See that littel ducky foot to the right? That's barefoot running, baby. Sit down for this one.So, in the spirit of being a better me... I was going to go for a walk today. I went to the track on Monday, and came to the conclusion that I should do that every day. So, true to form, here I am, two days later, getting back to it.
Also, at the track, I had come to the secondary conclusion that my right foot is actually longer than my left foot. There is a sticky outy spot on my heel (maybe a bone spur? I could be an honest-to-goodness cowgirl, I am in Texas.) and it rubs against the back of my sneaker. It rubs a hole in either my skin, or the sneaker, it just takes time.
Flashback a few months: During one of my ...*ahem* restroom reading moments, I read an article in Experience Life magazine about Barefoot running. Now it deserves to be said that Experience Life is a magazine that was sent by my trendy gym. My trendy, environmentally conscious, globally aware, and extremely expensive gym.
As an aside, that was the most money I ever spent, per month, for a gym, but it really delivered. Not only did I purchase guilt for not going to the gym, it came with a side dish of guilt for not saving the earth, not eating only organically grown vegetables from my back yard, not spinning local grasses to make my clothes, AND it sent me a magazine every month to remind me of my inadequacies, just in case the big old ding to my credit card every month wasn't enough. Of course, now I go to a much cheaper gym, a third of the price. I am , however, really not getting as much for the money. The little plastic tag on my key ring to let me in the door - well theoretically, anyways - doesn't even remotely make me guilty, although there are small pangs when I see the credit card statement each month.
So I guess where I was going with that is - a magazine that promotes mountain climbing (in your very own city - just scale buildings) and pole walking (you carry poles, seriously. Who thought THAT was a good idea?) also brought me the idea of barefoot running. Oh, it sounds so nice. You use all these different foot muscles that your sneaker normally hides. Your stride changes, and instead of being a heel walker, you land more softly on the ball of your foot, you even return to the childlike fun of play. I even looked at the little sneakers they make for barefoot running. There they are, right up there. Yep, sneakers. You can pay $80 for sneakers to make you think you are walking barefoot. UH....I think I might notice the $80 bucks - even if I could be convinced that I was barefoot with these funky puppies on my feet. I mean look at them! If I put those in the closet, all of the gloves will kick their asses over turf wars! The other sneakers will pick on them! The sandals - well, let's not even go there.
So. Combine these things: I want to go for a walk. My right heel hurts. I read an article in a magazine some months ago, and did a minor amount of research. The conclusion is obvious and ...well... kind of sad. More research might have shown me this quote:
" "Barefoot running isn't for sissies," says Jonathan Summers, a 37-year-old Boston horticulturist who took up the regimen this summer after seeing a couple of unshod runners pass him by at a local 10K race. "It's like running on sandpaper." ..." or even this one..."Nowadays he limps to a halt after eight miles because his bare feet heat up and blister. Since commencing barefoot training through the streets and hills of San Diego 18 months ago, he's consulted an acupuncturist for pain relief. A sports-injury specialist taught him to remove deeply embedded thorns from his feet with a box cutter. Mr. Yoshino says he'll need to lance another 100 blisters before achieving his dream -- an outer crust on his feet as hard as that of some Australian aborigines. "It's no picnic," he says..."
Oh, this ranks right up there in stupidity with my decision to get married in the Bahamas. So, I start out in my Stupid Boston Vacation Sandals. Now, my SBVS are a story all of their own. Lets just say for now they are size 5.5 and I am a 7.5 or 8. And that my toes, especially the little guy that had none? You know, right next to the one that cried wee wee wee all the way home? My toes hate the SBVS. But they are so CUTE! Ate right up with dumbass, I have gotta tell you!
So I head out for my walk, doing the usual brain equations, reminding myself I only have to walk for fifteen minutes, then I can turn around and go home, that is only four songs on the ipod, about two miles, oh look, this song is 3.25 minutes, this one is (why do they do that to me - does my Math brain need to be encouraged to add???) Meanwhile, the feet, in the SBVS are okay, but feeling a little peaked. But the road is a little rough, and there are other people - driving by, you know. So on minute 22, I am feeling a little pain, but - I just walked DOWN a huge hill. So I notice that I am almost at the highway - oh, cool, I'll just walk around the "block". OOH, if there were moments in time you could go back and change....
By minute 28, I realize it is time to start the barefoot session, because I cannot walk one more step in the SBVS. As I slide off the SBVS, my toes give a little sigh of relief. Have I ever mentioned that there is not one human being in Texas who is barefoot, ever? Other than the fireants, which would make any sane human rethink the theory, there are something called stickers. They are like the tiny spiky bones of some mammalian creature from hell. And, they really do stick. So there is no opportunity to take my hot feet off the hard asphalt and onto the cool soft grass - because there really isn't any. Sand burrs, cockles, and the general road trash make that impossible. After about four minutes more, I realize I am in trouble. Barefoot - hurts. SBVS - not going back on the feet too well. And I am past the halfway point - or so I think.
New muscles - found them all. Landing softly on the balls of your feet? Well, that works too, but I think the body does that as a defense mechanism to fool whatever sharp object might be down there.
Apparently, in a fairly affluent area in Texas, a woman walking with her shoes in her hands appears to need help. On minute 72, a biker - the Lance Armstrong kind, in spandex and about 85 years old - he must read Experience Life magazine - stopped to see if I was okay, limping along, sandals in hand, toes bloody, but with my bright smile plastered on my face (remember the childlike fun of play part? I tried.). He asked if I was okay - and then if I was almost home - and mercifully, by then I was. Would he have offered me a ride on his handlebars? I might have accepted! Oh, but wait, I remember Mom's advice. Never ride your bike barefoot. Hmmmm.
Mom Should write for Experience Life Magazine.
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