by James Birk
Chapter 18
I entered the shop with no small amount of trepidation. This was a new experience for me and one that I was not at all keen on. I had strived to avoid coming to this strange little establishment in an unfamiliar part of town, and had attempted to fulfil my consumer needs with a more established high-street brand but ultimately, although I could have acquired adequate goods at many suitable outlets, I couldn’t ignore the advice that I’d been given, which was to seek out expert help for this most fundamental of purchases.
I was about to acquire my first pair of running shoes.
I had ignored Bryn’s recommendation for far too long and, as my fitness was starting to improve I felt I was starting to earn the right to have some decent kit in my locker.
Just that morning I had gone for a six mile run, which had taken me just over an hour. This was significant not so much for the fact that six miles was the furthest I had ever run (which it was) nor was it significant because it had entailed running up a fairly steep hill (which it had), but because even though running six miles in just over an hour was hardly going to get me into any kind of record book, running for just over an hour was a huge step forward for me. I had never in my life done any kind of physical activity non-stop for an hour. Even the compulsory games lessons in school all those years ago had actually involved more time in the changing rooms, standing around listening to instructions and getting picked last for the team by my peers than any kind of actual exercise, so breaking the hour barrier was the most significant development in my training regime since the day I decided to actually get out of bed and attempt my first lap of Roath Park. Nonetheless I still felt distinctly out of place in a specialist running shop.
As I stood in the doorway of RunJogSprint, I realised that I had absolutely no idea what I was looking for. I felt completely overwhelmed. On the far wall opposite the doorway were shelves of running shoes of varying colours shapes and styles and I realised I hadn’t even done the most basic research into what sort I might actually need. Worse still, between me and the trainers were racks of specialist shorts, tops and leggings, none of which I had even considered buying before I walked in, but standing in the shop it occurred to me that maybe I did need to upgrade my whole outfit.
It seemed unnecessary though; I was comfortable enough in my shorts and T-shirt when I went running however ridiculous I looked. I had to admit, the trainers did seem like an obvious requirement. I was starting to get quite a few aches and pains in my calf area and Bryn had advised me that I was doing no end of damage to my joints, but now I felt that just buying trainers wouldn’t be enough.
There were other products too. Nutrition bars, high energy drinks, sweat bands, anti-blister socks. I picked up a particularly shiny vest from one of the racks close to me and nearly fainted at the price tag. Whether I needed them or not, my FFS salary (as long as it could be relied upon) was only just about going to pay for my trainers. Anything else would have to wait.
I sauntered over to the running shoes with as casual an air as I could muster, noting that even though RunJogSprint was in a less than salubrious part of town , it was remarkably busy. A harassed but rather attractive shop assistant bustled by me with a shoe box for a fairly athletic looking middle aged man, who looked like he had more than a few marathons under his belt already.
‘I’ll be with you in a moment,’ she called to me as she passed.
‘No rush,’ I replied but she was already out of earshot.
The place was bustling with runners of all ages, shapes and sizes chatting to each other about races they had been in or were going to take part in, and I began to pick up a sense of a community of sorts. It was admittedly, not a community that I felt a part of yet, but I felt that it was something I could be a part of, and could even enjoy being a part of one day. Hopefully one day soon.
‘Can I help?’
I turned around to see a short and fairly elderly looking woman in a RunJogSprint polo shirt looking up at me.
‘Err, yeah I need to buy some trainers,’ I replied, trying (probably unsuccessfully) to hide the disappointment that I wasn’t going to be served by the good-looking girl who had spoken to me earlier.
‘Yes,’ said the old woman curtly, ‘what for?’
‘Well, err, for running,’ I answered unsure if it was a trick question.
‘Yes, what kind of running,’ barked the woman impatiently.
What kind of running? How many types of running were there? Well I suppose there must be at least three if the name of the shop was anything to go by.
‘Err, jogging I suppose.’ I said without certainty.
‘Ok,’ the woman seemed satisfied, ‘and what sort of distances are you running?’
‘Well I’m going to run a marathon,’ I said puffing out my chest a little.
The woman sighed, as if she’d encountered quite a lot of ‘marathon runners’ like me before.
‘And have you done much training for this ‘marathon’’ she asked sceptically.
