The Drunken Runner

The Tarahumara tribe of the Copper Canyons in Mexico has a tradition; they get tanked on corn beer, sleep with each others’ wives, duel it out in a naked fist fight, finally pass out for a few hours and then run 80 miles the next morning. Barefoot. With no food, water or injuries. And they do this all for fun.


For some strange reason, this appealed to me, and I decided to give it a try. The drinking and running part anyway. I’m not sure if my boyfriend would be supportive of the sleeping around/naked boxing part. (Although there IS a smokin’ hot guy in my apartment building and who doesn’t love a naked wrestle now and then?)

Anyway, the only other aspect that concerned me was the mileage. I mean, come on. Who runs 80 miles barefoot through a desert? The most I have ever run is 26.2 miles, and I was wearing sneakers running on a bike path. Not too dangerous.

So I started out on a smaller scale. I decided to kick off my kicks and run my standard 10 miles on mountain biking trails. My nickname is The Mountain Goat, because I can run for hours on any rough terrain. Therefore, I thought this little project would be a snap.


The run started out like any other; I felt weightless, even more so with the lack of shoes and socks. I felt as though I were leaping through the forest, stealthy and strong. The soft dirt and moss under my feet, the subtle smell of leaves decaying, the wind blowing thr


I was on the ground, on my face, with a stabbing, horrific pain coming from my toe and literally a mouthful of mud. I had tripped on some stupid piece of nature, maybe a rock or root. The place where my toenail used to be was now oozing blood. Damn. I looked for my toenail, and to my surprise, I found it.  It looked weird; detached from my toe but still identifiable due to the pink nail polish. So I put it in my pocket and kept running.

Not long after, I felt nauseous. In the Tarahumara spirit, I had consumed enough beer to cause a disconcerting rumble in my stomach. (I could not locate any corn beer so settled for Corona Light with limes, the next closest thing I’m sure.)

So I ignored the thunderous rumbles, kept them under control for a while. That is, until this rather large hill. That’s when the rumbles made their move.

Not only did I throw up all of my corona, but I also my dinner from the night before. (I will not go in to further detail.) The fact that I had skipped breakfast Tarahumara-Style was good in the sense that I had less to projectile vomit, but bad in the sense that I had nothing to absorb all my “corn beer.” Uggh.

Note to self: the next drunken-barefoot run I attempt will maybe be more gradual and not so……hilly. And stumpy. And muddy. Maybe.

Corona anyone?

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Previous post Don’t “diss” respect
Next post This Is About Your Death