It's All About the Shoes

In my last blog I told a horrifying tale of sorrow and pain. A drama akin to a Greek tragedy (well...maybe not that bad) that unfolded in a six mile distance, wrought with misguided confidence and extremely poor foot wear. A tale who's moral became evident in the final words of it's unlikely hero. A hero who, despite said misguided confidence and poor foot wear, persevered and finished what he had set out to do. The unlikely hero? Me. The lesson learned? No matter what you set out to do in life, it's all about the shoes!

The history of shoes is long and colorful. A devolution from function to form. What started out as a sensible need has morphed into a fetish enjoyed by millions at the cost of optimum pedal health. While the majority of it's admirers are women, certain types of shoes have gain an intense male following as well. From sensible pumps to outlandish sneakers, the footwear industry has become a multi-billion dollar a year cash cow.

While currently only own two pairs of shoes, the evil Chuck Taylors and some Kenneth Cole dress shoes, in high school I was a shoe horse. This was mostly due to the clique I chose to be a part of. I was a Mod and the Mod ethic dictates that style, especially in the shoe department, was crucial to the look. I owned every type of shoe deemed worthy to wear by this small clan of rebels (there were 3 of us) at my school. Clarke Desert Boots, Leopard Print Creepers with a 2 inch sole, Monkey Boots and of course what Mod closet would be complete without the go to Ox Blood Doc Martens with black lace. I loved every single one of those shoes that helped me make a pretty big fashion statement for sure. But you certainly wouldn't see me walking or running any kind of distance in them. Not a single one had any kind of arch support. Pretty much like the Chucks. Back then it was about the form, screw the function. Function never one any popularity contests. And what is high school but one big fashion show.

After what I have dubbed the "Six Mile Debacle", I decided to get myself educated on the ins and outs of sporting footwear. My first and only stop, was to Fleet Feet. A quaint little store on a busy downtown street that houses the go to experts for all things running. If anybody could help me find the right shoe, it would be them. I have lived in this town for most of my life and never set foot in this store. The minute I walked through the door I could feel my wallet get lighter. This was not gonna be cheap, but I knew that this was the smartest investment I could make at this point.

The first thing that surprised me, was the fact they were open on a Sunday. The other was the line of people that were waiting for the doors to open. I had no idea that running was such a big deal. I knew we were in the right place and as my wife and I walked through it's hallowed doors, I instantly felt at home. I had arrived. I was with my people now. The healthy active people that I had hidden myself from for so many years. The people that I used sit and watch in my car, or through my front window as they jogged, biked or walked there way through their healthier than thou lives. People I used to mock for their strange obsession with dressing like Sporty Spice and driving Subaru Outbacks.

At Fleet Feet shoes are the big deal. They sell a whole bunch of other crap related to the sport, but it's the shoes that keep the doors open. There fitting area is large enough to accommodate at least 20 people at a time with all the proper measuring equipment strewn about the floor. As I walked to the hardwood area, I was stopped by a small pedestal that held a clipboard and a sign in sheet. The wife and I scrawled our names in the appropriate space and waited all of 2 minutes for our names to be called. A young woman with the obvious build of a runner called my wife's name and a rather affable gentleman, by the name of Russ, took me back and sat me down.

Crouched on a small stool in front of me, he proceeded to ask what my goals were. I hesitated to tell him the true nature of my visit for fear of getting laughed at. But like a visit to the doctor, I knew it was important to be honest about everything in order to get the proper prescription. As the words "I want to compete in an Ironman Triathlon next year", came tumbling out of my mouth, the weight and ridiculousness of that statement echoed in my head. I sat and waited for the refrains of laughter I was sure would come roaring out of his mouth. Instead a big smile slowly grew on his face and with a look of respect he said "Very nice! Then we have some work to do!" That went rather well and I felt that much better about what I was attempting to do.

He measured my feet six ways to Sunday. From the front to the back. The left side to the right. Standing and sitting. On the ground then perched on the stool he sat on that doubled as a fitting device. I was urged to get up and, in my socks, take a casual walk for a few yards while he quietly observed each step. He watched me coming and going. Then with almost an aha moment of discovery, he said he had a few options to try. I sat back on the bench and waited while he grabbed the potential candidates from the back. The store was now filled with sole seekers and the wait list was filling up. I was worried that he would try to hurry it up just get to more people.

He hustled back with three boxes of shoes and we proceeded to try them each on. I felt like Goldie Locks as I described each one. "This  are too small", "these are too big" "these are just right!" Once I found the shoe I thought fit he poked at my toes and then had me get up and jog to the front door and back. Once I got to the finish line I was asked what I though of the shoe. I began to describe everything I was feeling as he poked at my toes again. "You want to make sure you have plenty of room at the toe. otherwise you could lose your toe nails." A look of horror came across my face. He scanned my expression and with a chuckle explained that that was because their shoes are too small. When buying running shoes you need to have them a size to size and a half bigger due to your feet swelling as you run. "Is there anything else I should know before I take up this fools errand" i said with sarcasm. "Well," he said with another grin, "there are the bloody nipples." Bloody nipples?! What the hell was I getting myself into!

We tried on a few more pairs and finally ended up with a pair of Brooks Adrenaline GTS9s, size 12 and extra wide. I asked about other colors and was told that they didn't really make other colors. Each shoe has it's own look and that's what you get. it's about the fit and quality of the shoe, not about the fashion. My feet felt awesome in them, so I really didn't care. I would have worn them if they were pink. Real men wear pink. Right? Russ grabbed us a couple pairs of, expensive but very necessary, synthetic running socks (a whopping $10 a pair) and we were off to the register.

With the proper tools now in hand to help us get further in our new lives, we proceeded to the counter where Russ relieved me of the tidy sum of $285.00. He continued to talk to me about triathlons and classes I could take as well as some great websites to get information from. He once again encouraged me to stick with it, and that he was happy to help in anyway he could. The fact that running shoes need to be replaced every 4-6 months depending on training frequency, tells me that I will be seeing Russ's smiling face and enthusiasm more than twice in this process.

We grabbed the bag, said our good byes and as we walked towards the door, I had to stop and just stare at the place that I had come to in my life. In some strange way I felt as if, for the first time in my 20 year struggle with my health demons, my life was finally starting to change. Sure the process started with deciding to take that first step on the path to good health. But investing a small fortune in myself made me feel like for once I was taking care of me. Further proof that in the quest for a healthier, happier life...it's all about the shoes!