Born to Run

“To move into the lead means

“Try the meditation of the trail, just walk along looking at the trail at your feet and don’t look about and

Shiva the Destroyer would snuff us out by doing … nothing.

White butt? Must have been a while since Fisher swiveled around for a look at his own behind. And what was he here for, anyway: a race, or a race war?

That was the real secret of the Tarahumara: they’d never forgotten what it felt like to love running. They remembered that running was mankind’s first fine art, our original act of inspired creation.

somewhere after all, he realized. All the hopelessness of nursing a mother who would never get better, all the frustration of chasing taunting jerks he could never catch—it had quietly bloomed into an ability to push harder and harder as things looked worse and worse. Coach Vigil would have been touched; Scott asked for nothing from his endurance,

“Sure,” Fisher replied. “You got twenty bucks?” “For what?” the startled runner asked. For crimes against humanity. For the fact that “white guys” had taken advantage of the Tarahumara and other indigenous people for centuries, Fisher would explain. And if you don’t like it, too bad: “I couldn’t care less about the ultra community,” Fisher would sa

“If you’re going to try, go all the way,”

The four runners traded Tarahumara handshakes—that soft caressing of fingertips—