Ultra Maraton Caballo Blanco 42k, 2019

I never read, “Born to Run” but I did listen to the audio book and I credit the story with reintroducing me to running. Like so many others I became enthralled with the notion of racing ultra distances wearing minimal shoes and the whole idea of corre libre (running free) became an obsession. I devoted myself to the sport and understanding how I could call forth the spirit necessary to run these great distances. I don’t run in minimal shoes anymore but I do still run free and child-like wherever I am. Running is significant in my life; something I think about and interpret almost daily. So when the chance came to visit the Copper Canyon and run the famed Caballo Blanco Ultramarathon I knew that I had to say yes even though I wasn’t prepared physically or emotionally for the event.

My personal life was in somewhat of a downward spiral and the demands of an emergency surgery and physical therapy took over my life during what should have been a speed block to hone my body down from the fitness I gained thru hiking the Appalachian trail. Without going into too much detail, I was filled with shame and embarrassment about this and knowing that the race was on the horizon motivated my physical therapy. Even under the best of circumstances I would not be able to race this event hard; and the doctors reminded me that I was still in the critical window of time where I could rupture and reverse the surgery if I fell. But the call of the canyon and the opportunity to be among the Raramuri was too great, so in March of 2019 I boarded a flight bound for the city of Chihuahua with a huge group of family and friends. I tried to leave the pain and hardships that I was going through behind in Austin. Maybe there would be some magic in the canyon that could heal me.

Flying over the border you can clearly see that we all live on the same land. Ciudad Chihuahua is just as beige and foreboding as west Texas. Walking the streets of the city you can see the scars left behind from years of violence and fear. Everyone wants to think that Mexico is more than this; we all want to think that we are more than the scars that we carry. But they are part of us and this is a painful land. No amount of not talking about it can change what has already happened. We put the danger and fear out of our minds and trusted that the trip ahead would be a success.

The journey from Ciudad Chihuahua to Urique is a day onto itself. Weighing the factors of safety and cultural experiences we opt to take El Chepe, Mexico’s last passenger train. In the early morning at the train station other gringos and runner types start to congregate. It is still dark and most of us are a bit worried about being in the region in the first place. Darkness fades as the train lumbers towards the mountains and everyone on board begins to loosen up a bit. The flora opens up too; the tight hardened plants of the desert give way to flowy grasses and trees. The sand becomes soil, the cattle and goats look healthy. It’s obvious we are entering an unspoilt space. The train makes a few stops at small communities, people carrying huge armfuls of goods come and go. These stops remind us that the train is not just for tourists who come to cross the scenic mountains to the Pacific. It is still a lifeline that connects these far away communities to the vital economy of the city. The train made did make one prolonged 15 minute stop in Divisadero, a town perched on an imposing cliff looking deep into the Copper Canyon. It was our first glimpse of the immensity of the landscape and a reminder that unlike the Grand Canyon, the Copper Canyon is an entire region wound with stunning canyons that seem to push the land apart revealing the heart of the Earth. Our destination was still hours away and the only running we would do here was from food vendor to food vendor trying to acquire as many vegan gorditas as possible. Not only would this satisfy the food ethic of the group but it also serves as a last line of defence against food poisoning, which could end the race before it began. I’ll take a moment here to declare that at this train stop I had the best salsa of my life, complex and fiery, a perfect pairing to the fleur de maguey and blue corn gorditas. With deep respect for the conductor’s whistle I load my styrofoam tray and cup with food and run to reclaim my seat. We were deep in the Sierra Madre mountains, the home of the Rarámuri. This is a special place.

It was not always this way; the Rarámuri, or the Tarahumara, as the colonialists call them, once inhabited much of the Chihuahuan desert region. The rugged landscape and elusive geography of the mountains became their sanctuary from Spanish invaders in the 1500’s. The Rarámuri survived by secluding themselves deep in the canyons. Even today they display a level of cautiousness with outsiders who delight in their traditional dress and marvel at their perceived superhuman athleticism. More than anything these people want to be left alone to live their lives as they have for hundreds of years. The encroachment of outsiders is palpable and upon arriving in Urique I am immediately aware that there is much more going on here than what meets the eye. I start to recognize that I may represent more of the problem than the solution to what life has become for those in the Copper Canyon.

