Confessions of a trail shoe

credit: telegraph.co.uk

Have you ever known anything as vile and flagitious as a foot? To have it violate and punish you although you have done nothing wrong? I hate being a shoe. I detest being a trail running shoe.

Days long ago, I was young. I still am, as I'm scarcely a year old. But then, I had a spring in my step, full, firm insoles and a well defined sole. These days, one could scarcely even see my true colors or recognize the tread I leave behind, if they can get past the many holes in my head.

Every couple of days, and sometimes for hours on end, that disgusting appendage would take control over my body. I can see, feel, and unfortunately smell, but my body was not my own. That ridiculously clothed foot, with five little individually wrapped sausages, would appear and assault me from the inside.

The only thing worse than being forced to run for hours on end absorbing that overweight slob's stomping were the weeks I spent in a small box in a dark warehouse. I would do anything to get out of there if only to end my misery. When El Slobbo tried me on the first time, I made sure to give him lots of cushioning, wrapped his feet with my soft uppers and lather his instep with my tongue. After he got me out of that store that we call the Guantanomo for shoes, I didn't give a shit how that fucker felt. I admit it.

On our first day on the trails, I found a large loose rock and made sure to step on it just off center. That fool twisted his ankle good. We walked home after that.

He woke me up early next week and we set off on another trail. I butted as many rocks and roots as I could. He winced a few times, complaining about this toenail or that, but he was hard to break. I would need to do this more often, even if it meant hitting my head to spite his toes.

Several miserable weeks later, after all the toe smashing and ankle twisting I could muster, I couldn't take much more. He took me on the longest run I've ever done. I tried scrubbing his heels and toes. I could feel the blisters growing under his socks but that stubborn idiot would not stop. It's unfathomable how much his foot smelled inside me. Minutes dragged into hours of nasty, stinky, sweaty torture as I got pounded again and again on the trail. It rained on both of us as he drug me through mud and river crossings, jumping over boulders, and flying through wet grass and fallen leaves.

Finally, the run was over. We crossed a finish line and both stopped to catch a breath. Reflecting back, something happened over the course of those 100 miles. Unexpectedly for the first time in my life, I felt exhilarated. I felt alive. I smelled like the earth and looked worse for the wear but never felt better. I wanted more. I was relishing the feeling of strength, the exhilaration of fresh mountain air, and the smells of the dirt, plants and water crossings on my underside.

In a surprise move, after a few short minutes, he tore me off his feet, cursed at his blisters, threw me in the trunk of his car and replaced me with Sandy. Scantily clad, thong wearing Sandy. Of course. I laid in the trunk of the car. I wanted out. I wanted another run. More fresh air, rocks, rivers, mountains. Anything. Let me live again. C'mon fat slob, I didn't twist your ankles that many times or give you too many blisters, did I? I wondered if my was life over, relegated to linger in darkness, a mirror of the first few weeks of my life.

I don't know how many days I spent in that trunk before he pulled me out. He hosed me down, and left me to dry in the sun. I cant deny the warm rays of the sun felt good but I didn't want to rest. I wanted to move. The next day, he put me back in the closet. There was a new member of our family, someone who looked a lot like me but younger. I could see the writing on the wall. Only a few months old, and I was to be replaced by someone younger.

El Slobbo took the youngster out for a spin but took me again the next day. As the days wore on, the young hot rod was gone for longer runs and I was used more sparingly. I tried to enjoy those days. Running on the trails - the same trails I'd run before - but I was not taking these runs for granted. I was going to appreciate what time I had left.

He stopped putting me away in the closet. Now I'm left outside. He puts me on when he does yard work and gardening. I work in cow shit all day. I hate being a trail shoe.