Barefoot (or near-barefoot) running. What an odd thing. What passions it do arouse to be sure. Here for the edification of the faithful and the encouragement of catechumens, and as my way of introducing myself, follows my own pilgrimage, in eight fits or stages.
FIT THE FIRST: INCOMPREHENSION
Wonder about running barefoot. Wonder why anyone would do it. Wonder how they stand the insults. Wonder what sort of a lunatic would run barefoot on such an obviously malign and horrible and spiteful and nasty surface such as concrete on their own actual, personal feet.
FIT THE SECOND: SCORN
If I don't understand it, it must be foolish. Of course. Take sides with all the critics. Repeat to self jokes about barefooters being antisocial weirdos from Queensland despite feeling guilty as still on good terms with ex from Qld, nice woman who deserved better. (And gotbetter, too. Different story. Mind own business. Chap entitled to some privacy.)
FIT THE THIRD: SELF-DOUBT
Read reviews. Read assessments. Read experiences. Look at pictures of Vibram Fivefingers and shudder. Does everyone else know something I don't know? How can this be? Been running with cushioned supportive shoes since age 13. Seventeen years' experience. Maybe weakling. Maybe not real man. Maybe should consider it. Look at more Fivefinger pictures. Feel self oddly diminished.
FIT THE FOURTH: DESIRE
Feel resolve slipping, opinion performing 180-degree facebrake turn. Find self walking to the mall. Shop sells Fivefingers. Resist temptation. Find self downloading pics of fivefingers fretfully in small hours. Growing dissatisfaction with old shoes, Asics Nimbus. Tell self shoes like women, all same in dark. Tell self obvious delusion, not all same in dark. Shoes like women, all dangerous in dark. Desire continues unabated.
FIT THE FIFTH: TRANSGRESSION
Wait until hair long, excuse for cut, only decent barber obviously on the mall, tell Herself just popping out for haircut, Herself says: At the mall? Tell Herself keep civil tongue in head or will go worse for her. Herself says: You're going to buy another pair of shoes. Lie. Tell Herself: Nonsense, darling, you are deluded; better have a nice lie-down. Get in car. Drive. Get haircut. Buy Fivefingers as ostensible afterthought ("Oh... while I'm here..."), fooling nobody, either self or sales staff. Go home.
FIT THE SIXTH: FEAR
Next morning, run in secret. Pre run stretch as usual, plus 10mg diazepam to be on safe side. Trembling hands. Look to make sure coast is clear. 4 Km out and back. Calf pain, Achilles pain. Heel pain. How can this be? Damn things clearly rubbish. Everyone on running sites obviously lying, boasting, pulling wool over everyone else's eyes. Pain.
FIT THE SEVENTH: REMORSE
Still in pain the next day. Legs hurt. Reach for soothing Asics but find unsuspected reserve of stern resolve. Use fivefingers instead. Worse. Pain. Aches. Regret. Anger. Herself: Why are you in bedroom shouting at your shoes? "Shut up," I explain. Resolve to sell thing.
FIT THE EIGHTH: REVELATION
One last go this morning, in order prove something self. Annoyed. Am going to be beaten silly shoes? Pish. Bugger it: just run. If pain, too bad. Run. Run. Run. Hello? Run perfect. Pain nil. Legs fluid. Feet happy..Hmm. Fivefingers seems to have pulled itself together after yesterday's tongue-lashing. Put all other shoes away in Secret. Never to speak of again. Strange feeling have found The Answer. Order a second pair for beach house. Breathe Zen-type sigh relief, feel deep sense brotherhood with other fivefinger users, deep sense pity for those who have not yet discovered. Turn over new leaf.
fin.