Please hear me that EVERYONE we met in the Canyon was exceptionally warm and welcoming. The famed Mama Tita, her family, the race director, and a handful of others who gathered for the race, all extended wonderful generosity and hospitality to our crew. The goodness of the human spirit was affirmed but the nagging realities of the region were always present and unspoken. Just four months earlier an American tourist was murdered. Hundreds of Rarámuri, weary from days of walking, lined up to register and receive their bed roll to sleep on in the fields outside of town. A loud, half drunk American-bro made sure everyone knew who he was. Local children wore clothing decorated with pot leaves. It was a challenge to know how to be in this environment. My hand hurt and my heart hurt even more. I decided that the only thing I could do was honor those running the race with my most sincere effort. I was going to push myself as far as I could. All I wanted to do was run my hardest up and down the mountain and along the river. If I could reduce myself to just breath and movement perhaps I could authentically understand more about life in the canyon.

The race has two distances: 88k and 42k. I desperately wanted to run the 88k but I knew that the choices I made earlier in the season left that impossible. For all intents and purposes the 42k is the kids’ race; a few legitimately fast runners wore the bib for this race but for the most part it was for tourists and local teenagers who are just getting into the depths of the sport. The real talent is in the 88k, ambitious runners and fearless elders stepped to the longer distance knowing full well that they were in for a long, long day. The course has varied over the years;, this would be a hard year with the 88k summiting two 5,000+ foot mountains, the 42k just one. What hasn’t changed is the “timing” system. The race is standard gun timing, but to ensure that the track is adhered to each runner passes through several checkpoints. At each stop runners are given a wristband. The wristbands are exchanged for a ration of corn after the race. One wristband- one ration, ten wristbands- ten rations. Seeing abuelas lined up with 88k bibs on their colorful dresses made my heart sink a little. Are these women preserving and celebrating their cultural heritage or is the promise of food a literal carrot dangled in front of them urging them forward? I am simultaneously in awe and deeply saddened by what I am seeing.

The race start is a full blown fiesta, neon swirling lights paint the pre-dawn streets. The biggest sound system the region can muster throws music off the canyon walls; everyone is up and ready to go. I have my race belt on brimming with shot blocks, gels, and a liter of water, sunscreen lathered all over my pink skin, sunglasses, fancy running cap, sponsor jersey, trail-race shoes with custom inserts, cycling socks tugged up to the perfect height to extenuate my calves, and in a nod to the culture- a bandanna tried around my neck. At the last second I decide to strap on the brace for my hand- it’s awkward but in hindsight no more awkward than the rest of my outfit. All around me is the chaos of swirling light and runners dressed with what they will need for the journey ahead. Most are in sandals or non-running footwear, plenty are in off-brand foam crocs. I feel a bit foolish, I tell myself to run my own race. It’s a single mass start and when the gun goes off we all lunge forward like one massive organism. The streets of Urique are bumpy and uneven, like a trail race, already the footing is uncertain. In no time at all a woman gets her foot caught up in her massive skirt and goes down inevitably trampled by those behind her. I stand up straight and get my wits about me, “careful” I think to myself as we push a blistering pace to spread out the absolutely massive field of runners on tight, narrow streets. Soon we are past the outskirts of town, past the part of the road we didn’t dare pass yesterday. The purple light of dawn is carrying a pinkish hue reflected from the walls of the canyon. The graded path takes its serpentine course- the Raramuri go straight up cutting off the road’s circuitous path. I questioned it a few times, but I decided that is their route and not for me, “save your legs, put the load on your cardio” I think as I, the lone gringo (in sight) follow the path cut for machines. We push on, up river.; cement, cobbles, dirt;- the road becomes more of a path as it winds towards the back of the canyon. Once the road officially ends we file onto a narrow suspension bridge maybe 15 feet off the bank of the river. It is twisting, turning, and undulating at a frequency that is sure to compromise the integrity of the structure. A few Raramuri forgo the bridge all together and cautiously cross the river below. I reach out both hands to stabilize myself and instantly realize that my mammed hand is going to be put to the test. I ended up turning it over, dragging the back of my brace across the ragged metal fence while eagle-grasping the other side with my right. I wonder, “what I’ve gotten myself into”.

