The Quest For The Shoe of Sport
Part The First: The decision maker.
The cup feels comfortable in your hand.
You take a sip of coffee and enjoy the feel as the liquid warms you.
Today will be a good day, you decide.
The start of a new way of life for you because the night before you made that all-important decision.
No longer would you put up with stiff joints and weak muscles.
No more groaning as you carefully slip out of bed in the morning.
The decision has been made. The family consulted. Friends warned.
You are going to get fit again.
Oh, you know it may be a long journey. One fraught with potential pitfalls.
But you are firm in your resolve – From today this Baby Boomer is going to become “THE JOGGING BABY BOOMER.”
You like the sound of the capital letters. You consider adding a couple of exclamation marks but decided that way lies madness.
Still, the letters sound like … the path to your first stroke, bad knees, aching back muscles, sweating, panting … NO!
You force your mind back on track and away from the fears of age.
You try again.
They sound like health (that’s good), agility (better still), strength (useful), and a better sex drive (nice bonus).
Fortified by your new positive thinking, and a second cup of caffeine, you step boldly outside your home.
Then, head quickly back in to collect your wallet, which you left on the kitchen table. Oh, and to use the bathroom once more, just in case.
THEN, you step boldly onto your drive, ready for the first step in your new journey.
The voyage to the shop of sporting merchandise.
[Now that you’ve left the safety of your home, what terrors await? Death? Mutilation? Out-of-order toilets? Read on in Part The Second to find out. or run back screaming to your house and click here. (We won’t tell anyone you wimped out.)]
Part The Second: The Face
The moment you dare to set foot in the shop of sporting merchandise, you know you will be noticed.
Over in a corner, your every move, your expression, every gesture and hesitation will be watched.
And analyzed.
Closely.
Still, you hold your head up and try to keep your walk casual as the slick, glass doors open with a seductive whoosh.
There you spy the objects of your quest.
Lined up in battalions of bright rubber and bold logos are row upon row of shoes.
They look at you. They confront you. They dare you to come forward.
Now you start to become confused. There are so many of them. Different brands, different colours, different styles, all with exciting names.
Do you need gel or air bubbles?
What does that even mean?
You hesitate, and that’s when you hear the voice.
“Hi, can I help you?”
Slowly, you turn to look into a face with a carefully arranged smile.
A face that says, “You’re old. You’re not an athlete.”
Again, the voice speaks: “Okay, so those are running shoes, for like runners.”
Oh, it sounds innocent enough, but you KNOW.
You start to feel Age descend on you.
What were you thinking? Who were you trying to kid?
You become horribly aware of all those little bulges which you once used to be comfortable with.
Now they mock you.
“Yes, I’m thinking of getting some exercise in,” you reply with an attempt at confidence.
And immediately, you feel compelled to justify your comment.
“Well, you know what they say: it’s important to keep fit. So, I thought I’d start jogging—well, at least get started. "
You can’t seem to stop talking. “I used to run quite a lot when I was younger …”
More justification. More explanation.
The eyes watching you show mild interest, but no pity.
“Oh, right, okay. So what kind were you looking for,” the voice says, trying to disguise the boredom.
KIND!? KIND!?
Your eyes dart along the shelves.
How can any normal human decide?
Row after row, the colourful shoes seem to sense your growing nervousness.
“Pick me,” hisses one.
“No, me, I’m a cross-trainer,” another insists.
“I have gel in my soles,” a third teases.
And still, the face watches you. Sensing your hesitation. Your uncertainty.
Your weakness.
Frantic now, you point desperately.
“Do you have those in my size?” You try to regain your composure.
“Sure. What size are you?”
The question throws you.
By now, you’re not even certain of your name.
“Size 10.” That sounds about right.
The face turns away and mutters something.
For the first time you notice the face is adorned with a headset.
Who are they talking to? Where are the others?
“Get a grip,” you tell yourself. A place this large must have dozens (thousands?) of other faces.
You try to listen to the voice.
“Yes, size 10 … Well, that’s what they said.” The face turns back to you, and its eyes quickly scan you up and down.
“What? Okay, cool.”
The face turns to look at you full-on.
“No, sorry, we don’t do them in that size.”
Did you detect an emphasis on the word “that”?
Why? You’ve always thought size 10 was normal. Average even.
But now you feel that perhaps you have mutant feet. Grotesque, swollen, oversized appendages that would horrify children.
Your resolve completely gone, you wave your hand desperately at another pair.
Again, the face partly turns away. Again, the muttered exchange on the headset.
This time, when the face turns back to you, it contains a look of mild surprise.
“Yes, we have your size. I’ll go get them for you, okay?”
You sink down onto a cushioned seat.
“Nearly there,” you tell yourself. “Stay strong.”
[Has the face gone to bring you tempting merchandise, or reinforcements? It doesn’t bear thinking about, but hey, you’ve come this far, so brace your bits and dive into Part The Third … or use your magic token to head to a safe place (didn’t know you had that, did you?)]
Part The Third: Faltering courage
The face returns holding a colourful box.
“We didn’t have that colour in your size, but we do have this one.”
Slowly, the lid of the box is lifted. The soft white paper inside pulled apart.
You quickly try to shield your eyes as the shoes inside don’t so much reflect the overhead light as attack you with it.
You’d hoped for the darker, duller, almost nondescript shoes on the shelf.
Shoes that wouldn’t make you look like you were trying to regain your lost youth. Trying and failing badly.
These shoes would stop traffic and probably come with a health warning.
But the face is looking at you expectantly, holding up one of the eye-destroyers for you to try on.
You want to say no, but your courage fails you.
All you now want to do is to get out. To leave this lair with its whispering shoes and racks of gently swaying, gently sighing clothes.
“Great, perfect. Thank you,” you gush.
“Will that be cash or credit card?” The face looks vaguely amused.
“Yes, you say.” Then you realize what you’ve said. “Credit card.”
The shoes are placed back in the colourful box. The gentle white paper carefully laid back over them.
As this goes on, you look at the entrance.
Outside, there is daylight and people strolling by without a care in the world. You desperately want to be with them.
“Here you are.” The face hands you a bag.
“Do you need anything else?”
“No,” you almost scream.
“No, thanks. That’s it for now.”
You’re backing towards the door.
Closer. Nearer. Almost there.
“Come again,” says the face, sounding almost jocular.
You give a sickly, noncommittal smile. Then, turn and push open the door into your world.
As you head home clutching the box with its dazzling shoes inside, you begin to feel a sense of victory.
You have finished your quest. You have the shoes, and you have escaped the lair of sports merchandise and its faces.
Yet part of you feels let down.
You know that you and your new eye-stomping shoes will never be seen together.
They will remain in their box. Looked at occasionally. Perhaps even tried on.
But never, ever, placed on your feet and taken where people who know you might see them.
Return them? No, not that. You haven’t the courage.
Besides, what of the faces?
They’d be friendly. They might even smile.
But they’d know. They’d judge.
They might even smirk.
The thought alone makes you start to sweat again.
You’ll get another pair. Soon.
But this time without faces. Without whispers. Without judgement.
No more quests for you.
This time, you’ll do what you should have done the first time before your excitement got the better of you.
You’ll shop online.
At least there, no one can hear you sweat.
Go on, you know it makes sense.