, beans, and of course hot corn tortillas. I wash all of this down with two cups of Nescafe with powdered milk - yum. Back at the hotel room I stretch and exercise a bit more, and at 6:20 I go to the start area to wait.

Ultra Caballo Blanco 2014

Two years ago this month I signed up for what was then the Copper Canyon Ultra Marathon. The event changed my life by introducing me to a remarkable group of athletes, the Raramuri, who are tucked away in a remote piece of Mexico. I went there not having any idea of what to expect, and I came home with a mind filled with new images, ideas, and pleasing memories.
Now after two years and hundreds of miles run I'm heading back. I still consider myself a novice runner, and I have to admit that after I clicked that register button I thought...I hope it's not so hot this time. But then I remembered all of the great people I met who were helpful and generous with their advise. And   I remember the incredible piece of earth were this takes place, and I relax a bit, and I think...okay this is good.
If any of you are looking for a unique event, then meet me in the bottom of the Copper Canyon, March, 2nd, for the Ultra Maraton Caballo Blanco. Bring fun, your best laugh, and an open heart, you won't be disappointed.

 

Shoulder Season

Wait. What? Cold, cloudy, gray, and ugly. It's not Winter yet and Fall is gone, all the colors spent, raked, bagged, and left at the curb for the garbage man. Cheered up yet? I am. We call this a shoulder season, because you can't ski yet, but the days are too cold for a picnic in the hills - shoulder season is code language for cold shitty weather... okay, yep I need a run.

Guanajuato International Film Festival

I've had a number of emails asking about travel to Guanajuato, mostly questions about cost, and what's it like to travel there.
The first thing I looked up was air fares. I tried plugging in dates for next years Guanajuato International Film Festival that starts off in San Miguel and ends in Guanajuato. I choose this event for a couple of reasons. First this is an event that I've wanting to experience, and as it is an international event, it attracts people from all over the world. Second it starts off in San Miguel, which for the Mexico new comer is a pretty easy transition. And last, it ends up in Guanajuato. Where San Miguel has a large expat community that has greatly influenced how the city feels, Guanajuato does not. Yes people from many countries live in GTO; my favorite sushi place is there, but it is a Mexican town, a little rough around the edges.
The GIFF was to far out in the future to get ticket prices for, so instead I plugged in dates from the end of January to the middle of March and came up with the following numbers. Price is round trip single person.
Reno, Nv to Leon, Mx (this is the airport you would fly into for both GTO, or SM)
1 stop $750-890
2 stops 629-890
San Jose, Ca to Leon
1 stop $430-750
2 stops 430-640
Calgary, Canada to Leon
1 stop $750-850
2 stops 700-950
Saint Louis, Missouri to Leon
1 stop $607-860
2 stops 607-670
London to Leon
2 stops $1288-1600

After ticket prices I looked for home rentals on the site VRBO in the city of San Miguel and came up with some really interesting places that range greatly in price, and location.
I found 2 bedrooms, with 2 baths for $125 a night, and a 3 bedroom, 3.5 baths place for $120 a night.
I also found some larger nicer places that have 3-4 bedrooms, 3-4 baths and go between $150-300 a night. Pretty much all of them come with a maid.
As far as the cost for the IFF. From what I can gather all of the movies are free, there is something about getting a wriest band that you pick-up, but I've heard the people at theater door will not even be checking for that.
Then there is food. In GTO I would expect to pay 9 US dollars to 20 USD for a really good dinner, a meal that would cost you another 10 USD in Reno. For me, once I get to GTO, I spend about 30 USD a day, if I eat out every meal. Of course buying food at the market and cooking at home is much cheaper, and then there's the experience factor of shopping. From what I can see San Miguel is similar in restaurant prices to GTO, though I have limited experience there, but again if you have a kitchen you can save greatly by shopping and cooking for yourself.
The one area that could cost you a bit of money is shopping for gifts. Hand made crafts are everywhere, and made from a variety of materials - wood, stone, metal, and glass. So much of it is beautiful, and reasonably priced, that you end up wanting it all, and then you have to pay for an extra bag going home. No matter because the same item would be three times as much, if you could find it, in the states.
Lastly concerning traveling to this part of the world. It's safe. I've been traveling to Mexico for the last twenty-five years, and besides a couple of jerky taxi drivers, I've had nothing but great experiences. The people are helpful and friendly, especially if you try to communicate, speak, to them in Spanish.
Looking back up the page I've noticed that I neglected to put in the dates for the GIFF 2014. Though I seem to remember seeing that it started July 25th I can't find that date again, and the web site for the 2014 event hasn't been posted yet. But here is a link to the 2013 event so you can get an idea of what it's all about. http://www.giff.mx/?lang=en
I hope this helps you out. Let me know what you think.

