The Magic Shoes 3/24/10

Even now, in my declining years, I get a childlike excitement from running in new shoes. They are bright and clean, and at the peak of their physical capabilities. Just as I once was. And I mean once. I think the date was July 31, 1980, two weeks before my eighteenth birthday.

With new shoes, I trick myself into believing that the creaks I've been hearing in my joints will magically disappear, my training plan is invigorated, and delusions of One More Great Marathon fill my foggy brainpan. Lost in the fog is the reality of diminished oxygen-carrying capacity, creeping arthritis, and intermittent willpower. Yes, new shoes even trump physical decadence.

Today's six-miler was actually slower by eight seconds than yesterday's, even though the new shoes are lighter and bouncier. My breathing was somewhat labored, just like it was yesterday, even though atmospheric conditions were perfect-cool and humid, with light wind and rain-and the new, magic shoes were sending positive messages to my brain about how strong my lungs were. My knees were a little stiff, too, despite the new, bouncy foam tied to the ends of my legs.

All in all, it was a typical run: not extraordinarily fast, slow, mind-opening, or depressing. It was the equivalent of flossing my teeth. Not the kind of thing you wax excitedly about for hours, nor the kind of thing that makes you want to convert your shoelaces into a noose. It certainly didn't meet the expectations I had generated, simply by bringing home new shoes. I should just learn to face reality, I suppose, and remember that shoes are just tools, like hammers and computers. They only work within a range determined by their operator's ability to wield them. Or, I could just return these crappy old shoes, and get another pair.

Thanks for reading.