Running with Sherman: How a Rescue Donkey Inspired a Rag-tag Gang of Runners to Enter the Craziest Race in America - Softcover

McDougall, Christopher

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0525433252 ISBN 13: 9780525433255

Verlag: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2020

Inhaltsangabe

From the bestselling author of Born to Run, a heartwarming story about training a rescue donkey to run one of the most challenging races in America, and, in the process, discovering the life-changing power of the human-animal connection.

"A delight, full of heart and hijinks and humor." —John Grogan, author of Marley & Me: Life and Love with the World's Worst Dog

When Christopher McDougall decided to adopt a donkey in dire straits, he had no idea what he was getting himself into. But with the help of his neighbors, Chris came up with a crazy idea. Burro racing, a unique type of competition in which humans and donkeys run side by side over mountains and through streams, would be exactly the challenge Sherman and Chris needed. In the course of Sherman’s training, Chris would enlist Amish running clubs, high-spirited goats, the service animal community, and two Sarah Palin–loving long-distance female truckers. Sherman’s heartwarming story of overcoming all odds to run one of the most unbelievable races in America shows the healing power of movement and the strength of the human-animal connection.

Look for Christopher McDougall's new book, Born to Run 2, coming in December!

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Christopher McDougall covered wars in Rwanda and Angola as a foreign correspondent for the Associated Press before writing his best-selling book Born to Run. His fascination with the limits of human potential led him to create the Outside magazine web series, "Art of the Hero." He currently lives with his wife, two daughters, and a farmyard menagerie in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

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Chapter 3: No One Likes Us, We Don’t Care

 
“Oh, crap!” Tanya suddenly realized it was nearly three p.m.

“Late for school.”

She grabbed her shears and gear and moments later her SUV was spitting gravel as Hurricane Tanya disappeared down the drive-way. Every morning and afternoon, Tanya was the driver for local Amish children who lived too far from their one- room schoolhouse to make the trip on foot. After delivering them home, she had a full evening of chores with her own animals, which included three donkeys, two carriage horses, one goat, one pig, a wading pool full of ducklings, and a rescue horse she’d saved from slaughter so she could teach a teenage neighbor how to ride. She wouldn’t be able to check on Sherman again till morning.

“What do we do now?” asked my wife, Mika. We stood at the fence, waiting to see if Sherman would move.


Nothing.
“Either he’s getting better, or— ” I glanced around to make sure the kids couldn’t hear. “Or we’re on death watch. Tanya said at this point, it’s out of our hands.”

Out of our hands. It gave me a sickening feeling, saying those words, because for one of the few times in my life, it was true. There was no one else to call, no further treatment to try, no friend to seek for advice. That little spark of hope I’d felt a minute ago faded away, replaced by the chest- squeezing grip of doom you get when your car spins on ice. Sherman was alone inside this tunnel, and he was either going to walk out the other end on his own or disappear into the darkness.

I just wished I knew what was going through his mind. If there was no way to pull him back, at least we could ease his exit with kindness and care. But how could we bring him peace when we had no clue what he was thinking? Was he fighting for his life, or giving up? Did he see me as his friend, or as just another tormentor? The first rule of healing is “Do no harm,” but Sherman was making me realize that I knew so little about animals, I couldn’t tell if I was soothing or scaring him.

Mika and I weren’t just surprised to be in this predicament. We still couldn’t believe we were in this zip code.

I grew up just outside of Philadelphia, in the working- class suburbs where the El tracks and row houses of West Philly gave way to the big families and small backyards of Upper Darby. My only contact with country livin’ came from books; I was so obsessed with My Side of the Mountain that I ran away from home at age nine with only a Wham- O boomerang, fully intending to live in a hollow tree in the woods and hunt with a hawk like Sam Gribley did. Around one o’clock in the morning, the state police found me six miles from home in a patch of woods near Springfield Mall and hauled me back for a parental smackdown that was epic enough to put an end to any future walkabouts.

