Born to Run summary

Many adventurers enter the Copper Canyons of northern Mexico, but not all exit; the area is known as the “Bermuda Triangle of the borderlands.” The Tarahumara fled into the canyons 400 years ago to escape the abuse of Spanish colonizers, and their settlements have been well hidden and widely dispersed since. To travel to these quickly on foot, Tarahumara have developed an extraordinary athletic ability.

Tarahumara call themselves Rarámuri, which roughly translates to the “Running People” – and the name is no joke. They’ve been reported to run 300 miles in a single session – that’s nearly twelve full marathons in a row! Not only that, but they have far fewer rates of injuries that plague other runners worldwide.

If you can run six miles on a hot day, you’re a dangerous weapon in the animal kingdom. You just need to scare an animal into a gallop. Then, if you can stay close enough for it to see you, it will keep sprinting away. Soon, it will go into hyperthermic shock and drop to the ground. 

This is, for example, how the San people of southern Africa track antelopes in the Kalahari desert. That’s not to say you should track down your next meal via persistence-hunting – but it does lend a clue to human evolution.

A man who called himself Caballo Blanco, or “White Horse,” showed up in the Tarahumara mountains one day. Caballo was a former boxer from California who wanted to find peace. He was sick of the prizefighting, sick of the performing, and sick of heartbreak. He began modeling his lifestyle after that of the Tarahumara, wearing sandals and eating pinole, or ground corn. 

And, of course, he ran – soon tackling trails that were steeper and more winding than a black-diamond ski slope. He had a few tumbles and had to drag himself back to his hut at times, but he chose to see everything as an investment, claiming that “Suffering is humbling. It pays to know how to get your butt kicked.”

As he got ready to hike out of the Tarahumara canyon, Chris found himself staring into a cup full of a gooey slime flecked with black bubbles. “Great,” he said, looking for a cactus to discreetly dump it behind. “What is it?”

The scum-like substance, which turned out to be pretty tasty, was iskiate, also known as “chilly chia.” Concocted by dissolving chia seeds in water with a little sugar and lime, it’s a nutritional powerhouse. The tiny seeds are packed with omega-3s, antioxidants, iron, zinc, fiber, calcium, and protein.

Meanwhile, “Barefoot Ted,” another contender for Caballo’s race, was waging a personal vendetta against the running shoe – otherwise known as the worst crime ever perpetrated against the human foot. After trying shoe after fancy shoe, Ted McDonald had resorted to running barefoot in a last-ditch effort to eliminate the piercing pains in his back. On his first barefoot run, Ted went five miles and felt nothing. “I was totally amazed at how enjoyable it was,” he mused. He amped up his mileage, and, within months, had transformed himself into a speedy barefoot marathoner. 

Amazed by his new talent, Ted kept pushing further. He signed up for 100-mile endurance runs, strapping on rubber foot gloves whenever he hit gravel or glass. He ran the Los Angeles Marathon in his bare feet and qualified for the Boston Marathon – something 99.9 percent of all runners never achieve. Now, he was coming to race with the Tarahumara to see whether the key to their resilience was their nearly bare feet.

Fast forward nine months, and race day was just around the corner. Chris and the American racing group had met up in El Paso, Texas – including Jenn Shelton, a young poet, and her surfer boyfriend, Billy Barnett. These two were known for their hard partying almost as much as for winning ultramarathons across the East Coast.

The plan was to drive into Mexico together the next day, but all night Jenn and Billy had terrorized the hotel in drunken debauchery. Jenn had acquired a shiner by running face-first into a marble fountain, and Billy had spewed pink vomit all over Chris’s room. Whether they’d be fit to run in the grueling canyons the next day was doubtful.

Finally, the day of the epic race had arrived. At 5:00 a.m., the runners feasted on pancakes, papayas, and hot pinole. As they walked toward the starting line, the entire town greeted them. Flowers and paper streamers waved above the street, and a mariachi band in full costume strummed a few warm-up melodies. 

The night before, Caballo had made them swear an oath: “If I get hurt, lost, or die, it’s my own damn fault. AMEN!” The 50-mile trail had a climb and descent of 6,500 feet along a sheer rock wall, and it was going to get hot. But it was too late to turn back. The mayor was already aiming a shotgun at the sky.