Before I left for the desert, I had a formal running shoe fitting. I'd never done anything like that before, preferring instead to fit myself in a corner at DSW, hidden behind the bargain shoe rack and the fall boots display. I'd always be wearing my coat, sweating, carrying a purse or a Stop & Shop sack, walking no more than five or ten steps in the prospective pair to test them and then heading to the counter to drop some ungodly sum and get the hell outta there.
Now, I have to admit I've been off the sweat sauce for some time. My daily runs slowed at the beginning of the summer when we moved and slagged off completely when life became a daily grind of unpacking boxes, editing the show, crawling to the dreadful office and finally burying myself in all manner of frozen alcoholic concoctions to dull the noise. And through it all, I was desperate for an outlet, a hiding place, the old familiar knowing that comes from pushing myself really hard and getting past it. But as has been my pattern since conception, instead of balling up my anxiety and letting it explode somewhere outside of my body, I sent it further inward where it could get good and filthy and wash over me like a swollen, dirty river. That was the summer: me as still life. Necessary, yes, in order for other things to be in motion. But the pavement's been calling me back and besides that, my my jeans don't fucking fit right.
I felt totally sheepish going into a formal sporting goods store to buy running shoes. I've never seen running as a sport. For me, it's more primitive than that. It's like I'm tapping into some inner Clan of the Cave Bear tribeswoman, as evidenced by my threadbare leggings and cotton t-shirt running costume. Maybe I don't see myself as an athlete when I'm out there. But I think that's starting to change. It's not just about surviving a run. I can be faster, more efficient, work harder if I give myself the right tools.
I walked around for fifteen minutes, trying to avoid the "sign up sheet". See, the deal was, you couldn't buy shoes at this store unless you were professionally fitted. No standing in a corner, juggling a Sephora bag on one arm and a mini backpack on another. It's serious shit. You go in, they put you on a treadmill, they film your stride and they fit you. And every one of them is a version of the super hot cross country running captain you kinda dug in high school--lithe, willowy, lean. It takes major nuts to get your Hefewizen-ridden ass on a treadmill and let some clipboard-abbed, natural beauty analyze your stride imperfections. It takes absolute cojones of titanium to let a similar lovely help you find the right sportsbra after wearing the same uni-tit ace bandage of a bra through every run for a year. But I did both. And I ended up with a steel trap for my rack and the most gorgeous pair of silver and chartreuse Sauconys I've ever seen in my life.
I put them on for the first time this morning. They were gleaming new, awaiting a name. Gogol Bordello blaring, I got my ass outta bed at 5:00 a.m., laced 'em up and started running. It was everything I remembered: too hard to think of anything else and exhilirating as hell. I've set a few small goals to start. No marathons, just some consistency. I sorta see myself as running toward the close of the first installment of the Chrysalis Year. I've got some serious miles to put in before I get there.
I'm kinda feeling "Flash" and "Gordon" for my shoes. I think it fits.
Now, I have to admit I've been off the sweat sauce for some time. My daily runs slowed at the beginning of the summer when we moved and slagged off completely when life became a daily grind of unpacking boxes, editing the show, crawling to the dreadful office and finally burying myself in all manner of frozen alcoholic concoctions to dull the noise. And through it all, I was desperate for an outlet, a hiding place, the old familiar knowing that comes from pushing myself really hard and getting past it. But as has been my pattern since conception, instead of balling up my anxiety and letting it explode somewhere outside of my body, I sent it further inward where it could get good and filthy and wash over me like a swollen, dirty river. That was the summer: me as still life. Necessary, yes, in order for other things to be in motion. But the pavement's been calling me back and besides that, my my jeans don't fucking fit right.
I felt totally sheepish going into a formal sporting goods store to buy running shoes. I've never seen running as a sport. For me, it's more primitive than that. It's like I'm tapping into some inner Clan of the Cave Bear tribeswoman, as evidenced by my threadbare leggings and cotton t-shirt running costume. Maybe I don't see myself as an athlete when I'm out there. But I think that's starting to change. It's not just about surviving a run. I can be faster, more efficient, work harder if I give myself the right tools.
I walked around for fifteen minutes, trying to avoid the "sign up sheet". See, the deal was, you couldn't buy shoes at this store unless you were professionally fitted. No standing in a corner, juggling a Sephora bag on one arm and a mini backpack on another. It's serious shit. You go in, they put you on a treadmill, they film your stride and they fit you. And every one of them is a version of the super hot cross country running captain you kinda dug in high school--lithe, willowy, lean. It takes major nuts to get your Hefewizen-ridden ass on a treadmill and let some clipboard-abbed, natural beauty analyze your stride imperfections. It takes absolute cojones of titanium to let a similar lovely help you find the right sportsbra after wearing the same uni-tit ace bandage of a bra through every run for a year. But I did both. And I ended up with a steel trap for my rack and the most gorgeous pair of silver and chartreuse Sauconys I've ever seen in my life.
I put them on for the first time this morning. They were gleaming new, awaiting a name. Gogol Bordello blaring, I got my ass outta bed at 5:00 a.m., laced 'em up and started running. It was everything I remembered: too hard to think of anything else and exhilirating as hell. I've set a few small goals to start. No marathons, just some consistency. I sorta see myself as running toward the close of the first installment of the Chrysalis Year. I've got some serious miles to put in before I get there.
I'm kinda feeling "Flash" and "Gordon" for my shoes. I think it fits.
2 comments:
Now I have to get my ass into a pair of shoes and out on the pavement. Especially since I have a friggin running track across the street from my house.
Well, maybe I will survive the initial "oh my god I am gonna vomit" experience and get back into the swing of things.
Oh, no, the initial "Oh my God I'm gonna vomit" experience never seems to go away.
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