As with Christmas form letters and amateur poetry, I don’t take kindly to friends sticking books in my hand that lie outside my areas of interest, then insisting that I must read them. When one recently did just that with Born to Run, it was nearly cause for excommunication. Sure, I subscribe to the notion that this town rips the bones from your back, it’s a death trap, it’s a suicide wrap, we gotta get out while we’re young. But I’ve never entirely trusted Springsteen. If he’s really from Freehold Borough, New Jersey, why does he talk like a Dust Bowl Okie?
But since it was a good friend who pawned the book off on me, I did him the courtesy of reading beyond the title, all the way to the subtitle, “A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race The World Has Never Seen.” This was not a Boss hagiography after all. From there, it was all I could do to stop reading.
Author Christopher McDougall, a former war correspondent for the Associated Press and a three-time National Magazine Award finalist, has written what is at heart a book about why we run. By “we,” I mean you, since I don’t run, and still don’t quite understand why people do. When I see people running, I think, “Why the big hurry?” If running were that important, God wouldn’t have created so many bikes and chairs.
But the fact that I’m not a runner, and yet was completely absorbed by McDougall’s narrative, speaks volumes about its drawing power. McDougall begins his inquiry by asking a simple question: “Why does my foot hurt?” His overpriced space-age running shoes, it seems, aren’t enough to protect his lower extremities from the formless, lumbering pounding he gives them whenever he jogs. From there, he is literally off to the races, attempting to weed out the running secrets of a hermitic tribe of freakish, injury-free superathletes, the Tarahumara Indians of Mexico’s forbidding Copper Canyons, who can run for days on tire-tread sandals.
McDougall had figured they were the Shaolin monks of running. But after penetrating their secretive society as much as an outsider can (they’re not big chatters), he discovered that he couldn’t have been more mistaken: “When it comes to marathoning, the Tarahumara prefer more of a Mardi Gras approach. In terms of diet, lifestyle, and belly fire, they’re a track coach’s nightmare. They drink like New Year’s Eve is a weekly event, tossing back enough corn beer in a year to spend every third day of their adult lives buzzed or recovering… They don’t rebuild between workouts with protein bars; in fact, they barely eat any protein at all, living on little more than ground corn spiced up by their favorite delicacy, barbecued mouse. Come race day, the Tarahumara don’t train or taper. They don’t stretch or warm up. They just stroll to the starting line, laughing and bantering……then go like hell for the next forty-eight hours.”
But McDougall isn’t just Franz Boas in track shoes. “Born to Run” works on several levels. Not only does he delve into an anachronistic world completely foreign to most of us, but a 50-mile cross-canyon race between the Tarahumara and the gringo ultra-runners who want to compete against them (every single one of whom is a gold-plated eccentric), sets in motion the introduction of one strangely wonderful character after another, from surf-bum seekers to on-the-lam desperados. Any of them could carry a quarter of a book on their own steam.
McDougall also hits the science labs and medical literature, taking a wrecking ball to most conventional wisdom on the modern running shoe. Since its advent in the last half century, runners now experience the same or even greater amounts of injuries than they did when they were running on much less sophisticated footwear, which allowed the human foot to move more naturally, by for instance, hitting ball-first, rather than heel-first.
I generally don’t trust everything-you-know-is wrong treatises. (I prefer everything-I-know-is-right treatises, since I don’t have to pay as close attention on account of already being familiar with the material.) Nor would you catch me dead in any of those goofball Vibram Five-Fingers barefoot running shoes. It’s better to be injured than laughed at. But McDougall so convincingly makes the sale that even I, a card-carrying skeptic with a dull ache in my right arch, switched out my cross-trainers for some flat-soled boxing shoes while jumping rope and hitting the bags. Besides the shin splints that I’m doubtlessly developing, so far, so good – my foot pain is gone.