Born to be shod

After years of resisting, I finally gave in and read Born to Run by Chris McDougall.

I say “gave in” because I definitely didn’t want to read it. My mom practically made me. Every time I talked to her, she would mention it.

“Oh, you have to read it,” she would say. “You just have to. It’s soooooo interesting, and he’s such a good writer. I think every runner should read it. Really, they should. Blah, blah, blah…”

I kept telling her no, I wasn’t interested in reading about some weird old dude who lived with a tribe of secretive Indians in the Mexican wilderness. I had much better things to do. Like shred old bank documents. Or alphabetize my spice cabinet.

In all honesty, I didn’t know much about the book other than its reputation as the catalyst of the minimalist running craze—which is exactly why I refused to read it.

By now, most of you are aware of my aversion to minimalism. It just seems ridiculous to me that anyone would choose a structureless, cushionless, laceless rubber foot glove—or worse, no footwear at all—over a shoe that was scientifically engineered specifically for running.

It seems even more ridiculous that anyone would completely abandon the footwear they have been running in their whole life as the result of one stupid little book. And yet, people all over the country have done just that—all because of Chris McDougall and his “Bible of Minimalism.”

My mom finally managed to pawn her copy off on me. It went straight to the bottom of the stack of reading material on my nightstand—beneath even the four-month-old issues of Us Weekly that had been passed down from my grandma, to my aunt, to my cousin, to my other cousin, to my mom and then to me. (Hey, I’m not going to pay for that crap. But I will read it. Don’t judge me.)

Eventually, my stash of fine literature shrank down to reveal the novel that I had somehow grown to despise without reading a single line. I sighed and picked it up.

Ok, McDougall. I thought. Let’s see what you’ve got.

My mom was right about one thing—he’s a fantastic writer. So fantastic, in fact, that I almost got sucked right into believing that I could run hundreds of miles in leather sandals eating nothing but corn mush.

The guy definitely did his research, and the science he presented was pretty dang convincing. All that stuff about Achilles tendons and glute muscles and heat regulation? Genius! He was clearly on to something. Maybe humans really did evolve as the greatest distance runners on Earth.

But any goofball with a journalism degree knows that it’s easy to prove a point when you include only the facts that back it up. (Or just make up your own, right Dan Rather?) The difficulty lies in constructing a balanced story that takes all sides into account.

So here’s the deal, McDougall: I buy your argument that we evolved as runners. But I think a more balanced approach to this argument would have at least mentioned the fact that our habitats have changed — and diversified — substantially since the dawn of humankind.

I mean, I hate to be that loud, politically incorrect friend who makes everyone else uncomfortable, but have you ever noticed how much you don’t look like a Tarahumara Indian? Or a Kenyan? Or a Kalahari Bushman?

Maybe some people are born with all of the equipment they need to run for hours on end, but they probably don’t have ancestors who rode horses and ate inbred livestock.

What I’m trying to say is, humans might be born to run, but we are born to run unequally. And some of us are born to run in gel soles.

To put it in perspective, I have created the following series of charts displaying the changes in human lifestyles over time, both for the Tarahumara Indians (a.k.a. “The Running People”) and Caucasians (a.k.a. “The Lazy Assholes”).

1,000-10,000+ years ago

	Tarahumara	Caucasians
Means of traveling short distances	Running	Old horses
Means of traveling long distances	Running	Trusty steeds
Means of food acquisition	Running	Farming
Diet	Wild plants and game	Wheat, beans, goat

200-500 years ago

	Tarahumara	Caucasians
Means of traveling short distances	Running	Horses
Means of traveling long distances	Running	Wagons, locomotives
Means of food acquisition	Running	Markets, taverns
Diet	Wild plants and game	Bread, cheese, pig

Present day

	Tarahumara	Caucasians
Means of traveling short distances	Running	Segways, Vespas
Means of traveling long distances	Running	Airplanes, automobiles
Means of food acquisition	Running	Walmart, Golden Corral
Diet	Wild plants and game	Corn syrup, animal byproduct, Red Dye No. 40

Look, I’m no expert, but it doesn’t take a rocket anthropologist to see that the evolutionary selection factors for the Tarahumara Indians were significantly different from those that affected your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather from Canterbury. (By the way, American Anthropologist, if you’re interested in publishing this research, I’d be willing to entertain a proposal. We’ll be in touch.)

No rubber footwear—or lack thereof—is going to make you any less biomechanically inferior to The Running People.

So, despite Chris McDougall’s best attempt to make me a foot-glove convert, I remain firmly committed to my belief that white people need shoes. And dance lessons.

Half the distance, twice the pain

I know you are all dying to know how I did in my half-marathon debut this past Sunday. To make things interesting, I’m going to try out a nonlinear approach to my race report, à la Quentin Tarantino:

As I slumped down in the bathtub, awkwardly wedged between the top-right and bottom-left corners, I honestly wondered whether I would ever stand up again—not just because I was soaking my cramping muscles in hot bathwater when a bucket of ice would have been much more appropriate, but because I was pretty sure my internal organs were shutting down one by one.

OK, now let me explain how I got there.

