"Sometimes the running is about unfinished business..."
Runner on the Bridge
the writing and running of Alexander Sebastian
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
I'll Miss You, part one
He couldn't remember why he was there.
He knew where he came from, well
aware that he turns over every rock from his past like a prospector
looking for gemstones. What he found, those bombshell facts and
secret aunts and roads that led to nowhere, gave him enough direction
that he knew what to steer clear from, if not always where to aim to.
He knew he was in a place, space,
thirty thousand feet up in the air crammed beneath a seat not in its
locked and upright position. He thought he would feel cut loose,
detached, disconnected when the plane left the ground. It shook and
fought, rumbled and creaked, but at lift-off the vessel was washed in
peace.
Yet...yet...what he really wanted to
know was why he was there, in this fortress that he called his heart,
walls built from the inside out and arrows ready to let loose, though
he hadn't yet given the orders. He didn't have to. He felt
protected, safe in that place where he could care less what people
thought of him.
But why here?
He would see if their bullets could
penetrate, step out and see if the walls have merit. So step he
would when the plane landed in Paris. And then he would run.
But there was always the problem of
fear, the one that clouds thought, reverses intent and kills
rationality? Simply, it started with language and his lack of
comprehension, for he wasn't used to being misunderstood, even worse
not comprehended at all. That used to happen with her sometimes,
he'd say something but what was heard was the complete opposite. But
he'd repeat his message over time until misinterpretation was an
impossibility. She taught him patience. It took effort, inside all
those angry arguments, but without her near it felt good to let the
arguments dissolve into the forgotten and just be left with the
affection she also offered.
“Bonjour” - that's “good
morning”, right? He'd have to be ready because his shyness made
planning his words a necessity. How hard would it be though to reach
out and connect with someone, maybe a runner?
Some of the hurt came from what he
knew, the givens. Standing amongst the old he felt small and
inconsequential, not important, when he compared himself to the
parade of men that came before him and accomplished more than he
could ever articulate. Running by the Arc D' Triomphe, where armies
passed through after victory, made him feel little like dust in
indefinite space. All of it gave him a knot in his stomach. All he
could do was grab on and not think of love's fleeting nature, how it
is a word or heartbeat from being a footnote in a bygone era. It was
tempting to him to try to make a possession out of love. You belong
to me, there's comfort in that. But it was also frightening to hold
on to something irreplaceable, no matter how delicately it was held.
The Hotel Regina looked vaguely familiar, stirring a memory that
played in his mind like a movie he once saw, black and white,
scratchy and dark.
He stopped for a moment, and that second turned into the better part of an hour, as he sat on the stone steps of a closed dressed shop and tried to imagine he was a Parisian. Poles that kept cars from parking on the sidewalk called out to every school kid to be weaved through in slalom-like fashion. Adults merely stood out of the way.
He wanted that doorway across the street that led to apartments above the stores be his front door, one he came home to every evening after a day's work at a bakery or replacing cobblestones. Inside, a round wood table by the window would look down upon where he now sat this morning. It'd be a place of comfort, as he put thoughts into words on paper in notebooks. This might be the place. He would need time to know, and time was always in short supply. That was never more evident than now.
Now.
For now he would cross bridges on his
run through a waking city. Bridges in Paris could be crossed on a
whim. He could zig-zag across the Seine or he could run on its
banks, so it was purely by chance he found himself on the Pont
Alexandre. Gilded, low, robust – these were traits he could aim
for.
Ile de la Cite was the type of locale he could imagine himself living in, tight and compact with well-defined borders. This was a favorite pastime of his, picking out windows of apartments to live in, ones with views of the river, some green at the edges and an opportunity to peer on to others below on the banks of the waterway. He never tired of watching lovers. Having a dream never got old.
A glint on a bridge above snapped him
out of his fantasy. It was enough of a non-sequitor for him to stop
and look for the nearest stone stairway to get himself up to the
railings that reflected the rising sun. Thousands of locks were
attached to the sides of a bridge built for pedestrians, clipped to
iron, clipped to each other. Upon each of these locks was written a
name, a name he presumed was not of the person affixing the lock, but
of the keeper of the locker's heart. For something so seemingly
private as the affection one feels for another – for why else do we
whisper words of love? - he felt reassurance in the company of brass
and steel proclamations. He didn't feel like such a fool.
