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.

Born to be shod

After years of resisting, I finally gave in and read Born to Run by Chris McDougall.

I say “gave in” because I definitely didn’t want to read it. My mom practically made me. Every time I talked to her, she would mention it.

“Oh, you have to read it,” she would say. “You just have to. It’s soooooo interesting, and he’s such a good writer. I think every runner should read it. Really, they should. Blah, blah, blah…”

I kept telling her no, I wasn’t interested in reading about some weird old dude who lived with a tribe of secretive Indians in the Mexican wilderness. I had much better things to do. Like shred old bank documents. Or alphabetize my spice cabinet.

In all honesty, I didn’t know much about the book other than its reputation as the catalyst of the minimalist running craze—which is exactly why I refused to read it.

By now, most of you are aware of my aversion to minimalism. It just seems ridiculous to me that anyone would choose a structureless, cushionless, laceless rubber foot glove—or worse, no footwear at all—over a shoe that was scientifically engineered specifically for running.

It seems even more ridiculous that anyone would completely abandon the footwear they have been running in their whole life as the result of one stupid little book. And yet, people all over the country have done just that—all because of Chris McDougall and his “Bible of Minimalism.”

My mom finally managed to pawn her copy off on me. It went straight to the bottom of the stack of reading material on my nightstand—beneath even the four-month-old issues of Us Weekly that had been passed down from my grandma, to my aunt, to my cousin, to my other cousin, to my mom and then to me. (Hey, I’m not going to pay for that crap. But I will read it. Don’t judge me.)

Eventually, my stash of fine literature shrank down to reveal the novel that I had somehow grown to despise without reading a single line. I sighed and picked it up.

Ok, McDougall. I thought. Let’s see what you’ve got.

My mom was right about one thing—he’s a fantastic writer. So fantastic, in fact, that I almost got sucked right into believing that I could run hundreds of miles in leather sandals eating nothing but corn mush.

The guy definitely did his research, and the science he presented was pretty dang convincing. All that stuff about Achilles tendons and glute muscles and heat regulation? Genius! He was clearly on to something. Maybe humans really did evolve as the greatest distance runners on Earth.

But any goofball with a journalism degree knows that it’s easy to prove a point when you include only the facts that back it up. (Or just make up your own, right Dan Rather?) The difficulty lies in constructing a balanced story that takes all sides into account.

So here’s the deal, McDougall: I buy your argument that we evolved as runners. But I think a more balanced approach to this argument would have at least mentioned the fact that our habitats have changed — and diversified — substantially since the dawn of humankind.

I mean, I hate to be that loud, politically incorrect friend who makes everyone else uncomfortable, but have you ever noticed how much you don’t look like a Tarahumara Indian? Or a Kenyan? Or a Kalahari Bushman?

Maybe some people are born with all of the equipment they need to run for hours on end, but they probably don’t have ancestors who rode horses and ate inbred livestock.

What I’m trying to say is, humans might be born to run, but we are born to run unequally. And some of us are born to run in gel soles.

To put it in perspective, I have created the following series of charts displaying the changes in human lifestyles over time, both for the Tarahumara Indians (a.k.a. “The Running People”) and Caucasians (a.k.a. “The Lazy Assholes”).

1,000-10,000+ years ago

	Tarahumara	Caucasians
Means of traveling short distances	Running	Old horses
Means of traveling long distances	Running	Trusty steeds
Means of food acquisition	Running	Farming
Diet	Wild plants and game	Wheat, beans, goat

200-500 years ago

	Tarahumara	Caucasians
Means of traveling short distances	Running	Horses
Means of traveling long distances	Running	Wagons, locomotives
Means of food acquisition	Running	Markets, taverns
Diet	Wild plants and game	Bread, cheese, pig

Present day

	Tarahumara	Caucasians
Means of traveling short distances	Running	Segways, Vespas
Means of traveling long distances	Running	Airplanes, automobiles
Means of food acquisition	Running	Walmart, Golden Corral
Diet	Wild plants and game	Corn syrup, animal byproduct, Red Dye No. 40

Look, I’m no expert, but it doesn’t take a rocket anthropologist to see that the evolutionary selection factors for the Tarahumara Indians were significantly different from those that affected your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather from Canterbury. (By the way, American Anthropologist, if you’re interested in publishing this research, I’d be willing to entertain a proposal. We’ll be in touch.)