What's next for me...the Rodeo Beach 50k, December, 14th.

Back Home

Ethan and Anna-Marie's Roof Top

     I'm not going to dwell on the funk I feel whenever I return from Mexico, but it takes me a week or two to get readjusted to a world without color, and noise. In Mexico all of your senses are used to their fullest. Standing on the roof at my friends home, looking out across the city I see homes that are painted bright yellow, red, aqua marine, and purple. Government buildings are painted deep red, or gold, as are the half dozen churches. Could you imagine the shit you'd catch if you painted your house purple and bright gold. Your neighbors would freak, you'd get nasty phone calls in the middle of the night, and your dog might go missing. Then there's the noise. One night during Cervantino I lay in bed, it's maybe 1:00 am, and the air is thick with music. From up the street I can hear house music coming from a disco. From across the canyon a live band is playing at another club, and from parts unknown I can make out a mariachi band blasting away. And below, or mixed into this like jalapeño peppers in the salsa, is the sounds of people coming and going, cheering for the music, or their laughter amongst friends. I lay there in bed knowing full well that I won't be sleeping that night, but some how it doesn't matter, it's Mexico

Storm Troopers

Sunday in Guanajuato

Callejone (little street)

Guanajuato

When ever I travel I always say before I leave "I wonder who I'll meet" and with out exception I always meet someone worth mention. On this trip I met three people who fit the category.

First there is Eric and Christina Miranda. Eric has a restaurant on the corner of Positos and Juan Valle, and Christina has an art gallery/store, also on Positos...this is in the city of Guanajuato. But their passion is their tour business. Sitting with Eric in his restaurant his enthusiasm for his tour and travel company is real. He proudly shows me the many YouTube videos of groups he has lead to places all over Mexico. But the thing that really gets him going are the school groups that he takes on camping trips. So if any of you get interested, and I hope you do, here is a link to his company.

                                                   http://mundomexico.mx

But the person who takes the award this trip for being so very cool is a woman who I met while waiting for my flight in the Leon airport.

I love to travel. I love to see new museums, and to wander around the streets of a city I've never been to before. But sometimes I think that these chance, random encounters are the thing I like the most.

I believe she said her name was Verna, and that she was from Minnesota. She had only ever been to Cancun, and had just spent the last seven days in San Miguel de Allende at a conference. Verna struck up a conversation with me about the round drum cymbal bag I was carrying, and it just went from there. It was like as though she was just looking for someone to tell her story to, about all the wonderful things she had seen and her enthusiasm for all of it. I let her go on about the beauty of San Miguel, and the wonderful restaurants she had eaten at. She showed me the videos she shot in a school class room getting kids to say in English, because she spoke no spanish, that they would go to college. Finally she took a breath and asked me what I was doing there, and I told her about Guanajuato, and the Cervantino festival. I could see at once what was happening. In seven days her perceptions of Mexico had been completely changed. She asked me question like "wait, what's the name of this festival?"and "it's been going on for 41 years?"

San Miguel de Allende

Verna if you read this I have to tell you that if I never get any friends to travel down here with me it won't matter because you got it. The noise, and smells, and wild colors weren't an annoyance, they were the texture, the things to remember. You traveled to Mexico and felt the warmth, and hospitality, and it does my heart good to know that. I hope our paths cross again.