A casual sign at the entrance to a
tabac across the street advertised locks for sale.
“Bonjour.”
“Bonjour. Un cadenas, s'il vous
plait.”
“Oui. Cinque euro...merci,
monsieur.”
“Merci, monsieur.”
An older woman behind him in line also
had a lock to purchase. He quickly paid the store owner for hers but
retreated from the shop before an awkward exchange could occur. He
liked fast little random deeds, but not so much the attention they
drew.
The lock came with a skeleton key.
He wrote her name on the lock, snapped it onto another someone's romantic gesture and stood back to take in the weight of so much giving. Below the bridge were barges tied to the stone wall banks of the Seine, boats retired from crossing, now homes for weathered sailors with turf on the cabin top and cats on the deck, resting. I could live there, too, he thought.
He buried the key deep in his pocket
and continued on with his run, vowing to the best part of himself to
return to Paris when he felt ready to rest.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
I'll Miss You, part two
The gentle patting of waves on the hulls of anchored dories suggested a life of pulling fish from the sea...or buying those fish to cook for patrons at a crowded taverna. From sea to plate to belly, the simplicity was appealing after time spent amongst a city living on the stage of a bygone era. Here in Vernazza, the era continued.
Sitting up, he took in the honesty of a town hunkered into the two hillsides of a small valley. Water from the creek spilled onto a small beach, a natural harbor, an entry and an exit. Church bells rang. Turning his attention closer at hand, or foot, he watched a small crab rest on a forgotten rope in the tide pools. With its delicate pinchers it pulled bits of scavenged food from the rope's fibers, feeding itself inconspicuously. When he moved in for a closer look, the crab scurried away under a rock.
He stopped and stayed in this Italian seaside town for three reasons – running, swimming and fish, for these were the three things he told himself he could not live without. Here, they were in abundance. Well-worn trails built of stone steps connected Vernazza to Monterosso to the northwest and to Corniglia to the southeast. He ran those paths for their rewarding difficulty, finishing back in town to dive into the sea to wash away the sweat, salt to salt, swimming with the sea life – gamboza, anchuige, sea bream - that would nourish him for the next day, the next run. If there was more that he needed, he struggled to figure out what that was.
From the sanctuary above town, it was tempting to imagine living there on the coast permanently, simply staying, learning the language and a new set of customs. Gravesites with marble headstones bearing the names of Fanelli, Gianni and Rosso rested in struggled-for spots, finally above it all.
He played his usual game – where would he live, which window would he peer from, which door he'd open daily. But all the windows were the same size. Four story apartment buildings hunkered shoulder to shoulder on long-forgotten bedrock, claiming the valley and relegating the creek to an underground channel.
This was a bold and honest way to live, he determined, to forfeit hillside views for a spot within the inner workings of the town, of the earth. Surely at some point in the future, the mountains would send down water and mud in quantities Vernazza could not absorb, scouring clean shops and livelihoods. But the town was old. They have cleaned up before, they have begun again, they have started over, which was what he was considering now. A lone house perched above him on a cliff spoke of the need for security, a fixation on guessing the future by the clarity of the horizon. But when that house goes, there will be nothing left. You never really know when it is going to rain.
No fences, no barbed wire, boats tied loosely, doors with locks that hadn't been turned in generations – why is it so hard for us to trust each other, back in that other place where we lock our hearts with keys and combinations, hidden and concealed in memory? The passageways of Vernazza were narrow. Mud shoveled out from one floor must be washed out to sea. A hand is a hand.
“Dooooorrrreeee...” The heavy
rowers voice bellowed and echoed across the water and over the
courtyard and up the Via Visconti. His big shoulders were ready to
row anywhere for a fair price.
He knew what he could do if this were
to be his home – the town runner, from village to village, carrying
words or packages or notes. He knew without a doubt he could
do this well.
“Mi potete aiutare, per favore?”
He was snapped out of thoughts of a
hypothetical future by the question of a young Italian man who had
approached him quietly from behind.
