Newsletter - Summer 2004

An American Racing in Oaxaca

by Gordon N. McIntosh

Last March the local Mexican newspaper announced Oaxaca’s first race for Jóvenes de Corazón (the young at heart), five kilometers on a country trail with age brackets starting at 40 in ten year increments. It was free and there would be cash prizes for the first 5 finishers in each category. Since I was there in Oaxaca, I thought I’d sign up and experience more of the culture.

The night before the race I registered and met a few of the other runners in my age bracket (if you don’t know, too bad). They looked lean and fit, and conjured images of those young Mexican men that pass everyone on the Lincoln Park  running track.

The race started a half hour late, which isn’t bad for Latin America. I took my time, content to let the younger guys (damn 40 year olds) charge ahead. The problem with following the leader on a dirt trail is that the air gets, shall we say, crunchy. (Being hot, a mile high and no available water weren’t handicaps enough.) I pressed on, passing a few other men in my class until I was relieved to pass the 4,500 meter sign. Taking this to mean that there was only half a kilometer left (even dehydrated I managed the math) I engaged my legendary kick. Whoops! The actual distance was 5,320 meters, so I didn’t exactly finish with a sprint. It didn’t matter – they announced I was first in my category.

As I exchanged congratulations with other finishers, I was taken by how conspicuous I was – taller, silver hair, blue eyes, light skin. But the runners didn’t seem to care, even inviting me to join their running club. I felt kind of accepted.

This event was to promote health and exercise for the Oaxacans. The cash prizes were inducements to participate. I was doing this for fun and didn’t plan to accept cash – it was meant for the locals. After hearing I’d won my age group, I mentally composed some polite words to donate the cash to the sponsoring organization. You know, a gesture of cross-border friendship? It wasn’t necessary.

Being the first race of its kind, some confusion over the results might be expected.  But when they came to my category, I got a big surprise. It seemed I hadn’t won after all. A phantom runner with an unassigned number had invisibly finished first before returning to the fourth dimension. He didn’t appear to collect his prize or assume his position on the podium. The man who finished behind me was awarded second, and third went to a guy who came in thirty seconds later. Both came to my aid, protesting that I finished ahead of them, but to no avail. The judges had ruled and since I was the only gringo within miles, me habián chingado. (need a translation?)

I never got the chance to demonstrate American benevolence, but I did experience something unique.  I participated in the Mexican system and walked away a little richer. That’s right, the judges bought me off – they presented me with the fourth place money. By that act, I felt entirely accepted into the culture – I’d been bribed. And all I expected was a Sunday morning run.