Sole Comfort

I stood staring, open-mouthed, at the wall of shoes. Footwear of all colors, from geek green to swarthy black. What was I doing here? Staring. Drooling. Yearning.

Years ago, I had to search store after store for my favorite shoes; the ones that would fit my wide bridge, and cushion my flat instep. Now, here they were mocking me from the top shelf, bathed in fluorescent lights, as if…well, as if they were superstars, and I a lowly schlep. Surrounded suddenly by a fog of swirling memory, I stepped forward and reached out. I plucked the shoe from its perfect perch—a cool and unassuming black number with a strip of hot pink femininity. I rolled it across my palm, feeling it, as if I couldn’t quite believe that we had found each other again, after all these years.

A tall and eager salesman came and asked my size. I looked up and replied, “Eight”, forgetting the arthritis in my big toes that would prevent me from fully utilizing a shoe like this. He brought me two boxes. I sat down and removed my brown weathered hiking boot; I eagerly slipped my foot into the Saucony Grid Hybrid. I heard the sigh as my toes leaned into the slipper-comfort and my heel rested against the army-boot support of this made-for-me runner.

The Saucony Grid is known for its ability to withstand many miles; it absorbs impact, evens out shock, and lets your foot perform to its full potential, from heel to toe. Perhaps I could fit my whole self, my whole life inside . . . shock absorption . . . YES! As I slipped one shoe, and then the other onto quivering feet, I—like Cinderella—was transformed. But, unlike Cinderella, I had been here before; I had been a runner—not a great one, not a prize-winning racer who could garner the attention of a prince—but a runner amongst runners.

I pranced like a giddy toddler, showing off my graceful limbs to an audience of sport balls, workout wear, and standoffish socks. I fleetingly forgot about the chronic disc issue at L4/5, and began to run. Admittedly it did not feel natural (or even good), and my body—aging and stiff—looked more like a newborn foal learning to walk than a thoroughbred in full stride. But, lifted by a ghost from my past, I slowly became limber and long. I felt—not young—but, lithe. I became aware of the distance between here and there. I could sense the outer edges of the track, and the space between them was full of possibility.

I ran past the free weights, through the golf “green”, and around the winter apparel. The store was filled with holiday shoppers, no doubt admiring my even gait and crisp cantor, if not the weightless freedom that came from running.

I stopped to catch my breath; I leaned over throbbing thighs; I glimpsed the Grid upon my feet, and swooned. They were magnificent. Why had I put these shoes on, knowing that I would not choose to take up jogging again? The longing to run coursed through my veins. The runners momentarily released me from the mud of despair, the wind of worry, and the pain of heartache. I pined for the solid beat of a sole against the pavement, as if my life depended on it.

I walked to the bench to retrieve my belongings. I sat heavily. I took off the shoes and placed them back in the box, toe to heel. I held the box at eye level, and waited for it to answer a question that I hadn’t even known I’d asked. The answer was . . . yes . . . of course.

I tucked the box under my arm and walked to the front of the store.

Run, run away.