“Mi dispiace. Non parle Italiano.”
The young man frowned in mock
disappointment, his hair dark and skin olive. He held with care both
hands a large glass vase of ornate craftsmanship, filled
affectionately with countryside flowers. Standing at the base of a
ladder leading to a marble plaque, it became obvious the man needed
more hands.
“Help? Aiuto?”
“Si! Si! Grazie.”
Affixed to each plaque in the cemetery
was a picture of its deceased, flattering pictures from earlier times
of people in suits and Sunday dresses. At the top of the ladder was
a picture of a woman, Francesca Bianca Aurora, who must have been the
young man's grandmother, based on the dates of her life.
“I put the fiori here for my mother.
She lives in France. We miss my nonna.”
He understood enough to know this
woman died recently. The pain of loss was just sinking in, still
tender to the touch. The young man took a deep breath.
“Allora,” he said and climbed to
the top. He motioned with his hands for the vase to be passed up.
The exchange was smooth but as the young man stepped up a rung, the
vase was lost from his grip and suddenly airborne.
Without thinking, he had done
something he had always done when objects fell, something he read
about in a Mark Twain novel, a move Huck used to catch a knife – he
stuck his foot out to break the fall. And though the vase spilled
water and flowers to the dirt, the container remained intact, having
been slowed from breaking point by his interjection. There would be
a bruise there the next day, paired nicely with the red welt from the
key that was still in his pocket, but it was a small price to pay to
save the irreplaceable.
“Ah! Grazie! Grazie!” He talked
on and on about the vase, probably one of his last tangible reminders
of her.
“Prego.”
The vase could be refilled with water
and new flowers could be picked. He was thankful the vessel itself
was still in one piece.
“My name is Eduardo. You?”
“You speak English well.”
“Una piccolo.”
“I'm Rex.”
The young man's hand was warm and
strong. More than a handshake, it was a pull, closer.
Monday, August 26, 2013
I'll Miss You, part three
Venice was not how he remembered it. As an impressionable kid, he was introduced to a city of quiet canals and hidden courtyards, siestri and plaza. Venice offered surprise and romance, the promise of discovery if one embraced the possibility of what could be around the next corner, a wandering maze to solve with a reward at the end. It was a city of pockets, campo to campo, moments of relief after passing through walkways the width of an arm span. Without the vantage point of height or depth, Venetians had to accept the chance that anything could happen, that inspiration or a dead end were always just footsteps away.
However, the novelty of Venice had been exploited since he was last there, for the city was, after all, a center of merchants aiming to please and earn a lire. Glass shops and fabric stores were replaced by pandering food walk-ups and curios made quickly, consumed even quicker by people led through the annals of Venice like sheep. Familiarity is comfort and comfort opens wallets.
Plastic bottles floated in schools atop the Grand Canal. If there was one thing he despised while traveling it was being catered to, to be reminded of home. He came to Venice to feel Venetian but that Italian way of life was buried under a cloak of distraction made by the tourist trade.
But his memories of Venice were
sentimental and strong, not just of tight quarters but also of grand
squares filled with cafes and music, compari and soda ordered with grace, sam bucco sipped slowly. He
recalled the surprise of a paisley dress on a beautiful woman moving
briskly beneath a portico, the sun setting over the Adriatic, the
soothing sound of waves lapping against the limestone foundations of
palaces. He could hear the calls, today, of a cliched romance trying
to claim intangibles, to commodify heartstrings, to package and sell
love. He clung on to his memories like they were old photographs
from his past.
And he would not give up, for the
memory of being there with her was strong with an almost folk lorean
stance, as if he had always been there with her, never left. Could
he find the heart of Venice, which he hoped was still beating
somewhere and waiting to be found? He believed he could. He
believed in them, but it would take some effort to peel back the
clutter of days gone by. Only a lonely walk would do. He could run
another day.
For solitude, the walk had to begin early, or late, when the rolling shutters of cafes were pulled down closed. The last vestiges of light stuck around to well after 10, 22:00, on this midsummer's night eve. More patience. The beauty of Venice, he discovered first hand as a boy, was in wandering its passageways and campos approaching each journey in stages, stopping at a storefront display of linen fashions or a bar offering cicchetti, to be open to the possibilities of new experiences in a city a thousand years old.