When my alarm went off at 4 a.m., I was 100-percent convinced that it was going to be a glorious day. I wasn’t even tired. I skipped down the stairs like it was perfectly normal to be getting up in the middle of the night. I put on a pot of coffee and popped a piece of bread into the toaster. As I sat in the dark kitchen, sipping my morning caffeine and munching on peanut butter toast, I visualized my race plan one last time.

In my mind’s eye, I saw myself starting out at an easy, relaxed pace—maybe finding somebody to chat up for a few miles before really getting after it. Around the 8 or 9-mile mark, I would suck down a GU pack and chase it with a few sips of water—all without breaking stride, of course. Then I would kick it into high gear, passing people left and right all the way to the finish line.

The thing about life, of course, is that it rarely goes according to plan. For example, I didn’t plan on driving away from the house without my GU packs and subsequently wasting precious minutes turning around to retrieve them. I didn’t plan on getting caught in a bottleneck traffic jam on the way to the starting line. And I definitely didn’t plan on waiting in line for 25 minutes to use a Porta Potty before pushing my way through thousands of people to arrive at the starting line exactly 5 seconds before the gun went off.

I also didn’t plan on running the first two miles in a long-sleeved pullover. But there was no time to ditch my warm-up top before the start of the race, so I just sucked it up—actually, more like sweated it up—until I saw my parents a couple of miles down the road.

Despite all of my pre-race snafus, I was actually doing pretty well. I hit the first mile in 6:45, right on pace. I got a little excited the second mile and sped up to a 6:30, but I was feeling great, so I wasn’t too worried.

Even with the 6 a.m. start, the air was warm and I had a nice sweat going. Based on my extensive knowledge of sweat rates—thanks Runner’s World!—I decided it would be a good idea to hydrate sooner rather than later. At about the 5-mile mark, I grabbed a cup of water and gulped it down like a champ, refusing to slow down or stop.

About a half-mile later, my stomach rejected that water. Emphatically. I slowed down to about 8-minute mile pace and clenched. Hard.

All I could think about was that food poisoning scene in Bridesmaids. (“It’s happening! It happened.”)

I was terrified of re-creating my own real-life version of that scene right there in the middle of the race, which is why I resolved to make a beeline for the first Porta-Potty I spotted. Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long.

There was a portable facility at the aid station right before the 6-mile mark. There was also a team of high school football players handing out water and Gatorade. I have never seen so many 16-year-old boys with perfect hair and skin, and I mean that in the least-creepy way possible. I tilted my head downward in an effort to hide the shame and embarrassment in my eyes as I pushed past the group of Justin Bieber clones, swung open the bathroom door and stepped inside to take care of business.

Even though I tried to be quick, I know I lost at least a minute in that stupid plastic outhouse. But I emerged feeling refreshed and 10 pounds lighter.

That feeling lasted for approximately two minutes. Then I was back to feeling like crap, even though I no longer had to take one.

As I plodded along, I noticed that someone in front of me was wearing a T-shirt with the following phrase printed on the back: "Half the distance, twice the fun!"

If I'd had any strength to spare, I would have lifted my middle finger to that shirt. Instead, I grunted and shook out my arms.

By the 9-mile mark, I knew I was on the verge of hitting the biggest wall in the history of walls. When I came up on the next aid station, I tore open the GU pack I had been carrying in my sports bra because I didn’t have enough time to properly secure it in my waistband before my hasty start. (Luckily, my ample cleavage provided the perfect hiding place for my little mid-race energy boost. Yes, I’m being sarcastic. I’m pretty sure it looked like I had some kind of boob deformity.)

I slowed down to power-walking speed, downed my GU with a few sips of water, and tried to settle back into a decent pace. About a mile down the road, the GU finally kicked in, which made running suck slightly less.

I continued on in a daze. By this time, I was running completely alone—a stark contrast to my visions of passing a continuous stream of tired runners as I chased the lead female pack to the tape.

I could barely make out the form of the next woman. She was at least a minute ahead of me, and although I gained on her a little during the final miles, my cramping calves let me know that passing her was out of the question.

By the time I reached the final stretch of road, my form had deteriorated into an awkward loping motion that probably made me look like I was experiencing gravity for the first time ever.

Then I crossed the line, and…it was over. At least, the running part was over.

I felt sick almost immediately. I went directly to the bathroom, where I camped out for about 20 minutes. As The Worst Stomachache of My Life Besides the Stomachache I Got After Eating Seafood at Applebee’s set in, I limped back to my family and told them there was no way I was sticking around for awards. I needed to go home. Now.

And that, my friends, brings us back to the opening scene—which is actually the closing scene. Clever, right?

Obviously, I made it out of the bathtub alive. I split the rest of the day between my bed and my couch. I swore to myself that I would never, ever run another half marathon ever again. Ever.

Then I looked at the results and saw my time—1:28:34. It was a good time, and I was happy with it—mostly. But I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that I could have done better. Which is why I know that eventually, I will do another one. And probably another one after that. And maybe even—gasp!—a full marathon.

But next time, I’ll remember to stuff some Pepto Bismol in my bra, too.