Jenn and Billy grabbed their gear—a Nike shopping bag with a chiropractic stick jutting out thetop and a duffel with the tail of a sleeping bag stuck in the zipper—and we began heading acrossthe parking lot. “So what’s Scott like?” Jenn asked. Ultrarunning, like rap music, was split by geography; as EastCoast playas, Jenn and Billy had done most of their racing close to home and hadn’t yet crossedpaths (or swords) with many of the West Coast elites. To them—to just about all ultrarunners,actually—Scott was as much of a mythic figure as the Tarahumara. “I only caught a glimpse of him myself,” I said. “Pretty tough guy to read, I can tell you thatmuch.” Right there, I should have shut my stupid mouth. But who can predict when the trivial will becometragic? How could I have known that a friendly gesture, like giving Caballo my running shoes,would nearly cost him his life? Likewise, I never suspected that the next ten words out of mymouth would snowball into disaster: “Maybe,” I suggested, “you can get him drunk and loosen him up.” Chapter 21 “PREPARE TO MEET your god,” I said as we entered the hotel bar. “Sucking down a cold one.” Scott was on a stool, sipping a Fat Tire Ale. Billy dropped his duffel and stuck out his hand, whileJenn hung behind me. She’d barely let Billy get a word in the whole way across the parking lot,but now, in Scott’s presence, she was starstruck. At least I thought she was, till I saw the look inher eye. She wasn’t bashful; she was sizing him up. Scott might be hunting the Tarahumara, buthe’d better watch who was hunting him. “Is this all of us?” Scott asked.
