Running on Empty.(Tarahumaras)

Even on their own turf in the mountains of northwestern Mexico, Tarahumara Indian runners like Arnulfo Quimare seem like a sideshow to their better-heeled competitors. The outsiders are outfitted with water packs, $100-plus shoes and belts stuffed with carbohydrate-loaded PowerGel--anything to help conquer a 100km racecourse over muddy logging roads and cliffside trails. The Tarahumara runners, for the most part, wear their street clothes: loincloths and sandals made from rubber tires for the men; flowered dresses, head scarves and plastic flats for the women. Quimare hasn't run in four months. While he waits for the 5:30 a.m. start to last week's Ultramarathon of the Canyons, smiling visitors sidle up for snapshots. He could charge for each photo op, like one entrepreneur is doing. Or he could avoid the swarm, like the Indian runners sharing a filterless cigarette under a street lamp. But he just stands there, staring vacuously into the flashbulbs, not uttering a word.

The awkward status of the Tarahumaras at such events is an apt metaphor for their uncomfortable place in Mexican society and in the world of sport. Perhaps the most gifted of endurance runners, the Tarahumaras hold course records in some of the world's most prestigious ultramarathons--races longer than 26 miles. Yet they hardly benefit from their talent. Never accepted in the cultish world of ultrarunning and relegated to the bottom rungs of society in a country that has long neglected its 11 million Indians, the Tarahumaras rarely compete on the world stage.

Though they call themselves raramuri, or running feet, Tarahumaras usually demonstrate their athleticism only at a rarajipari, a traditional race. Competitors from rival villages use their toes to flick baseball-size wooden balls along a racecourse for hours or even days at a time, with torch carriers lighting the way after dark, and excited onlookers wagering what little they own on the outcome. Tarahumaras showed up at last week's ultramarathon because organizers had spread word of the $1,000 first-place prize.

The most traditional Indians left in North America, the Tarahumaras believe whites are children of the devil, a suspicion that dates back to the Spanish conquest and has grown stronger with each generation of non-Indians who have pushed them deeper into the rugged Sierra Madre range. Few of the more recent arrivals have improved the Tarahumaras' opinion of outsiders. Not the loggers, not the drug cultivators--and, despite his best efforts, not the gringo who showed up in the early 1990s with the bizarre idea that running could help them.

Richard Fisher, an Arizona guidebook author with long experience in Mexico, believed that bringing Tarahumaras to U.S. races would help raise money to combat drought and deforestation. He also hoped to "establish a scientific benchmark to measure Tarahumara running." Asking around, Fisher found several men known for their prowess in the kickball races and, with cash payments and deliveries of maize and beans, persuaded them to drive to Colorado for the Leadville Trail 100. That's 100 miles starting at 10,152 feet above sea level and rising to 12,640 feet--one of the most esteemed races in the world. In 1993 the three Tarahumaras who entered started in donated running shoes, changed back ...