After that night, I was rarely far from the company of at least 1.5 million neighbors. I went to high school in North Philly and became a street- court rat, spending all my time outside of class roaming the city with my friends in search of pickup games. After college, I bounced around between jobs and cities before taking a leap overseas to see what life was like in Madrid. I taught English for a while and learned enough Spanish to finagle my way into an interview for a news reporting job with the Associated Press. I had no credentials for the job, but the bureau chief in Madrid, Susan Linnee, was a battle- hardened newswoman who scorned the hothouse- flower desk editors that New York headquarters kept sending her and preferred her own method for discovering street- savvy “talent in the rough,” as she put it.

“The guy before you, what sold me was he looked like the lead singer of the Fine Young Cannibals,” Susan told me. Luckily, the Cannibal turned out to be such a natural that within a year, he was recruited to become a war correspondent in Bosnia. Someone had to replace him, pronto, which was the only reason I got through the door for an interview. Susan grilled me for about an hour, and when my utter lack of experience became embarrassingly obvious, she abruptly stood up and called an end to the interview.

“I’ve heard enough,” she said, sticking out her hand.

“Okay,” I agreed, more than ready to beat it. “If you change— ”

“We’ll train you here for a week,” she continued, already steaming ahead with her plans. “Then we really need you there.”

“There?”

True, she had mentioned that the Cannibal was her Lisbon correspondent, but I naturally assumed they would transfer someone from Madrid and keep me at base to learn the ropes. I’d never been to Portugal in my life and didn’t know a word of the language, but that wasn’t my biggest problem. Civil war had just re- ignited in Angola, which didn’t seem like any of my business until my new boss explained that as a former Portuguese colony, Angola literally became my business at the moment I shook her hand.

One month later, I was behind rebel lines in southern Africa, doing my best to stay alive while pretending I had any idea what I was doing. I was teamed with Guilherme, a Portuguese photographer who also spoke Spanish, so most of the time the only way I could gather information from Angolan soldiers was by way of a spoken- word Rube Goldberg machine: I’d feed my questions in Spanish to Guilherme, who would translate them into Portuguese for the soldiers, and then translate their answers back to me in Spanish so I could jot them down in English. Guilherme had his own work to do and really didn’t have time for this nonsense, so he would listen to a soldier’s long, teary- eyed saga and boil it down to “They shot lots of the bad guys.”

“That’s it?”

“Big picture.”

Fine by me; the tighter the quote, the quicker I finished. Every day, I had to scout around, interviewing refugees, aid workers, and frontline fighters, then condense their info into AP news stories that needed to be sent to New York before sunset. Darkness was my deadline, because the only way to transmit from the field was with a satellite telex the size of a wheelie suitcase. You didn’t want to be up on a hill looking for a signal with that thing at night; for a roving rebel soldier with an itchy trigger finger, the only thing visible against the dark sky would be the blinking green “SHOOT ME!” lights on my console. The second I hit Send, I slammed the cover shut and scuttled for safety.

Like the Cannibal, I managed to stick around long enough to get the hang of it. When massacres erupted in Rwanda two years later, I was assigned to embed with the Tutsi rebel army that was racing across the border to rescue civilians from the murderous militias. We were only a small band of reporters traveling with the Tutsis, and we got smaller by the day. One American correspondent was airlifted out when her photographer was shot through the legs and she had to stop the bleeding with her bare hands. A French radio journalist was stricken by cerebral malaria and barely survived. My photographer left after we entered a schoolhouse and found the bodies of dozens of young children who’d been hacked to death with machetes; the next morning, he found his hands were still trembling. When the Tutsis finally chased the murderers into Congo and the fighting died down, I was desperate for a rest. Instead, I couldn’t sleep.

It was time to go home.

Maybe it was a bad idea to leave Lisbon, ditching a dream job in a beautiful seaside...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2020
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0525433252
• ISBN 13: 9780525433255
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 352
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: preigu; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; 49078; Deutschland