My heart always stuttered with anticipation mixed with sadness when I walked into my favorite running shoe store, Runner’s Sole. Anticipation for the new shoes I would walk away with- most likely already wearing- and sadness for the old worn out shoes I was retiring that had become a part of me after miles and miles of pounding across all terrain, being pushed to the limit. Flashback four years to the first time I visited that store, this time more nerves mixed with the anticipation. I was entering my freshman year and would consequently be running with the “Big Dogs” now. I had competed in track through middle school, but high school cross country was a whole different “ball game.”
     “-Sorry, we’re closed” said the sign on the door. My heart immediately dropped. I stood there staring longingly in through the window at the walls of brightly-arrayed shoes. I knew there was a pair among them that was meant just for me, but now I was doubtful I would ever get the chance to find out. The owner looked up from his work to study me for a minute, and
probably finding my expression pitiful, walked over and opened his door to me. My heart soared to new heights. His name was Scott and he didn’t make me feel like I was keeping him from something important, in fact, I got the feeling that this is what was most important to him, setting fellow runners up for success. He reminded me of my favorite uncle who owned a health club and was one of those stocky but strong-looking friendly guys.
     It was a long process, picking out The Ones. He began by looking at how I planted my feet, deeming me “flat- footed” which I could have told him, and giving me a selection of appropriate shoes to try. “Ok, the dilemma with you is that you need enough support that you don’t get shin splints, but not have too much weight that the shoe is too heavy for your size.” Well, that’s a bit of a catch 22, I thought.
     “I feel a lot like Harry Potter at the wand shop looking for just the right one. Are the shoes supposed to pick me?” I said with a breathy laugh.
      “You may laugh,” Scott said with a hint of friendly mocking, “but that is exactly what is supposed to happen.”

      I tried on the first pair of shoes and, like an amateur, was immediately impressed with the different levels of support; I thought I loved them. I took a few laps around the store and tried on the next. Repeat times five and I had finally narrowed it down to two. To make sure I didn’t let aesthetic value influence me, Scott made me grab one of each shoe, a left and right, run with them, and pick which ever one felt better, all without looking at my feet. In the end, I fell in love with a pair of gray and blue Ravenna Brooks.

      Even now, at the end of my high school running career, when I planned on trying out a popular pair of Nike, my feet always choose good old Brooks.  Guess I couldn’t ague with them. If it was possible to feel happiness in your feet, then I definitely did whenever I got fresh shoes. They seemed to scream Thank you, thank you, at me.
                                           …
      Monday- the epitome of unpleasantness. As my Brooks and I stepped onto the track, I knew I could count on a mentally and physically taxing two hours of practice. I adjusted my – shoes one last time, positioning the tongue of each exactly in the middle and tightening the strings. Staring at the logo on my shoes as I did so, I was reminded to “Run Happy” as Brooks suggested. Easier said than done, but good shoes definitely did make it easier. Today was an especially long run to the local car dealership, with added detours and hills “Just for us!” I started off with a light airy step, easing into the run. Now it was just me and my Brooks. Past the hospital, around the car wash, dancing across the train tracks. My shoes knew each step and recorded them. Breathe. Use your arms. My wings accelerated, flying me across the bridge. Eyes up. They locked on a marker about 200 meters in front of me, then choosing a new one as soon as I reached it. There always comes that point during each run, when you have to decide if this is going to be one of those days you come a little closer to realizing your potential, or a day that leaves you feeling like you cheated yourself out on something. Soon enough that point

arrived and that doubt crept into my exhausting brain, wrapping itself around the weak points, making me wonder if I could give any more, had any more energy to tap into. But just when it seemed the doubt was beginning to win out, I found my shoes going faster, working to match the pace of those in front of me. Thump, thump. It was that 5th gear, and my body wanted to argue with the Brooks, “Why is it so important? Why can’t we be content to be mediocre?” I knew the answer, but all the same had to be recommitted to it.
     But it wasn’t over yet; it was time for distraction. My shoes fell to the beat of “Stayin’ Alive.” Irony always worked better. “And we’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive.” When my brain got tired of that one, I switched to “What Doesn’t Kill you Makes you Stronger”, mentally belting out the lyrics my laboring lungs couldn’t presently handle, along with society. My shoes were no longer leather encasements, but merely extensions of my feet. I ran through a patch of thorns that threw off my internal concert when we reached the pavement. Run happy, that voice in my head said once again. Instead of complaining, my Brooks embraced their makeover as distance spikes, just in time for the final sprint! “Heel to toe, heel to toe,” sang my coaches voice that was always in my head. The spring returned to my step and with a last burst of effort, I leaned forward with my arms spread wide like an eagle’s and shot past the fence post, marking the end of the run. I congratulated my exhausted feet and thanked their supportive encasements. It was just one practice, but with each I could feel my strength growing.