Eat and Run Part 8

15. These Guys Again?

COPPER CANYON ULTRAMARATHON, 2006.

When you run on the earth and with the earth, you can run forever.

-RARAMURI PROVERB.

The e-mail had shown up on my screen in mid-2005. It was from someone named Caballo Blanco, which in Spanish means "white horse." I learned later that Caballo had formerly been known as Micah True and that he had been a boxer, itinerant furniture mover, and distance-running sage. But when he e-mailed me, all I knew is that he had been following my career and that he had a proposition.

He lived in an adobe hut dug into the side of a deep, hidden canyon in Mexico. Nearby lived a group of indigenous Indians called the Raramuri ("running people"), also known as the Tarahumara. He said they were the greatest runners on earth. He wanted me to partic.i.p.ate in an epic 50-mile race he had set up in the canyon: one of the world's greatest runners (me) against the world's greatest runners, with a prize of 1,000 pounds of corn and $750. I remembered the tribe. The Tarahumara were the middle-aged guys in togas who smoked cigarettes before the Angeles Crest 100 and couldn't run downhill. The greatest runners on earth?

I liked travel, and I liked exploring different cultures, and the guys in the togas had always interested me. But the trip would have messed up my schedule. I was training for the Austin Marathon, and running a 50-miler immediately afterward didn't make sense. I didn't speak Spanish, and I didn't know how I'd get down there. Plus, it's not as if it was a big challenge. I'd already beat the Indians.

Caballo wrote that the Tarahumara he knew were nothing like the ones I had bested at the Angeles Crest 100. He also said that he sensed in me a purity of spirit similar to that of the running Indians. He said that the Tarahumara were struggling to survive under difficult circ.u.mstances and that if a runner from the United States visited, it might help.

I wrote back that I'd love to support the plight of the Tarahumara, but I wasn't going to be able to make it. That was a mistake.

A few days later, I got another e-mail from Caballo.

"The plight? The Tarahumara don't have a f.u.c.king plight! They don't need your help!"

I thought, "Wow, this guy is really out there," and I forgot about it. But I kept getting e-mails from him, talking about the mystical running Indians of the hidden Copper Canyon and how they knew things the rest of the world didn't.

If I could figure out a way to get down there, I might go. Then the universe figured it out for me.

I got another e-mail invitation, this one from a writer named Chris McDougall. He said he was working on a book about the Indian runners, and that he was fluent in Spanish. He, too, promised that these Tarahumara would give me a good race.

I agreed, but not because I needed another good race. I found plenty of those. I raced the White River 50-miler, the Miwok 100K, the Way Too Cool 50K, the grueling Wasatch Front 100, and-on the East Coast-the Mountain m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t 50-miler and the Vermont 100. I was on the winning teams in j.a.pan's Hasegawa Cup and in the Hong Kong Trailwalker, where we set a new course record. I had my own physical therapy practice, my own coaching business, was working 50-plus hours a week (and still just sc.r.a.ping by), and had started a running camp a few weeks before the Western States, where I tried to share what I knew about technique and will. At my camp, I served hearty vegan meals. I was making a living doing something I loved. I was teaching others. Had running ever given anyone more? My problem was: I wanted more. My bigger problem: I wasn't exactly sure what more I wanted. I told McDougall I would meet him in El Paso.

There were nine of us: McDougall and his coach, Eric Orton. Caballo. Me. A pair of wild rookie ultrarunners from Virginia, Jenn Shelton and Billy Barnet. A man named Ted McDonald, who called himself Barefoot Ted because he recently started jogging without shoes. My buddy and photographer Luis Escobar and his father.

Caballo told us the race would start from the village of Urique. To get there, we'd have to hike 35 miles, over a series of knife-edged canyon ridges, through land where entrepreneurs with small armies and automatic weapons harvested marijuana, over an invisible route that no one but the guy who lived in the mud hut really knew. Caballo mentioned that a group of Tarahumara might join us.

We hiked for 3 hours, but we didn't see any Raramuri. Caballo, our guide, told us he had heard that a mysterious virus had swept through one village, that maybe it had spread. He said we should be patient. But he said we should also be prepared for the possibility that we'd be making the trek without company. We crashed across rivers and up cacti-lined ridges, over burro trails so faint that without Caballo, we almost certainly would never have found our way out.

