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coach online shopping canada good korima I could get.But my invitation didn't seem to interest them. For several minutes, the Tarahumara sat silent and blank faced in the glow of their campfire. Finally a short man wearing a magenta tunic and handmade beaded necklace stood and nodded. I recognized him instantly Arnulfo. Bowl cut black hair hung over his brown eyes, which were as deep and vast as the canyons. His legs rippled with sinew.Arnulfo and eight other Tarahumara runners crammed into my tiny room that night: six on the floor (including me), and four in the bed with Arnulfo.The next morning, as the first glow of sunlight painted the canyon walls orange, we made our way to the starting line. Over 200 Tarahumara runners were there, along with a dozen international runners, including Hiroki Ishikawa, one of Japan's top trail runners.The race began, and for the first few cautious miles, I reveled in the raw, bare beauty of the canyons. Tarahumara streamed past wearing colorful tunics and dust caked loincloths. The frontrunners led by Arnulfo and Hiroki were three miles ahead of me at the halfway point.As I ran, I noticed a startling difference between the Tarahumara and American runners like me. We were grimacing and gritting our teeth; the Tarahumara were relaxed and smiling. Like most Americans, running for me has often been a chore to check off my to do list, or part of a prescribed plan toward a finish line goal. But the Tarahumara run because they love it not just the beneficial effects of running, but the intoxicating experience of gliding across the warm earth, feeling the sand between their toes. Running was a path to