For solitude, the walk had to begin early, or late, when the rolling shutters of cafes were pulled down closed. The last vestiges of light stuck around to well after 10, 22:00, on this midsummer's night eve. More patience. The beauty of Venice, he discovered first hand as a boy, was in wandering its passageways and campos approaching each journey in stages, stopping at a storefront display of linen fashions or a bar offering cicchetti, to be open to the possibilities of new experiences in a city a thousand years old.
So he walked with no particular
destination in mind, just the goal of a brief taste of the Venice he
remembered. When a noisy crowd blocked his way, he ventured down a
quiet side passage. Each turn increased his chances of getting lost,
each turn taking him past laundry hung from lines, each turn along
buildings of crumbling plaster revealing foundations of brick.
Around one of these turns an old woman stuck her hand out for change. He dug into his pockets for some coins that had been jangling around for half a day, forgotten. Dropping the change into her weathered hands, he paused for her to express gratitude. But she looked at the coins in disappointment. He hadn't thought about their worth, but now looking down into her palm he figured it was the equivalent of giving her a few pennies. She may have been poor and begging, but insults were insults. Quickly, he pulled a thousand lire from his pocket.
Around one of these turns an old woman stuck her hand out for change. He dug into his pockets for some coins that had been jangling around for half a day, forgotten. Dropping the change into her weathered hands, he paused for her to express gratitude. But she looked at the coins in disappointment. He hadn't thought about their worth, but now looking down into her palm he figured it was the equivalent of giving her a few pennies. She may have been poor and begging, but insults were insults. Quickly, he pulled a thousand lire from his pocket.
“Grazie a mille,” she whispered
with a smile and a touch to his shoulder. They went their separate
ways.
A long quiet slot between two buildings called to him. Absent of much light, he shouldn't have been intrigued. But he was. The sound of his steps lightly echoed upwards like something out of a movie. Each of his hands could touch opposing buildings as he walked arms outstretched. From behind curtained windows came the sounds of Italians living their lives – dishes clanking, water trickling down drains, “Aspetti...per padre...prima di mangiare.” Finally.
The welcome surprise at the end of the
walkway was that it ended at the water. He sat down on the stone
with his back against the wall, his feet near the dark water's
surface. He waited...
...for what he believed was so close.
It had to be. There was no where else to go. It didn't matter that
she wasn't there with him, he still kept inside everything she gave
him. He just wanted to feel it on his fingertips, close at hand,
without the weight of cliched romance that visitors to Venice often
fell prey to. It had to be real.
The high water line was marked by
seaweed and barnacles attached to pitted brick, salt water up high
where it didn't belong, causing Venice to slowly sink. They'd figure
something out. A city doesn't last 1592 years without some
creativity. He started brainstorming ideas, but the science and the
hour and the sound of lapping waves lulled him to unconsciousness.
His time spent asleep was hard and
quick, so much so that he wasn't sure where he was when he awoke.
But it was tranquil to the point where he didn't care. Silence was
something to behold, not destroy by movement. He felt good about his
decision not to run. It was moments like these she taught him to
wait for.
And that's when she came back to him
at last that night, on the wind as the scent of a perfume she once
wore, of tropics and vanilla, of style and desire. Scent took him to
somewhere he'd been before, delivered him to a place beyond
nostalgia. Venice tonight or yesterday. It didn't matter. As he
found himself now resting in the heart of Venice – it's subtle
charms scratched in walls, taste of garlic in the air, cool stone on his
palms – he also rested on the water's edge with her deep in his
heart, that place of protection beneath the distractions of the days
spent without her. Nothing was lost. It just took some quiet.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
I'll Miss You, part four
It could have been that he was trying to hard. The run up the Steps of Ascension to the Church of Madonna del Sasso was marked by fourteen engravings of Jesus' plight. Jesus he was not, though that wasn't a bad role model. He had work to do on his own beliefs but he thought if there existed a church like this back home, residing proudly on a mountain top above town, faith would not feel like such a chore. For now, he used the legs God gave him to power himself assuredly up the pathway made of river pebbles, stopping at each engraving to take in the weight of a story two thousand years old.
