Since I consider Chris McDougall (like Laura Hillenbrand and Jon Krakauer) to be one of the few American writers actually worth a damn, I'm going to give him a free pass on Goodreads. I won't rip his new book apart, although the temptation is there.
McDougall's first book, Born to Run, had a linear and epic narrative reminiscent of the Odyssey, a rich cast of real life "characters" that the author followed throughout, and a wild central theme that was legitimized by academic studies, evolutionary scientists, and the author's personal experiences.
Natural Born Heroes, however, reads like our author popped a bunch of speed, got over-excited about tons of different topics -- Nazis, the Paleo Diet, the human fascia, parkour (Jesus H. Christ), foraging in Prospect Park, knife-throwing (sigh), Greek mythology, Wing Chun, Brazilian jiu jitsu -- and couldn't shut up about any of them, but couldn't tie them together in any meaningful way, either.
For any book nerd who loved Born to Run as much as I did, a boring follow-up, a schizophrenic narrative, and a story with no real point amount to something a little like heartbreak.
I actually wondered if I was part of the problem. Maybe my own mind was too scattered to follow what McDougall was saying. Maybe it was my fault that the narrative felt like it jumped around more than a traceur on bath salts. I even popped a Ritalin (no shit) and tried to focus. But no dice. Whether you're stone cold sober or dialed in on Dexedrine, nothing will change the fact that this is a disjointed, disorienting, and altogether confusing book.
I suppose I could forgive the fact that the chapters had nothing to do with each other, but there was something depressing about seeing a brilliant writer get so sloppy:
"A few months after refusing to show me Paddy's escape route, he agreed to show me Paddy's escape route." (Did this guy change editors or something?)
"We like to think of ourselves as...lone wolves in a dog-eat-dog world, but guess what?: Dogs don't eat dogs." (Oh for the love of...nevermind).
Some of the final chapters, in which McDougall touches on the subject of running and the ideal fitness diet are where the author truly shines. A damn near tear-jerking ending that I never saw coming was also reminiscent of the Born to Run Chris McDougall. However, it's upsetting to see that his natural brilliance as a writer was reserved for a handful of pages towards the end of a long-ass book about a bunch of crap I could have Wikipedia'd on my own.
While a part of me is tempted to think Chris McDougall has lost his fucking mind, he reveals the real truth of the matter in the Acknowledgements section, where he writes, "I couldn't choose between two different book ideas."
Yeah, Chris, I can tell.
Let's just forget this ever happened.