More about Cervantino

Cervantino is a three week international performing arts festival held in the month of October. Each year it is hosted by a different country, this year, 2013, it is Uruguay, and the beautiful city of Puebla, which is south east of Mexico City. 

The festival has something for everyone, from classical ballet, to electronic music and light shows held in the tunnels below the city. Spend a week here and you could see a jazz show one night, listen to an orchestra in the beautiful Templo de la Compania another night, and take in a play yet another night. Mix in all of the street performances that start up around noon in the many plazas and you have a week of entertainment gluttony.

I arrived in Guanajuato October 22nd and the festival was in it’s last week; this year it went from Oct, 9 to Oct, 27th. My friends home is just three hundred feet from the Explanada de la Alhondiga which is one of the most historical buildings in Guanajuato and serves as an out door venue for many of the music shows. Air fare down here, and a new laptop to start this blog with meant that I was looking for the free shows, and the Alhondiga is just the place. I saw Tony Allen, an afro music band from Nigeria and France, who I really liked, on Thursday night for free. Then Saturday night I caught Zap Mama who has the strongest, most playful, and sexy voice that I have heard, also for free. But what stuck me the most was the sense of place. Here I was rockin out to a woman from the Republic of Congo, with a Mexican audience, on the steps of a building that was built between 1797, and 1809. It’s a wonderful feeling, a blend of old world, youth, and internationalism, it is a feeling of being in the world rather then from a country. 

A little fare warning. During Cervantino, Guanajuato fills to the rim with visitors, so get a room before you arrive, and once you get here go buy tickets for the shows you want to see, popular shows sell out fast. Also, Guanajuato is normally noisy, but during Cervantino this place just roars, so if your looking for quiet, sedate, I’m going on vacation to relax, well this isn’t it. But if your into city wide parties with thousands of new friends then come on down. Besides Cervantino, Guanajuato also hosts an international film festival, and from what I can find it is scheduled for July 25 to August 3rd of 2014. 

As I write this the city, just out side my window, is getting ready for Dia de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead...more later, Mexico is calling.

CERVANTINO 2013,and where it all started

Ever since I returned from the Copper Canyon Ultra Marathon in 2012 I have been wanting to start a blog about...well Mexico, and also running. But being the slug that I am I just kept putting it off, and putting it off. Then about a month before this year’s 41st Festival International Cervantino I got an email from my good friends Ethan and Anne-Marie Summers who live in Guanajuato Mexico, telling me that the house that they have been refurbishing for the last three years was about ready to go on the rental market, and that’s when I decided to head down to Guanajuato Mexico. 

I have been telling my friends, and anyone else who would listen to me, about Cervantino, and showing them pictures of the beautiful city of Guanajuato for years now, but could not raise any interest in checking it out. Mi Novia Margarita has been telling me over and over again that if I want to get people to travel with me down to Mexico that I need to plan months in advance. Did I listen. NO.

Plaza de San Fernando

 At this point I need to explain that my mode of travel is to plan very little. I can launch off into parts unknown with only the faintest idea of what I’m getting myself into and be pretty comfortable with it. This method of operation has seen me to the volcanoes outside of Mexico city. To a couple of months of white water raft guiding on the Rio Copalita in the state of Oaxaca. And most recently to the 2012 Copper Canyon Ultra Marathon. 

With just weeks to go till Cervantino I sent an email out to about twenty people inviting them to join me. Mostly there was no answer. There were a few how about next year answers. And one most definitely I will go next year...thanks Alan!

When I voiced my disappointment Margarita took me up with that look, put on her sharpest toed boots, and gave me a kick. “You need to plan!!! People aren’t like you, they need information. They need time to organize their schedules.” Okay, okay I get it now.

So here I am at Ethan and Anne-Marie’s house in Guanajuato. Cervantino is over, the crowds have gone home, and the city is back to it’s normal low roar. In the days, weeks, or hours to follow, I'll post more information about this wonderful city, and the over the top event that Cervantino is.