The granite courtyard in front of the
church's door afforded a view back down the mountain to the small
city of Locarno, resting on the shores of long Lago Maggiore,
Switzerland. Not too far south, the lake extended into Italy.
Glacial peaks of the Alps enclosed the lake like a fortress. No easy
way out.
Which was a fitting way for him to
feel as he was stuck in the fixed gaze of those at vista points, too
much to take in, too curious to look away. This city, this region,
held a grip on him that only home could compete with, for it was here
that he got his first taste of Europe so many years ago as a
wide-eyed child. The impression was deep, filled with Vespas and
Haribo and a language he wanted to speak. From the culture of
Switzerland he could create a new identity for
himself back home, and this set up a
pattern of yearly re-invention that was still firmly in place. Family friends showed him the best the place had to offer, the best of themselves as hosts and friends. Every few years he would return, his growing maturity allowing him to take back home this part of Europe as part of himself.
himself back home, and this set up a
pattern of yearly re-invention that was still firmly in place. Family friends showed him the best the place had to offer, the best of themselves as hosts and friends. Every few years he would return, his growing maturity allowing him to take back home this part of Europe as part of himself.
But looking down on Locarno didn't
feel the same now. Places change. This little city had grown,
filled in its blank spots with apartment buildings and occupied
vacant storefronts with American companies – frustratingly, just
like the home he needed space from. Longing for the Europe of his
past, he searched the shoreline from high up on the mountain for
places that would trigger a memory, something to bring him back to
the time when everything felt new. But it had been too long, or
maybe he was just out of practice, to have this approach of eyes wide
open with no assumptions, no need to rank things as “best”. And
now he felt stretched thin with a foot so far back in the past and
one in the future, so thin as to feel he was transparent, looked
through and discovered to be a fake in the present, his only line
“This is just like the good old days.” And even that was a rare
occurrence now. Apparently, the fortress wasn't as well protected as
he thought.
An elderly woman struggled with a
black iron gate, twisting in vain a stubborn latch. She wore a black
dress down to her shins, walking shoes with thick midsoles and a look
of determination. Everyday she walked up this path. She had her
expectations. This gate was supposed to open for her.
A quick jiggle of the gate showed it
was simply sagging and needed a lift to be released, so lift he did
and swung it open for her with ease and a touch of pride,
acknowledging to himself how good it felt to help someone with little
gestures. She passed through as the hinges were still creaking.
Taking his hand in hers, she said
“Grazie a mille.”
“Prego.”
She continued with her purpose down a
different path than he had ascended, one built of blocks of granite
set perhaps a century ago. He too slipped through the gate,
following her lead at a respectable distance. If he just looked at
her body and ignored her head of gray hair, his guess might be
thirty. She moved with the ease of a local, with confidence through
the familiar, always moving. Her past was her present would be her
future. He had several guesses about what she carried in her
tattered canvas bag, but whether it was vegetables for supper or
blankets for a friend, it seemed irrelevant to her direction. She
descended down to Locarno to be among people she never left.
Watching her, he wondered if she always walked with such intent. Some things never change, like the way one laughs or is predisposed to impatience. He wanted to think she was stalwart, a representative of the old guard keeping dying traditions alive. It could have just been though that this was his attempt to make this woman into all the important women in his life, for he missed her with an intensity that grew with time and distance. Now that he tried to bridge this gap, this stretching, this pulling, left him with an ache rooted in something becoming more intangible with each passing day. In his heart he didn't want to let go. Absence did make the heart grow stronger, but only when an end to the separation was in sight. He needed to see her somewhere in his future, though she was buried in the past, or soon he would snap. Something had to give.