No rubber footwear—or lack thereof—is going to make you any less biomechanically inferior to The Running People.

So, despite Chris McDougall’s best attempt to make me a foot-glove convert, I remain firmly committed to my belief that white people need shoes. And dance lessons.

TSA-holes

Well, I knew that knocking on wood wasn’t going to last forever. Eventually, my knuckles would get sore. Or I would get injured.

I am happy to report that all of my hand joints are in tip-top condition. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for my left Achilles tendon.

What really grinds my gears is that I’m pretty sure I didn’t hurt it running. It’s been almost a year since my college career—a.k.a. five years of walking a string-thin tightrope between peak fitness and serious injury—went off the air, and I have definitely dialed back both the quantity and quality of my mileage.

The last few weeks have been particularly jog-tastic, as I find it difficult to coax my legs into moving quickly when it’s dark and 21 degrees outside. (For real ya’ll—could I get some daylight savings up in here?)

So, as a mature, responsible adult who appreciates the values of character and integrity, I have decided to pawn the blame off on someone else. And that someone is TSA.

That’s right, folks—the Transportation Security Administration has it out for fit, active individuals like you and me.

Imagine the following scenario: You’re in line at airport security. You have all of your liquids organized and safely zipped inside of a one-quart plastic bag. You have your laptop out of its case and ready for examination. You even remembered to wear pants that don’t require a belt, just to speed up the process so you can hurry up and wait in line some more.

Of course, airports are big, and you anticipated having to walk a fair distance once you arrive at your destination. So in the interest of comfort, you wore your running shoes. Big mistake.

Now you’re jamming up the line as you scramble to untie your double-knotted laces. The man behind you sighs loudly in an attempt to inform you of the inconvenience you have caused him, as it has now been close to 30 seconds since he removed his Denver Broncos Crocs, and he still hasn’t gone through the metal detector thingy yet.

The TSA agent rolls his eyes at you as you carefully place your prized pair of Asics Cumulus on the belt. When you collect your footwear and the rest of your possessions on the other side of the Wand Squad, you cause yet another logjam as you bend over to put your shoes back on and re-tie the laces. You’re pretty sure Croc guy gave you the finger as he huffed off to the C gates with his backpack on wheels.

And to think, all of this could have been avoided by wearing a simpler—albeit less supportive—pair of shoes.

So guess what? That’s what I did. I wore a pair of flimsy canvas flats through the entire Las Vegas airport. Then I wore them through a giant Las Vegas shopping mall. And when I cruised up and down the strip with the rest of the drunken tourists? Yep, I wore them then too.

But Brooke—you might ask—why didn’t you just wear your running shoes once you got to Vegas?

Because I’m already a pasty-ass Montanan who has no business wearing shorts in a town full of fake tans and, well, other fake things. So I wasn’t about to make myself even more of an aesthetic misfit by tromping around in a pair of dirty sneakers.

Well, then why didn’t you just pack another pair of cuter, more supportive shoes?

Because I had to cram everything I wanted to take into a tiny carry-on bag, since I’m cheap and I refused to pay $40 to have the airlines accidentally fly my bag to India (again). Supportive shoes tend to be more bulky, which is why they didn’t make the cut.

So, by way of deductive reasoning, airport security is 100 percent responsible for the stinging pain I feel at the base of my heel bone every time something—including the back of a shoe—touches it.

Are you happy now, TSA? You got your way—now I can’t wear any shoes with straps, buckles or laces. I am confined to clogs and Ugg boots, which severely limits my workout options (last time I checked, my gym didn’t offer any Irish clogging classes).

I’m stuck in the pool until further notice, which, among other things, means I will have bad hair until further notice. Stand by.

Foot-gloves: the new sock-shoes

I grew up in a pretty athletic family, which meant we spent a substantial portion of our weekend shopping excursions perusing the aisles of stores like Gart, Foot Locker, Academy Sports, and Dick’s.

My brother, unlike me, was blessed with the gift of hand-eye coordination. His sports gear needs, therefore, were diverse and constantly changing. In the fall, he needed football pads, cleats, practice jerseys and mouth guards. In the winter, it was basketball shorts and high tops. Spring was the season for baseball bats, mitts, and another pair of cleats—because hello, you can’t play baseball in football cleats. Just ask the shoe salesman at Sports Authority.