At 9 A.M. we arrived at a group of wooden and adobe one-story buildings huddled together at a riverbank. We were at the bottom of the Copper Canyon, 5,000 feet below the rim. The sun was up, and we were sweating profusely. Caballo suggested we wait, that maybe the Tarahumara would join us here. He warned us that they were incredibly shy, that we should not be too loud or aggressive if they showed up. We shouldn't try to shake their hands. Their greeting consisted of lightly touching fingertips, nothing more. He also mentioned that it would be good etiquette to bring gifts. He suggested Coca-Cola and Fanta sodas.

I was appalled. I hadn't traveled the length of a country in order to bestow on an indigenous group of athletes plastic containers filled with high-fructose corn syrup. Why not just bring some blankets infested with smallpox? But Caballo insisted.

We huddled in the shade of the little store, trying to stay cool as the sun beat down the deep canyon, holding on to our sweating bottles of c.o.ke. Caballo suggested we start hiking up the trail, that maybe-or maybe not-our hosts would join us on the trail. No one saw them step out of the woods or around the bend. One minute the trail was empty, the next, a group of five men in skirts and bright blouses were approaching. They had popped up like a herd of wild deer.

We touched fingers and, without a word, started climbing 5,000 feet to the top of the canyon; once we reached it, we would leave to descend again. Somewhere between 10 and 40 minutes later-no one was sure-there were six more Tarahumara with us. They appeared out of the woods, like smoke.

One of the tribe seemed to be watching me with special interest. I was watching him, too. He looked stronger than the others, and there was something in his eyes-pride, confidence, maybe even a little wariness-that I recognized. I had it, too. His hair was jet black, and he had a movie cop's powerful jawline and muscles like climbing rope. It was Arnulfo, the great Tarahumara champion, the swiftest of "the running people." McDougall had told me about him. And Caballo had told Arnulfo about me, that I was a great champion, too.

We climbed in cl.u.s.ters of gringos and Indians, with Caballo leading us. We climbed through cacti and small brush, through desert oak and onto patches of arid, open land dotted with agave plants. During our brief stops, while Jenn, Billy, Ted, and I took pulls from our water bottles, the Tarahumara fell to the ground, almost as if their calf tendons had been cut. The first time I was shocked. Then I realized that they were resting, that it was a highly efficient way of conserving energy. I watched their feet as they climbed and saw that there, too, the Tarahumara moved without wasted motion. I was beginning to learn one of secrets of this ancient tribe. It was the secret of efficiency.

They carried no water bottles but seemed to know every hidden seep in the wilderness. Whenever they were near one, they would quickly move toward it, bend down, take a few quick sips of water, then return to the trail. When we offered our gifts of c.o.ke, they accepted the bottles without a word, guzzled the entire contents, then flung the empty containers to the side of the trail. (It wasn't that they didn't care about the environment, they just didn't understand the notion of nonbiodegradable.) At the end of our canyon trek we landed at a road, 5 miles from the village. There was the sheriff and his pickup truck. We Americans stood and looked-we didn't want to sully our spiritual day with a car. The Tarahumara immediately jumped in. It was efficient. The next five days, we got to know the Tarahumara. When we pulled out energy gels and bars, they laughed and chattered among themselves. Then they reached into their capes and pulled out pinole, roasted corn ground into a powder and mixed with water. It's their corn Gatorade. For food, they would carry tortillas with beans. Everything they ate was whole and pure. It was on that trip that I began to appreciate how much energy was packed into a single avocado. When we sat down to share meals, I also learned to sit at the end of the table where the guacamole would be set down. I would advise no one to get between a Tarahumaran and a bowl of guacamole. I watched Arnulfo. He watched me.

I had traveled here because the Tarahumara fascinated me, and I had some time. I looked at the trip as a learning vacation. But I was starting to get the idea that there was going to be nothing leisurely or just-for-fun about this race, especially not to the Tarahumara. I knew that I would go all out. It would be disrespectful to do anything less.

