I think it is rude to ask a man why he makes certain personal decisions. In business, it’s fine and sometimes necessary to get a colleague to explain himself; however, asking why a man chose a certain unfortunate Fu Manchu mustache or Pig Latin neck tattoo is not really a kind thing to do. What it all boils down to is that he doesn’t know. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.
Ibid the Vibram Five Fingers. I can’t say that I have been totally enraptured by the gospel of the barefoot running movement. The shoes just look weird and get people talking, so like a hipster with a fixed gear bike, I had to have some. And I have to say that they have been addictively comfortable to walk around in, especially after they quit digging in to the ends of my toes. Since I didn’t need to accomplish much in terms of training this week, it seemed like a good time to try the things out while running.
Thursday I took them to Club Dub to get on a treadmill, figuring this would be the least impactful way to get started. It turns out that “least impactful” in running is analogous to “least impactful” in nail hammering. There are ways to reduce the stress, but it’s not going to disappear completely. I have heard people talk about their strides adjusting to the new shoes, and I think mine may have. What was more interesting is that the muscles in my feet had to warm up just like all the other muscles I use to run. As I became aware of the way my feet contributed to the running process, it seemed strange that I had kept them encased in shoes.
It also seemed like a trail run would be a good next step. Again, trails are softer than roads ergo less impact. Trails also have rocks. And roots. And other variables. Maybe I should not have been stepping on these anyway. It’s not unusual for me to roll one ankle or the other at least once during any given trail run. Being sans shoes meant being more conscious of the trail.
Which is a problem if you are having a hard time seeing the trail. For reasons that don’t hold up any better to scrutiny than a neck tattoo, I was not wearing the corrective lenses which I normally use on trips as short as the bathroom. Plus it was still not quite light out and the overhanging leaves did not help. At one point, as I attempted a higher cadence, I stubbed the ball of my foot on a rock. The ball of my foot. It has a bruise now. The seams also seemed to be rubbing on the sides of my feet.
But then I climbed a little rocky section which normally requires me to find footholds between the smooth outcropping of rock. For some reason, I stepped right on the smooth part and felt as if I had just grown a thousand little sucker feet on the bottom of my real foot. I pushed off with a remarkable sense of power. That was exciting.
As I headed for home, I really felt as if I had gotten the hang of these things. My stride was more compact, and I was more up right as I ran. More than that, my feet felt alive. Rather than being the vestigial appendages that held on my shoes, they were active transmitters of power to the ground. (Whatever power there is to transmit, of course.) The rubbing had diminished, but that was probably because of the grooves that were now formed in my feet. The shoes looked a gory mess, but I was happy with my run. There is a lot of value in these shoes, and I still knock ’em dead in Williamsburg.