Going into the first real climb the pack has thinned a bit and it is clear that those who are in it for the food are taking a more conservative approach.; I’m unsure where I am in the field, but I am moving at the edge of my comfort zone. The climb has reduced many of us to a brisk walk. Not too far off I hear the unmistakable jangle of Mexican music; guitars, horns, and accordion. It feels right, although confusing as we are deep in the scrub forest at the bottom of the Copper Canyon. After some time I come up on a runner carrying a shoe box- sized speaker blaring the music. He is smoking a cigarette and wearing jeans, 88k bib on his chest. I feel ridiculous in my short-shorts, singlet, and 42k bib. After appreciating the juxtaposition I decided that I should pass him, I had to pass him. If I am going to honor the race, it was time to start racing. I made the decision to appreciate less of the surroundings and push a little harder, hands on thighs pumping up this 5,000’ climb, I leave the music behind.

The climb is long but the grade is right; only the hardest of hard bodies are running this. I wonder what the front of the field looks like. Racers are starting to drop off.- I am passing old men in field clothes, children looking confused, and a few slightly overweight Mexican nationals who are clearly in over their heads. As I gobbled down that half-hour’s ration of chews I noticed a weathered older man stoically perched on a rock with that universal fuck this look on his face. Ahh, I think, I know exactly how he feels. Our eyes catch and I pressed the remaining pack of chews into his hand. “Suerte amigo, animo!” I keep on pushing. I’m getting pretty tired, the climb is lasting forever. At one of the false summits I make a quick move to hop a small rock wall into a pasture and catch my toe. “Just not falling on it”, which was the original plan for my hand, was not an option. I did a quick check-thrust against the wall as I fell into it. My heart absolutely froze. The one thing I couldn’t do, I did. Thank freaking god I am wearing my brace. But it didn’t hurt, everything must be fine, I think to myself. Then I feel the blood run down my wrist and drip onto my leg. I cut the tip of my middle finger, not badly, but it was slashed open and bleeding. To be honest I was more afraid to tell Sam, my physical therapist, than I was at the prospect of further harm to the finger. Note: Sam wasn’t surprised- in her line of work she sees a certain type of person, she knew she couldn’t stop me and she knew I’d probably end up hurting it again. It will always be unclear if this fall set my recovery back. A nagging part of my brain says that it did, Sam wasn’t too worried about it.

Towards the top of the climb there is a different vibe to the race. We are in small villages of sorts, irrigation piping criss-crosses the trail, lots of small rock walls denoting fields. Congested wood plank housing. From a not too far off vantage point I can make out the worn tracks of a grassy air strip. The soil is richer and feels deeper underfoot, not quite as sandy and tropical as the river bank town of Urique. Now at the aid station volunteers are wearing various patterns of camo from international conflicts of years past. It’s not long before I connect the dots. At one point I refill my water from a guy with a silver plated heater tucked into his waistband. It’s clear that the race goes off with the blessing of everyone who needs to say yes. No one is really hiding it. Families are sitting in front of their homes, irrigation waters swirl in the fields behind. I’d come face to face with the drug trade. I know I shouldn’t write about this. The race is so much more. But this is real and this is what I experienced there. But out of sight out of mind is how this continues and a hushed understanding seems to be how things work. This canyon protected its people from hundreds of years of Spanish enslavement, small pox infestation, and even christianity. Yet it is powerless to keep the cartels away. Is this the weed we smoke back in Austin? Are these the poppies my childhood friends shoot in Pennsylvania? There, clinging to the hillside of the canyon walls, they are just plants. Soil, water, sun, cash, guns, blood, creativity, freedom, chains. The paradox is overwhelming, so simple and so complex. I know I didn’t see too much of what was there- but I knew it was there. I was running fast at this point. The route pointed down hill and I was letting myself go fast. My focus was elsewhere. I wasn’t seeing too many 42k bibs.