The race started five days later at 8 A.M. As soon it began, I realized what I had been suspecting ever since the Indians appeared from nowhere on the road by the river. The guys I had raced at the Angeles Crest 100 were the Tarahumara B-team. Three of these guys launched themselves from the starting line as if we were running a 5K. They were in their twenties, and none of them were smoking. They carried no water, and if they had food, it was in the folds of their capes.

I started out at a comfortable, winning pace. I knew that no one could keep up the pace they were setting, especially in this 100-degree heat. Ten miles later, they were still keeping it up, but I wasn't worried. I knew what distance did to a man's body. I kept up my pace and ate-as usual-200 to 300 calories per hour. I carried two bottles of water. I ate oranges and bananas. I also tried pinole at one of the aid stations.

After 20 miles, I had pa.s.sed a dozen Tarahumara and was slightly surprised that there were still a few in front of me. Ten miles later I was even more surprised. After 35 miles, hot, tired, and thirsty, when I realized there were two Tarahumara in front of me, wearing robes and rubber sandals, I was not only surprised, I was amazed. And worried. The leader was Arnulfo, wearing a deep crimson running shirt.

I ran faster, until I was ticking off 7-minute miles. I have pa.s.sed other ultrarunners late in a race doing 7-minute miles. I have seen the looks in opponents' eyes when I sped past. I knew a move like that could break a man. But they were still ahead.

I was a professional racer, trained almost year-round. I was at the height of my career. These guys had never heard of "tempo runs" or interval training. That's when it hit me, the real secret of the Tarahumara. They didn't prepare for runs. They didn't run to win or for medals. And they didn't eat so they could run. They ate, and they ran, to survive. To get someplace, they used their legs. To use their legs, they had to be healthy. The first great secret to the Tarahumara's endurance and speed and vigorous health was that running and eating were essential parts of their lives. The second great secret-one I try to remember every day-is that while the Tarahumara run to get from point to point, in the process they travel into a zone beyond geography and beyond even the five senses.

They run-and live-with great efficiency, without a lot of needless thought. They don't reject technology in order to be fashionable or to make a political point. If technology is available and helps them lead a more efficient life, they embrace it. They'll jump into a pickup truck for transportation. They'll improve their huaraches with the rubber from discarded tires. It's exactly what I had been trying to do-to blend intuition with technology.

Maybe it's presumptuous of me to describe what the Tarahumara probably don't articulate themselves, but when I was with them I couldn't help but feel that they were experiencing a peace and a serenity, that they-through running and through living with great simplicity-were able to access a state of being, a zone, a "sixth sense," where they were in touch with the world in its purest form. It's the zone I had been seeking for so long.

The Raramuri moved through their world with form that could have come from a textbook. Their gait was fluid and economical. They took short strides, landing almost daintily on their mid-to-forefoot. There was no wasted side-to-side energy, and their posture was open in the shoulders, relaxed.

The Tarahumara were later immortalized in McDougall's book Born to Run, where he called them "super athletes." I would quibble with that. I would say they were super efficient. They were just much, much more in tune with their bodies and their surroundings. They knew things we had forgotten, with all of our stopwatches and sports foods and fancy running shoes.

Spending a week with the Indians in Copper Canyon helped crystallize ideas that I had been thinking about since my first week at Team Birkie ski camp as a teenager. After my race against the Tarahumara, "born to run" became a catch phrase and a credo for hundreds of thousands of people. As humans, we were meant to move swiftly over the earth. We knew how to run. If we could just return to that state of instinctive bliss, the theory went, we could re-embrace the form and ease we had abandoned and run free from pain, fatigue, and injury. Getting rid of our modern shoes was the suggested first step in this return to jogging Eden.

It wasn't barefoot running that made the Tarahumara great runners, though. (They wore huaraches.) Form is what matters in running. Barefoot running can help you develop great form, but it's merely a means to an end. If you like running without shoes, great. If you prefer something on your feet, that's great too. I agree that modernity has brought with it a host of bad habits and disastrous unintended consequences, not only in running (an overdependence on heavily cushioned shoes being chief among them, and the sense that running is reserved for only a select few), but in eating, too. Fast foods, ma.s.s production, grotesquely large servings-those by themselves have made us sick. Modernity has also brought us electricity, penicillin, and open heart surgery, of course. Altogether, our modern inclination toward sloth, the easy availability of processed food, and the prevalence of life-saving medical treatments have made us a long-lived, unhealthy people.

