Killer Sneakers, Old Shirts, and New Loves

I broke down and bought a new pair of running sneakers yesterday after work. I hadn’t really put enough mileage in my last pair, but they were causing irreparable damage to my baby toes so I had to give them up.

I tried on about fifteen pairs and eventually settled on tried-and-true Asics but I don’t love them – they were just the lesser of evils. Really expensive lesser of evils. Ugh. I went out for a run when I got home to break them in, but something felt terribly amiss.

I was wearing my one and only “coordinating” running outfit, a purple and navy sports bra and matching shorts. And bright new sneakers. And I’m tan…NOOO!

I was a Trendy Runner, an occasional jogger who probably likes those Run Easy ads (“They’re so true! Running should be fun, guys!”) and spends way too much money on fashionable running outfits that sit in a drawer. I hated myself instantly, but then remembered my saving grace that I didn’t have an iPod strapped to my arm. My choice was clear: I was going to have to run fast. With sweat seeping through my matchy-matchy outfit and dripping into my eyes, I looked far less cute, and I ended up with a pretty solid negative split for the run. Still, I felt a pang of guilt from abandoning (even temporarily) my Grungy Runner roots. Opening my drawer of running clothes reveals a collection of tshirts and tights that I’ve been wearing for half a decade or more. The other night I wore a shirt I bought at XC Delco Championships during my sophomore year of high school. In 1999. Awesome. That ought to earn me some back some points for yesterday’s betrayal.

At the behest of many friends and colleagues, I’m currently reading Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes. He’s running a 100-mile race through mountains and deserts! I think I’m in love. R was over last night and the book was sitting on my nightstand, Karnazes' hot, muscular body emblazoned on the cover. “If you looked like that, I’d read your memoir, too!” I told him. “That’s it, I don’t want you reading this book anymore,” he replied, playfully tossing it aside. I reassured him that the Ultramarathon Man is married (to his high school sweetheart!) with kids, but you know, given the chance I might be willing to backburner my scruples for an hour or so. And after reading all about his blisters and sundry running-related injuries, I’m pretty sure he’d be cool with my five blackened toenails. See? It’s meant to be.

(I'm just kidding, Beach! You're my one true love! Ultramarathon Man has NOTHING on you. Nothing!)