5000’ up 5000’ down. I’m back at the river feeling rocked, but I know I still have some fuel in the tank and kick in the legs. At 30k the race is getting back into town along the path we ran out in the early morning. It’s always a relief to be running on level ground again. The route is the same but the temperature is much, much different, pushing 90. The final ⅓ is always the hardest; this would be no exception, a road out and back from Urique to a neighboring town down river. Getting back to Urique the spectators on the street seem to be cheering me a bit harder than normal. Over the loudspeaker I hear “first foreigner”. My spirits lifted, I think to myself, I can kick a 10k? Maybe trained Jamie could, but the mess that I was certainly had no business thinking that. I lengthen my stride and run with confidence. A few kilometers later I am a total wreck. The heat is oppressive and I’m not nearly as hydrated or fit as I thought. I’m struggling to keep it together, but I am keeping relative pace. I start to yo-yo with a 42k racer ahead, he looks all of 16. My experience would not save me on this day. He is tough, at least not letting on that he is hurt. I wear my heart on my sleeve and I’m pouring water over my head every chance I get.

It feels like we are approaching the town and the turnaround when I made the easy choice to let this guy go. I had no business racing and I just didn’t have any more to give. I see him running towards me- the turnaround is here. The way back was hot-hot-hot. I’m swerving around the road trying to stay in as much shade as possible. With 5k left I am running ugly. Fatigue from the morning mountain has left my core rocked like a prize fighter late in a bout. I can barely hold myself up, every step calls forward a Monica Seles grunt. Spectators look worried, I’m worried. An old coach used to say, “you can only go to the well so many times” I’m starting to feel like my punch card is filling up. But what the hell, what’s one more time? I am way, way over the line, pushing as hard as I absolutely can. I wanted to give everything to honor this race- I did. Crossed the line just under five hours, good for 11th overall and the “first foreigner”.

Pain is complicated. I wanted to hurt. I thought of it as a sacrifice to the Canyon, but really I wanted something to distract me from the trouble my life had become. The pain of the run made a lot more sense to me. staggering around the streets past the finish line I was connecting with other runners and spectators. Everyone was worn with tired faces and huge smiles. We all manifested something deep within us that day.

Running is an inextricable part of Rarámuri culture, never conquered by the Spanish, they did not develop the use of horses. Travel was and is still done over land on two feet. They live a life on two feet. We call it base miles, but that thinking falls woefully short. Beyond the practical, running also serves a ceremonial purpose in their culture. Men kick a wooden ball and women throw a hoop with a stick in a relay style race that can last for days on end. We call it a long run workout. The concept of the Rarámuri simply running a race for running’s sake is a new one. This new type of running isn’t preserving their culture, it fulfills some need in their changing culture. When I see their children wearing traditional dress and pot leaf hats it’s obvious their way of life is changing. When I see shotgun shacks around poppy and cannabis fields it’s obvious their way of life is changing. Running with joy? Running free? How can someone who has seen their family murdered run with joy? How can someone who runs a race for rations of corn possibly run free? I do think that through this race I connected with the Raramuri people, we suffered together. We hurt ourselves because it made more sense to hurt from a run than to acknowledge the pain we carry.

Cultural appropriation and exploitation is a difficult thing to reconcile. My friends bought sandals from Manuel Luna himself and later a well known American gave us stickers for his sandals named after that man. I am honored that we had the chance to meet Manuel Luna and to hand him cash for his sandals. It was only a few days into being there that we even realized who he was, as he barely spoke and he didn’t tell us. Contrast that with the americans who took the design of the traditional shoe, named them Luna’s, and proudly manufactures in the USA. If there is any reciprocity or support given to the people of the Canyon it isn’t mentioned on his website. In many ways the success of the Luna sandals and “barefoot running” has made this race somewhat of a pilgrimage for aficionados of these sandals.

Michael Hickman, aka Micah True, after meeting Raramuri runners at Leadville came to the Canyon looking for something too. He became Caballo Blanco and created this race as a way to preserve the culture of the Raramuri. But the simple act of running isn’t their culture, they aren’t “born to run”. That is like saying people from the US are born to eat. Running cannot be parsed out of their lifestyle just because neocolonialists value it. I truly believe that the race founder, had the purest and kindest of intentions, but 17 years later the world has changed. The way we think about aid and helping other cultures and communities has changed. Using the promise of food to lure a community of indigenous people to take part in a race, a western concept, is problematic. The handful of white people who are still responsible for organizing and promoting this race need to take a long hard look at what they are doing, otherwise they are at risk of becoming just another outsider exploiting the resources of the region.