What I saw in the Tarahumara was a group of people who ran -and ate-the way their ancestors had run and eaten. They depended on food that was grown locally and obtained with some difficulty. They ran with abandon and un-self-consciousness. They ate meat, but they ate it the way generations past ate it-on the rare occasions they could get it. It was a precious commodity, not a staple.

I'm healthier and I can run longer and faster because I eat a plant-based diet. But I don't preach to my carnivorous friends or lambaste anyone who eats a baked potato slathered with b.u.t.ter and sour cream. Anyone who pays attention to what they eat and how it affects them will naturally move toward plants-and toward health.

Exercise is simpler and more complicated. We need to move. But should training be an intuitive, free-form affair or a structured science? I try to let science steer my training while staying open to the animal joy of running. I take days off when I feel I need them, even if my training plan doesn't call for it. Ultrarunners need to bring all the knowledge we can bear to our training, but we can't afford to be rigid. If there's one thing I can count on in a 100-mile race, it's that I will encounter things I didn't count on.

Dealing with physical uncertainty used to be part of life. So did training. We ran toward food and away from predators. We feasted and fasted according to the season. We spent a lot of time walking and napping.

Now we sit. We drive and surf on the Internet and watch television. And, naturally, we suffer. A recent study in the American Journal of Epidemiology followed 123,216 subjects over fourteen years and found that men who spent more than 6 hours a day sitting were 17 percent more likely to die during that time than men who sat for less than 3 hours. For women, the increased risk of death was 34 percent. This increased mortality persisted regardless of whether the partic.i.p.ants smoked, were overweight, and-this shocked me-regardless of how much they exercised.

Humans aren't built to sit all day. Nor are we built for the kinds of repet.i.tive, small movements that so much of today's specialized work demands. Our bodies crave big, varied movements that originate at the core of our body. Imbalance comes when we spend all day doing small, repet.i.tive actions like typing, scanning groceries, flipping burgers, or operating a computer mouse.

Much of the purpose of structured training, therefore, is compensatory. It's not so much that we need to learn to run per se, as we need to unlearn bad habits and correct imbalances wrought by the modern lifestyle.

The race in Copper Canyon consisted of a few loops along dry, dusty roads at the bottom of the canyon, up 2,000-foot climbs studded with grapefruit and papaya trees, past towering rock formations. We ran through town three times, past locals drinking and laughing, and through the happy, tinny sounds of a mariachi band.

I hadn't planned on racing so hard-I was on vacation. I kept up my 7-minute pace. I had trained, but these guys had spent their whole lives training, even though they wouldn't have called it that. I wanted to blend my running and my diet as seamlessly into my day-to-day life as the Tarahumara did. I also wanted to win this race. And I knew they did, too. A victory for me would be a great honor. For them, it would represent enough corn to feed an entire village for a year.

I increased my pace, and there, around a bend, I caught a flash of electric blue. It was Silvino, in his traditional Tarahumara attire. I closed. I breathed in the sweet scent of flowering cacti. I ran past the th.o.r.n.y ocotillo plants with their garish red buds. At 40 miles I pulled up to Silvino, motioned for him to follow. We didn't exchange words, but I wanted the two of us to catch Arnulfo. I wanted the three of us to duke it out at the finish line together. Silvino was done, though.

I saw Arnulfo at the last turnaround, and he looked spent. We exchanged a glance, and I could see the fatigue and dehydration in his eyes. I knew the look. But I saw something else, too. I saw the fighter in him. I knew he wasn't going to let up. We had 5 miles, and he had 7, 8 minutes on me, and I thought I could do it. I made the turn, and pure compet.i.tive, animal instinct kicked in. This time it wasn't enough. Arnulfo had it, too.

He beat me by 6 minutes. Less than a mile.

