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kids coach shoes the divine not through folded hands, but callused feet.I was not Tarahumara, as much as I wanted to be. But I could still try to follow in their footsteps by running with gratitude and grace. Over the next few miles, I unclenched my jaw and even let a loose smile unfold. I tried to adopt the light, nimble Tarahumara stride. It worked: I soon found myself floating down the trail, as fluid as the Urique River beside me.I began passing runners even several of my Tarahumara roommates. I wasn't running; my body was running me. My legs seemed to spin beneath me without any interference from my conscious will.Heading into the final 11 mile loop, I surged ahead of second place Hiroki and found myself running side by side with Arnulfo. I should have been elated to be challenging the world's greatest runner. But really, we were running two separate races: I was racing for glory against other well heeled international runners; he was running in threadbare sandals for his people and for his life.With six miles to go, my Tarahumara like flow was starting to dry up in the searing canyon heat. The scorched canyon floor melted the soles of my fancy shoes, and grit from the trail rubbed my blisters raw.But my pain was temporary and small. The Tarahumara trek ultra distances nearly every day, even as drug and timber mafias rip apart their lands and lives. There is no finish line for them.At the final river crossing, I splashed ahead of Arnulfo. I hung on to cross the finish line first, with Arnulfo finishing only minutes behind me. Afterward, I donated my $3,000 prize to the true champion of the race. Arnulfo used it