The church loomed above him and the woman on its granite perch. Maybe it had been repainted in recent years. Was that yellow, mustard, gold? He saw a sign listing the daily masses, guessing a priest inside gave his best attempts at dressing up Christianity for a new generation, trying to make old traditions relevant and yet it all sounded so familiar. A smart priest would know he cant ever go back to the past. He understood this now, that nothing is ever the same tomorrow, that nostalgia should be respected like a sleeping tiger. Beauty could turn to pain. His ache was her, his fear that he would forget how much he loved her without her here by his side. And he didn't want to leave her behind. He wanted to carry her into today and wear her around his neck like a gemstone. But the day at hand felt as foreign as the ground he walked on. Why couldn't today be the day this country felt like home?
Back down by the lake and the Piazza Grande, by the hydrangeas and begging ducks, by cafe umbrellas and cigarette smoke, a series of benches faced the water, inviting leisure. In a natural yet inadvertant way he followed the woman to the lakeside, revealing his inattentiveness when she sat down next to an older gentleman and their movement stopped. She looked up at him.
“Grazie, grazie.” Thank you for a
kind gesture not forgotten by a shift in scenery.
“Prego,” he repeated.
She turned her attention to the
gentleman on the bench, pulling goods from her bag – salami,
cheese, bread – and placing them on his lap. In return, he held
both her hands in his and mouthed ancient Italian, their version of
the language created during intimate moments such as these. She
returned his affection with laughter and dancing eyes. He was the
lucky one. She gently pointed back up the mountain, mentioning the
details of the church gate. Then she excused herself and gestured to
him to sit in the open space on the bench by her friend.
“Sit. Sit,” said the old man.
“You speak English?”
“Yes, little bit. Come. Sit.”
The wood was warm where she had been. A breeze kicked up across the
lake, shaking locust trees. Time could stand still for all he cared.
“Grazie, per opening the gate. Her
strength, she is no so strong as she once was. But she make this
walk every day, so it's not so bad. You are from Australia?”
“No, United States.”
“Ah, American. Dove? Where?”
“California.”
“Si, California. It is beautiful,
yes?”
“Yes, but not like here.”
“No, no. Yes, it is beautiful. You
have the redwoods grande, ah.”
“Yes, I guess it is nice.”
“Si, si.” He sat back at a good
memory. “And now, you are on holiday?”
“Si.”
“And where have you been?”
As he told him about Paris and
Vernazza and Venice and now Locarno, the old man took in the
description of each city as he might ingest fine wine – in, taste,
gone, in, taste, gone. He pulled off chunks of piora cheese,
offering every other piece to the young man with a hunk of torn-off
bread.
Speaking aloud the thoughts he had
about each destination made them feel real, not a figment of his
imagination or just of his past. They were alive. And when he
peppered in stories of her, she felt alive too. The old man was a
good listener, his furrowed brow showing his intent to understand.
With each anecdote there was a smile and with each smile there was a
connection and with each connection he could feel his heart open.
The key that jangled around in his pocket with Swiss franc change was
probably a common key, would open most any lock. He wasn't going to
hide anymore. If the premise of any lock was thievery, he wanted
nothing to do with locks. In the back of his mind he knew a lock on
the Pont de L'Archeveche needed removing. Giving was worth the risk.
This old man was a master thief, for he picked the lock on his heart
with quiet skill, stepped inside and took a look around.
The old man could hear his
questioning, the doubt as to whether all these days added up to
anything. He whispered these words:
“Everybody's looking for the ladder.
Everybody wants to know how the story started and how it will end.
The steps you take, they are not so easy. But what's the use of half
a story, half a dream. You must climb all the steps in between.
'Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without
noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.' That is
Rilke. He was Austrian, not German. Ha! Un giourno, bene?”
“Si.”
The old man patted his arm before he
could respond much more, ending the moment in acknowledgement that
his listener wouldn't understand his words today but, handed to him
like a rough stone yet to be polished into a gem, their worth would
eventually become evident. The old man's hands were thick and
calloused.
His own hands were still smooth, he
still had time. So he would carry this stone with him, and not some
heavy key in his pocket that wouldn't open a rusty lock anyway. With
daily rubbing and patience, this stone could become precious. And
that, not a lock that freezes moments, was something he could wear
around his neck.
Finally, the salami was brought forth.
He smelled it, rubbed it with his thumbs and set it on the bench.
It was smaller than the American varieties, the meat darker and
speckled with more fat.