‘Yes.’ It was my turn to be curt, ‘Yes. As a matter of fact I ran ten miles this morning.’
It was a lie, but I didn’t think she would be as impressed by six miles.
‘Well, ok,’ she thawed a little, ‘so what kind of trainers have you been using to date.’
‘Oh, just a pair of running shoes I got from a high street retailer,’ I continued lying, ‘but a friend of mine recommended coming here for something more specialist.’
‘Well you do need to find the right shoe if you’re going to attempt a marathon, but I’m glad to hear you’ve been using something appropriate in the meantime,’ she looked down at the scruffy tennis shoes that I was currently wearing, and that had in fact been my training footwear to date, ‘you’d be amazed at how many people think it’s ok to go running in something like those.’
‘Well, I’m not a complete idiot,’ I said, avoiding her gaze.
‘Ok, well the first thing I need to do is find out what kind of a runner you are,’ she said, ‘so if you’d just like to roll up your trousers, I’ll get a pair of neutral trainers for you to run in.’
The bewildered look on my face told her that I hadn’t really understood any of what she had just said. She sighed again and looked at me despairingly.
‘I need to actually see you running, to see what kind of runner you are,’ she explained, ‘ and specifically I need to see what your ankles do when you run so we can decide what kind of support you need to have in your trainers.’
‘Ok,’ I shrugged and bent down to roll up my jeans, wondering how she was going to be able to see me run in this small, quite crowded shop.
She asked me my shoe size and disappeared into the stock room, reappearing a few moments later with a shoe box. She pulled out a fairly ugly pair of trainers and I put them on. They were surprisingly comfortable.
‘Right, let’s go outside so I can see you run,’ she said indicating the door to the shop.
‘You want me to go out there to run?’ I was astounded, ‘in the street?’
‘Well there’s not much room in here,’ she replied with a little too much sarcasm for my liking.
We stepped out into the cold January air, and I was alarmed to see how busy the street actually was.
‘Just jog up to that lamppost over there.’ she said.
I was utterly embarrassed as I started running gently in my rolled up jeans, while the old woman crouched down and squinted at my ankles. Though I’m sure the locals who frequented that street were used to the ritual humiliation of RunJogSprint customers, I still felt as if every pair of eyes in the vicinity was on me.
I reached the target lamppost and sauntered back.
‘That was good,’ said my tormentor, ‘but could you just do it one more time, so I can be sure.’
Two more agonisingly embarrassing runs later and she took me back into the shop.
‘You’re an over pronator,’ she said which was utter gibberish to me.
‘Ok,’ I replied as if
I had understood.
‘And obviously you’re a heavy runner.’
‘Ok,’ I repeated, slightly irritated by her use of the word ‘obviously’.
‘So I’ve got three different shoes for you to try,’ she continued, ‘they’re all pretty much the same specification, just different brands. The best bet is to try all three and see which suits you best.’
‘You mean go back out there and run again?’ I sighed.
‘Yes,’ she said pointedly, ‘unless you can think of a better way to test a running shoe.’
Unfortunately I couldn’t think of a better way, so three more humiliating runs in rolled up jeans it was.
In the end I couldn’t really tell the three brands apart. They all felt immensely superior to my battered tennis shoes, and each pair was as lacking in style as the next one.
In the end I went for the pair which had the least obscure brand name, and was the least aesthetically displeasing, although I felt the old lady would find my reasons too frivolous, so I told her it was because they had felt the best. I suspect she didn’t really believe me. She ran them through the till and charged me an obscene amount of money for them.
‘Good luck with your marathon,’ she said as she handed me the bag.
‘Thanks,’ I said, and glancing around the shop at all the other paraphernalia, I added, ‘do you think I need any other gear to go with my trainers.’
She eyed me sceptically, and said, ‘Stick with the trainers for now. You can run a marathon without any of this other stuff, but you can’t run a marathon without decent trainers.’
‘Ok, great. Well thanks for all your help,’ I turned to leave, paused and turned back to her, ‘if there was one other thing you’d recommend I bought though, besides trainers, what would it be?’
‘Socks,’ she replied without hesitation, ‘you can’t go wrong with a good pair of socks.’