The Fat Bloke Diaries
Episode Thirteen – Putting My Foot In It
What have I done?
My knees are never going to forgive me for this. I’ve bought myself some running
shoes. Don’t pull your face up at me like that; if the wind changes you’ll stay that
way (as my Granny used to say). No, it’s not a New Year’s new leaf turner thingy
and I didn’t buy them on some kind of mid-
I’m not an expert in these matters, but I’m smart enough to know that I want my footwear to provide the maximum protection for my gimpy knees and busted foot, so I went to a proper running shoe shop and not a general sportswear store stocked with stuff aimed at people who don’t do any athletic activities but want to look as if they do. It was there that I discovered an entire new form of science to be blinded by.
If you’d asked me just a few weeks ago I’d have said that pronation was a country full of harlots, that gait was the way into my garden and that last was where I’d finish in a race. As of last night I’m still not at all certain what these things mean, but I do know that the nice lady in the running shop told me lots about them, most of which went way over my head. What I did understand though was that I would be perfectly suited to a lovely looking and very expensive pair of Asics. I also understood that at that price I was very relieved when they didn’t have them in my size. The credit crunch has even reached this part of Yorkshire. However by sheer good luck the cheap & cheerful discount sports shop around the corner (one that makes its living selling hoodies to young chavs – allegedly) had the same shoes in stock and they fit me like the proverbial slipper. And they were in the half price sale. Score, as my young niece would say.
Like a kid with a new bike on Christmas morning I’ve been dying to hit the road, but I’m taking the advice of all the running websites that I’ve seen: Start By Walking. So sticking with my trusty old hiking shoes I’ve been stepping out a mile or two thrice weekly for the last few weeks. It has technically been walking, but only in the same way that a smart cat walks the world’s fastest nonchalant walk to avoid a strange two year old kid offering to stroke it. My little legs have been a blur.
They say that if you really want to know someone you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, if you find out that you don’t like that person, at least you’re a mile away. And you’ve got their shoes. I like to think that I know – and very much like – my partner (even though her shoes are much smaller than my feet) and I know what she likes. Fortunately, one of those things I happen to like too.
Walking in the woods in the winter is staggeringly beautiful. It may not do too much good for the cleanliness of my boots, but it does wonders for my soul. The sight of woodpeckers and squirrels more than compensates for the dead shopping trolleys and the smell of flatulent badgers. It was the badgers, honest.
Then it’s back home to warm up, her on the radiator, me on my static bike. She’s
lost over half a stone now too. That’s the partner, not the bike. She's not doing
anything particularly strenuous, just eating sensibly with me and walking briskly
with me. I’d call it passive weight loss if I didn’t want to risk the mother of all
slappings. But her need for warmth doesn’t really help me much. She likes to feel
ultra-
My thighs might still resemble pigs’ haunches, but at least the bacon’s getting leaner. And once my probationary walking period is over, they’ll be put to good use powering those new trainers around. For miles and miles and miles…
What have I done?
© 2008 Shaun Finnie