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 4th. 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 25th 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.
No comments:
Post a Comment