I didn't hug him or anything like that. I told him in English (which he didn't understand) that I was very impressed and that he was very strong. In Spanish I said "muy fuerte" over and over.

Then I bowed to him. Out of respect.

People asked me later if I had let him triumph in the interest of cross-cultural understanding or as a gesture of kindness. Those people didn't know how important competing was to me. Arnulfo beat me fair and square. But I returned the next year and got him by 18 minutes. I gave the corn and the $750 to the Raramuri.

THE NAKED TRUTH.

The beautiful thing about running barefoot or in minimal footwear is that you are working with your body's natural proprioception, the ability to sense your own position in s.p.a.ce. With nothing between you and the ground, you get immediate sensory feedback with every step, which encourages you to stay light on your feet and run with proper form. Some people who are recovering from injuries or who have structural anomalies or who just like their shoes will keep lacing up. But whether you wear shoes or go barefoot, what's important is that you pay attention to your form. If running barefoot helps with that, it's beneficial.

You want to try barefoot running? Before you toss the shoes and enter a 10K, remember: slow and easy. When runners do too much too soon, injuries often result.

First, find an area of gra.s.s or sand and take easy 5- to 10-minute runs once or twice a week. Remember, easy. Don't worry about speed at all. You're working on your running form. As long as it feels good, increase the length of one of the runs until you're up to a 20- to 45-minute barefoot run once a week. I like to do 2 to 3 miles on the infield of a track or in a park after an easy run day or for a cooldown run after a track workout.

Two important things to remember-other than starting slow and easy-are that you don't need to run barefoot all the time to get the benefits. And you don't need to run completely barefoot. Lighter weight, minimal running shoes and racing flats will give you a similar type of feel as running barefoot. It will all help you with form. I have been running most of my long training runs and ultra races in Brooks racing flats for almost a decade, even Badwater and Spartathlon. Racing flats and minimal shoes provide the best of both worlds: comfort and performance.

Holy Moly Guacamole Avocados are a great source of healthy, monounsaturated fat, and the jalapeno adds a nice jolt of spice (sc.r.a.pe the seeds out before mincing and use half of the pepper if you can't take the heat). n.o.ble foods on their own, they combine to create one of mankind's greatest inventions. It's certainly one of my favorites. I can't think of many dinners-and not a single Mexican one-that aren't improved with a serving of guac. Take a spoonful of this mixture and you'll agree. For a quick and healthy snack, enjoy on warm corn tortillas.

2 ripe avocados Juice of 2 small limes 1 medium tomato, diced 1 garlic clove, minced 1 jalapeno pepper, seeds left in, minced 10 sprigs fresh cilantro, minced 1 teaspoon sea salt Halve the avocados and scoop out the flesh into a mixing bowl. Squeeze in the lime juice and add the remaining ingredients. Mash with a potato masher or a spoon until semi-smooth and let rest at room temperature for 10 to 20 minutes.

MAKES 2 CUPS, 68 SERVINGS.

16. The Central Governor.

WESTERN STATES 100, 2006.

All it takes is all you got.

-MARC DAVIS.

No one wants to win more than I do. What I've learned in ultras, though, is that where I finish is merely an outcome-even though I reach for it with every sinew and tendon and muscle of my being. What matters more than victory is what I do to reach it and how. Have I prepared? Am I focused? Have I have been treating my body with attentiveness, eating healthfully and with care? Have I been training properly? Have I pushed myself as far, and as hard, as possible? Those are the types of questions that have guided me in my career and that can guide anyone who seeks something (which is to say, everyone). You want to get the promotion at work, or the girl, or the guy, or the personal best in the 5K race, of course. But whether you get what you want isn't what defines you. It's how you go about your business.

Ultras teach that lesson with unforgiving precision. Never did I see it more clearly than in the Western States 2006. And I wasn't even competing.

A month before the race, a friend and running partner asked if I would pace him at the event.