“Life is like a stick of salami,”
he proclaimed, now in full a full voice. “You must enjoy each
slice. Do not think of all the pieces you have eaten. And do not
slice salami in many pieces to have such a big pile in front of you.
You can only eat one at a time, no?” He pulled a knife from his
inner jacket pocket and cleaved off the first bit. “Slice just
one, peel and eat...enjoy. Then, aspetti...wait. Enjoy one at a
time. Capisce?
“Si.”
“Allora. Where do you go next?”
New days were ahead of him. Paris was
again on the horizon, but for now...
“Uno espresso a Cafe Revelli e
brioche con cioccolato e...e...”
“E' bene. Benissimo.”
Clinking next to the key in his pocket
was just enough change for a sip of strong coffee.Sunday, February 26, 2012
9 Great Running Shoes
"We travel on gravel, dirt road or street
I wear my Adidas when I rock the beat
Now the Adidas I possess for one man is rare
Myself homeboy got fifty pair
Got blue and black cause I like to chill
And yellow and green when it's time to get ill"
My Adidas, RUN-DMC
My Adidas, RUN-DMC
1) wears shirts that were either gifts or from races
2) pants until they get holes
3) jackets for a lifetime.
But shoes? Now, shoes I love. Maybe it is because my grandmother is Filipino and I could be distantly related to Imelda Marcos. And specifically, I'm talking about sneakers. Everyone looks cool in sneakers. Your model is out there - if you can't find it you're not looking hard enough.
Here are my 9 favorite sneakers I've worn in my life, in the order of most recent to earliest, which happens also to be from great to best.
9) Asics Bandito
The Banditos were my first racing flats. They were so much lighter than my trainers, I instantly dropped 30 seconds from my mile pace. See the decor on the top of the heel and the tongue? You better run fast. I wore these at the Boston Marathon and I cling to my last pair of this discontinued shoe.
8) End YMMV (Your Mileage May Vary)
current pair |
End's YMMV were made completely from recycled material, so that eases my conscience some from the dirty little secret that the production and disposal of running shoes is not doing the earth any favors. But eco-friendliness aside, these shoes are super comfortable for my particularly narrow foot. Another discontinued shoe, the picture on the right is of my last beloved. I'll wear these until they fall off my feet.
7) Asics Trail Attack
I won my first big race in the Trail Attacks, the North Face 50K in 2008. I started to think red was my lucky color. These shoes are light and grabby, like running with dog paws.
6) Nike Daybreak
When I finally hit size 10.5 at age 13, the Daybreak was the first of many shoes I stole from my grandfather (I grew up with my grandparents). How fitting. I slipped out in these most mornings before school for a quick 3 miler.
OK, now this shoe is ugly, probably better suited for walking on the moon than running. But with a fresh pair of tube socks the Fast Rider got me through my first Bay to Breakers. I don't remember ever wearing them again.
4) Adidas Stan Smith
So who didn't have a pair of these? If your main goal as a kid in the early Eighties was to fit in, the Stan Smith was your shoe. It was a playground workhorse, a good all-around shoe for every sport. This was probably the only time I wore the same shoes as the girl sitting next to me in class.
3) Puma Suede
The Suede was the first pair of shoes I put up on the window sill near my bed before I went to sleep. 'Nuff said.
2) Vans Era style #95
Not a running shoe per se, but when my friends and I got caught ding dong ditching I probably ran the fastest 400 meters of my life in these Dogtowns. The original Vans Off the Wall store was two blocks away from my childhood home in Torrance. I idolized the older kids shod in Eras who could skate in empty pools. If the sincerest form of flattery is imitation, well...heck, I still wear red and blue.
1) Adidas SL 76
SL stands for Super Light. You wore this shoe when challenged to see if you were the fastest kid on the block. I often had to settle for cheap knock-offs from the Get or Thrifty (2 stripes, 4 stripes), but when I landed a pair of these I was invincible, or so I thought in my mind. Bruce Jenner wore these when he won the Olympic decathlon in 1976. Bruce Jenner could do it all. To have a piece of your hero that you could wear everyday was empowering.
But you still have to do the running yourself, no matter what show you wear.
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