Truly some of the most interesting conversations I have are with other distance runners about various objects that catch and perhaps hold our attentions during miles and hours of otherwise uneventful training runs.
Some people become avid nature buffs, or sing songs in their heads, or count passing cars all in an effort to break up the monotony of the long run.
I know a guy who as taken up birdwatching as a direct result of his running curiosities. All it took was a little research and he soon became obsessed with the number and types of birds he sees on his various runs.
Another gentleman I know has a thing about dogs. He could describe with frightening detail every dog encounter he has ever had during his training runs. Now think about this for a second: I'm talking about a guy who has logged thousands of miles in more than two decades of running. To remember such detail speaks loudly about the boredom and strange obsessions that we, as runners must embrace to instill some vigor into a seemingly mundane activity.
My personal fascination stems from shoes (although, I must confess a creeping interest in butane lighters). On any given run, I may see one or more abandoned shoes by the side of the road. Each of these shoes tells a story, but trying to figure THAT story mystifies me.
Now I'm am not talking about pairs of shoes, which quite frankly is a rarity. I'm talking about that stray shoe on the side of the road, or in a ditch, or simply set alone on a bench. Where did it come from? Who wore it? Where is its mate? Didn't the owner know it was missing? How did it end up with this strange fate?
Some of these shoes are old, beaten down and could very well have fallen off a passing garbage truck. Other shoes have no laces. What happened to them? Did the owner break a lace and simply toss the shoe as worthless? Laces are less than a buck in the local grocery store, so what gives? I have also seen nearly new shoes where the only things missing are the price take and it's partner; a curiosity indeed.
I always get a little concerned when I see a lone child's shoe. Having lived next door for more than four years to one of the world's most worrisome mothers, I've become somewhat sensitive to seeing a solo size 3 that may have belonged to a lost, or worse, kidnapped child. But this fleeting thought is quickly tossed out-0f-mind by a childhood memory of leaving my shoes on the roof of a car, only to see it pull away. I rescued the first shoe that fell, but watched helplessly as it's right-footed counterpart disappeared over the horizon to parts unknown and a fate that must have ultimately turned the head of a passing runner. And here I was left behind with a useless left shoe without two left feet, and only one logical solution... in the garbage it went: A "life" unfulfilled and short lived.
So what about all those shoes? Where do they come from and where do they go?
Just yesterday I was reminiscing with a running friend about, of all things, running shoes. I was amazed at how acutely we remembered our transitions from Chuck Taylor high-tops to the Nike style-of-the-day. We both had similar tales of borrowing racing spikes during our junior high foray into track and field. And now, each of us have settled on shoes that keep us relatively uninjured as our bodies and biomechanics age, stiffen and more often than not, protest change of any sort let alone adjusting to a new brand of shoe.
Our conversation drifted to the many pairs of "retired" shoes we each currently own. We could of course relegate them to the cylindrical coffins in our respective garages to be hauled away without dignity to a local landfill. This however, would be a disservice to the "kicks" that have served us well over hill and dale, through rain, snow, sleet and mud. Mile after mile we became attached to each pair and shared long and often lonely hours together. This goes without saying that such disposal begs questions about the potential bio-hazardous waste situation this might create - whewie! Therefore a landfill really would be out of the question.
As solutions came and went, we were both struck by the romantic idea of tossing these shoes, attached as pairs into a strategically placed tree outside of a high school or local gym. This could start an entertaining fad that could amuse the students and perhaps inspire their random if not enthusiastic participation. Certainly, the errant shoes would entertain the juvenile spirits of passing adults, and at the same time add fodder to the already-cranky, up-tight, Humorless curmudgeons who would undoubtedly complain to one "official" or another. For a brief period of time, our shoes and any others that joined in the liberated branches would be hero's, icons and an inspiration to modern art which is a far cry from being orphaned at the side of the road. And it was on this note that our conversation jogged to it's thought provoking end.
Shortly thereafter, I went home for lunch and nearly drove off the road when I saw two pair of shoes hanging casually from a telephone wire only blocks from my house. Let me assure you, these shoes were not there when I drove into work. And (more importantly) let the minutes reflect, they are NOT my size.
Anyway, irony aside, this image confirmed the romance, liberation and spirit we discussed only minutes before. Here was a pair of shoes, undivorced and swinging carelessly in the breeze for the whole world to see, marvel at and maybe even envy just a bit. It was a beautiful sight and confirmation.
Yep, if I was a pair of shoes, this is exactly how I'd like to go; whimsically launched towards the heavens to perch majestically over traffic below; to laugh last and laugh best; to delight the runners; to entertain the anarchists; to confound the traditionalists; to tease those all-too-prudent conformists; and to memorialize the many orphaned shoes laying somewhere on the road up ahead.