I was never very good at sports that required hitting, shooting, throwing or catching, which eliminated pretty much everything except cross country. So for the most part, the only equipment I requested was a simple pair of running shoes.

Fast forward ten years—I know, it’s a big jump, but stay with me. This is the crucial part of the story. A few months ago, I started noticing a disturbing trend. People were wearing—and running in—shoes shaped like feet.

I know what you’re thinking—duh, Brooke, of course shoes are shaped like feet. That’s the point.

But these kooky kicks took the idea of a snugly fit shoe to a whole new level. Imagine dipping your foot in liquid rubber, letting it harden, and then using the resulting product as footwear. Welcome to the “minimalist movement.”

Before I knew it, I was seeing these glorified water shoes (actual name: Vibram FiveFingers) everywhere—on running trails, at road races, on the track, and at the gym. There is no way you could fit a sock inside those suckers. Every time I saw someone exercising in them, I couldn’t shake the image of the hot, sweaty, stinky mess that was surely brewing underneath that thin layer of rubber.

I never once considered jumping on the minimalist bandwagon—that would only guarantee me yet another notch on the old injury belt. Besides, I’m already sweaty enough. My minimalist footwear would have to be light and breathable—like a sock, but with a protective sole.

That’s when it hit me: I was a running shoe minimalist way before people started squeezing their tootsies into rubber foot-gloves.

Okay, now let’s rewind a bit—back to the world of my brace-faced, fuzzy-headed 14 year-old self. I had just started practicing with “the high schoolers,” which was a pretty big deal for a lowly eighth-grader.

To help me prepare for track season, my parents took me shopping for new running apparel. I picked out ten pairs of Soffe shorts in assorted colors (all the rage circa 2002) and of course, new running shoes: a bright red pair of Nike Prestos.

For those of you who don’t remember Nike Prestos because you were either too young or too smart to run in them, let me bring you up to speed: this first-generation minimalist shoe was, for all intents and purposes, just a thick sock attached to an utterly worthless foam base.

But forget about function—when you’re a nerdy middle schooler trying to make an impression on the cool high school runners, it’s all about fashion (as you can tell by looking at this photo from my early competitive running career):

Prestos became my signature. Everywhere I went, people asked me about them. At track meets, I was known as “the girl with the sock-shoes.” It never occurred to me that this nickname might have been intended as a diss, which was probably the case.

I began to think of myself as a pioneer of cutting-edge running technology. I was convinced that a more conventional shoe model would be too heavy and bulky. My Prestos made my feet feel light and fast. When I started winning races, I became even more certain that my featherweight footwear was giving me a competitive edge.

And then I got hurt.

It was my first of many foot injuries, and my doctor was appalled to learn that I had been logging 100% of my training miles in a pair of fancy slippers disguised as running shoes.

“But they’re so light,” I argued, desperately trying to change his mind.

“I know. And do you know why they are so light?” he asked in a slightly condescending tone. He paused for effect. “Because THERE IS NOTHING THERE TO SUPPORT YOUR FEET! YOU MIGHT AS WELL WEAR SHOES MADE OUT OF RECYCLED PACKING PEANUTS!”

And just like that, my blossoming minimalist tendencies were nipped in the bud. When my injury had healed and it was time to purchase a new pair of running shoes, I opted for the Asics Gel Cumulus model.

By normal running shoe standards, they were relatively light. Still, compared to my old Prestos, they felt like cinderblocks with shoelaces. Gradually, though, I got used to them. Soon I refused to run in anything else.

If it hadn’t been for the exploding popularity of the minimalist FiveFingers, I might have lived my entire life without the slightest remembrance of my fleeting love affair with Nike Prestos.

As an older, wiser—some might even say sagely—runner, I cannot think of a single argument for running in a shoe that is basically a modified scuba fin. People will say things like, “Oh my gosh, they are sooooooo comfortable.”

Well, mukluks are comfortable too, but would you want to wear them on a hilly five-miler? That’s a rhetorical question.

Today’s mainstream running shoes are the product of decades of scientific research. They have been carefully designed to accommodate the subtleties of human biomechanics. And best of all, they are super soft and cushy.

If running is your preferred mode of exercise, running shoes are really the only piece of specialty equipment you need. In fact, I would argue that running itself could be considered a “minimalist movement”—with or without stinky foot-gloves.