I had known Brian Morrison for a year or so. We ran together in the winter and spring of 2006, before I made my trek to Mexico. He was twenty-seven, a manager at Seattle Running Company, and he and I would catch the bus to Green Lake, where we did tempo runs-50 to 60 minutes at 85 percent effort-on the 3-mile loop. We ran the wooded trails at Cougar Mountain, and I showed him the Twelve Peaks and the new 40-mile Rattlesnake-to-Cougar training route I devised. He asked about the Western States canyons, about the heat, about the hill work we should be doing. He asked me everything and I told him everything. I don't believe in secrets. It's not a bit of arcane knowledge that will allow me to beat someone or someone to beat me. Winning at an elite level demands technique and strategy, to be sure, but mostly it's heart. Brian had plenty. He had drive and powerful ambition. In many ways he reminded me of me.

It was strange at the starting line, not screaming, not sprinting to the head of the pack. To keep busy, and because I felt as though I owed so much to the race that had in a way defined me, I handed out race bibs and volunteered the way I had at many ultras I didn't run. It was weird following the progress of other runners and visiting with aid station volunteers who helped me out over the past seven years. But it was pleasant. That's a mild word, but compared to the intense highs and lows I experienced during my previous Western States, the extremes to which the event had pushed me, it was exactly right. It was pleasant. What made it more than pleasant was Brian. I had told him before the race that he had what it took to win. For 55 miles I kept track of his progress from different points on the course-pacers weren't allowed to run until mile 62-and he did nothing to disabuse me of my confidence. He was moving well, in fifth place, looking fresh and relaxed. But at mile 55 things got less pleasant. That's when Brian started to have a hard time. It was 105 degrees, Western States weather, and I could tell it was affecting him. He was slowing down. I knew that when I joined him we'd have work to do. I knew we'd have to pick up the pace. I had been up since three o'clock in the morning, and I was worried about whether I had it in me. I knew that I could race an ultra myself and win. Being responsible for someone else's success, though, scared me a little. I hadn't antic.i.p.ated the doubt. I would have to deal with that before I took my first step.

I dealt with my anxiety the same way I had dealt with my b.u.m ankle in the 2001 Western States. Four simple steps: First, I let myself worry. Second, I took stock. I would be doing the equivalent of a 38-mile training run with someone who had been running for the better part of a day-not a huge deal. Third, I asked myself what I could do to remedy the situation. That was easy. All I had to do was be a good pacer. The fourth and final step: Separate my negative feelings from the issue at hand. Realizing that my negative feelings had little to do with reality made this step the easiest of all.

When I joined Brian, the announcer blared over the speakers, "Scott Jurek is about to pace!" I was merely there to help someone else, but hearing my name out loud like that unleashed a surge of adrenaline into my blood. Then it was time for business.

At mile 62, Brian was in fourth place. I told him that by the time we got to the Rucky Chucky river crossing-16 miles away-we were going to have pa.s.sed everyone. I told him we'd be leading then, and we would lead all the way to the finish line.

He turned it on. He became a different runner. He didn't say anything, because runners don't talk much. They want to conserve all their energy for the race. But I talked. I turned into Dusty. I became Brian's second brain, cajoling, sweet-talking, demanding when I needed to demand. Within 12 miles we had pa.s.sed everyone. By the time we came to the river crossing, he was hooting and hollering. He was super pumped even though we were both boiling. I did what I knew how to do, which was to push him as hard as I could, but making sure it wasn't too hard. I made him lie down in creeks, and I shoveled water over him. I remember once having to lie down in a puddle that I immediately realized was half horse manure, but I didn't move. I knew how overheated we both were. I had him drink at aid stations. There was never a point where I thought he wasn't getting enough water or was getting too much. By mile 78, when we turned to look behind us, there was no one there. We weren't running scared, but when you're in front, you want to send a message to your compet.i.tors: "Don't even try."

I told Brian, "Let's crank it up. As long as we keep running 8-minute miles, if we throw a 7:30 in every so often, you've got this."

We got to Highway 49, over 93 miles in, and I told Brian's crew chief (and fiancee), Andrea, that I was going to need someone else to take over. With all my attention to Brian's drinking enough water and eating, I hadn't drunk or eaten enough myself. I was sick to my stomach. I was fatigued. I was dehydrated and bonking. I thought I might slow him down. Andrea asked if I could keep going, to stay with him for another 3 miles until No Hands Bridge, which was 3 miles from the finish. At that point, Brian's victory wouldn't be in question. I could stop then.

