Pain in the Asics

Asics, I have a bone to pick with you. Fifty-two bones, actually.

There was a time, in the not-so-distant past, when I would not have felt the need to explain the above biological reference. But since you obviously no longer base your shoe designs on human anatomy and physiology, I will spell it out for you: together, my feet contain a total of 52 bones. And right now, thanks to your senseless redesign of my beloved Gel-Cumulus, not a single one is happy. 

I understand that product improvement is a natural, necessary component of America’s consumer-based economy. To stay in business, companies must constantly pump out “new and improved” goods that both attract first-time buyers and keep the attention of repeat customers. I mean, think about it: if Americans were satisfied with the original version of every product on the market, we’d all be driving Model T’s, watching three channels of black and white TV, and navigating unfamiliar cities with fold-out maps that can neither search for the nearest Red Lobster nor provide step-by-step instructions on how to get there.

Every once in a while, though, a company comes up with a product so amazing, so brilliant, so incomprehensibly perfect, that the mere suggestion of a redesign would be like telling Patrick Dempsey to do something with his hair. The Cumulus was, in my opinion, one such product.

I acquired my first pair of Cumulus the summer before my sophomore cross-country season in high school. It was love at first run—the way the light, cushy sole cradled my heels and arches with every footfall; the way the laces hugged my forefoot with just the right amount of pressure; the way the roomy toe box accommodated my abnormal phalangeal* structure.

Since then, I have purchased an average of three pairs of Cumulus per year. According to the series of quick phalangeal** calculations I just performed, that means I’ve gone through approximately 30 pairs of Cumulus in my lifetime. In those shoes, I have logged upwards of 12,000 miles, or about 36 million foot strikes. THIRTY-SIX MILLION.

Imagine, for a moment, that over the last decade you have consumed 36 million McChicken sandwiches. What does that mean, aside from the fact that you have spent $36 million on fast food and your liver health/budgetary skills are questionable at best? It means that if the master chefs at your local McDonalds tried to short you an ingredient—the unsettlingly warm mayonnaise, for example, or perhaps the highly impractical shredded lettuce that somehow always ends up on your lap, on the floor of your car, or in some other place that is not your mouth—you would notice. Immediately.

So when I laced up my brand new Cumulus 14s for a nice morning jaunt through the neighborhood, I could tell something was wrong before I even left the driveway. These were not the Cumulus that I knew and loved. These were imposters.

That the folks at Asics thought they could sneak one by me is not just upsetting—it’s downright insulting. Come on, Asics, did you really think I wasn’t going to notice that you eighty-sixed the gel cushioning in the midsole? Or that you narrowed the toe box to such a degree that I would have to amputate my pinky toe to achieve the roomy fit to which I’ve grown accustomed (which, for the record, I am not willing to do)?

We had a relationship built on trust. For years, I trusted you to provide me with a shoe I could rely on—a shoe so dependable that I never even felt the need to try it on at the store. I would simply walk in, ask for a size 7 ½, pay the nice man (or woman) at the counter, and be on my merry way. Now that trust has been violated, and our relationship can never be the same.

It might sound like I’m breaking up with you, and if that were the case, could you really blame me? You did me wrong, Asics. You hurt me. Literally—my feet are effing sore. But, before I go looking for a new shoe to call my own, I’m willing to give you one last chance to make things right. And by “things,” I mean “shoes.”

In fact, I’ll make a deal with you: As long as the Cumulus 15 is an exact copy of the 13, we can all just forget that the 14 even happened, kind of like Kevin Federline’s rap career. 

*Of, or relating to, toe bones. That’s a good one to remember if being a contestant on Jeopardy! is part of your life plan.

**Of, or relating to, finger bones. Yes, there are two types of phalanges. Confused? I blame Canada.