So I dug in, and we ran another 3 miles through choking dust and heat. Brian told me the downhills hurt, but I told him pain was temporary, to get through it. Otherwise, we didn't say much. There was no need. Three miles from the finish line, I had pushed him as hard as he needed to be pushed, and when another pacer, Jason Davis, appeared, I told Brian he was in good hands and I'd meet him at Robie Point, a mile from the finish line. I said I'd follow him to his first Western States victory.

Brian and Jason climbed another 2 miles on dirt. I caught a ride and met them on the road in Auburn. Brian hadn't seen pavement in some time. There were cars and houses and people having parties in their yards, waiting for the top finishers. Physically, he looked fine. As far as I was concerned, this race was over. All we had to do was jog along city streets to the finish line. All Brian had to do was get there. But when he spoke, I knew he wasn't feeling quite so confident. "How far back are they?" he asked, and he looked over his shoulder. He was scared. I laughed and told him to relax, that he didn't need to worry. We were running slightly uphill and he was hammering. He was going at an 8-minute-mile pace, and I told him he didn't have to run that fast, but if he wanted to finish strong, that was cool.

"How far back are they?" he asked again. "How far back?"

I had suffered late race hallucinations myself, and I did my best to not freak out, and especially to make sure he didn't freak out.

Luis Escobar, my photographer friend, was running with us now, and so was Jason Davis. We were motoring down the last downhill and we could hear the crowd, we could see the lights. Brian was yelling, "Where is it? Where is it?" The race ends in Auburn at the Placerville High School track, and we were all yelling back, "It's there. You got this! You got this!"

It was ten at night when we rounded a corner and stepped through the small opening in the fence and onto the track. People were cheering, but not as loud as Luis, Jason, and I were yelling, "You did this, Brian! You're the Western States champion!"

About seven strides onto the track, our cheers went from "Brian, you did this," to dead silence. Twenty feet in, 300 yards from the finish, Brian collapsed.

"What's the matter, Brian?" I asked.

He said, "I can't get up."

I had noticed him weaving on the final downhill, but I had weaved a lot myself in races. The ultra is a brutal thing.

"You gotta get up, Brian. You gotta get up!"

Jason and I helped him stand, but he wouldn't walk. I said, "You gotta keep moving." I was Dusty again, but this time nothing seemed to work.

Maybe we should have let him stay on the track. He couldn't stand on his own, and now he was babbling, not making sense.

It was a really stupid mistake when I look back on it. Jason and I put Brian's arms around our shoulders, and we walked him toward the finish line. We didn't cut across the infield, toward the medical tent. We took him around the track. It was instinct. I was in survival mode, taking care of someone who was in really bad shape, but I was in pacer mode, too, and racer mode. I was in runner mode. I wanted Brian to get what he wanted. I wanted to help him get to the finish line. And I did.

We got him to the finish line, and from there the medical staff took over. One of the doctors asked him if he knew who won the race.

"Scott Jurek," he said.

"No," the doctor said, with a thin smile, "you won. You won the race."

Within 15 minutes, he was in an ambulance. And as they were lifting him in, I was standing next to him, and he looked at me and said, "Scott, I did it. I won the Western States."

I was hanging out at the finish line, greeting the next finishers as I always did, and they were happy to see me, but I started hearing other people, onlookers and race board members, saying things. I heard that Brian was going to be disqualified. I heard people saying it was my fault for helping him around the track. And then finally a board member walked up to me and said Brian didn't win and he would be disqualified for accepting help.

I told him the board didn't need to do that, that being disqualified was a black mark for a runner, and if anyone deserved sanction, it should be me. I told them if they weren't going to award Brian the victory, the very least they could do was to give him a DNF, Did Not Finish.

Nope, it would have to be a DQ. I thought the board members were just doing it to bolster their egos and make a statement about the sanct.i.ty of the race. I walked to the Auburn hospital the next day-no one from the Western States board had been there. When I entered Brian's room, he spoke first.