Sunday 12 February 2012

Run This Town Tonight

So yesterday I went to the Adidas outlet store in Stockport. Mission – buy a cheap pair of tracksuit bottoms as one of my pairs is growing weary. These shops, though, they don’t want to give you what you want, they want you to take everything they have got – they are the anti-Ebeneezer Scrooge (before the visit of the ghosts, I know this is always the implication when one mentions Ebeneezer Scrooge but I just wanted to be clear it wasn’t the generous old bastard he is at the end of the story). Me? I am a sucker for making people happy.

So when this shop didn’t really have the tracksuit bottoms I wanted I did the obvious thing and left empty-handed. My girlfriend on the other hand was carrying the £60 running trainers I had bought and the pair of tracksuit bottoms that weren’t really what I was after. She made me carry them as soon as we left though.

The first time I wear a shirt, a jumper, a pair of underpants, a pair of shoes..any item of clothing I like it to be good, memorable even. I don’t really have much of a life though. For this reason many expensive items of clothing sob in the dark of my closet, yearning for a chance to be worn. Fortunately for a pair of running shoes, a night out isn’t required; they just need me to go for a run. This morning I thought what better way to go for a run in these new running shoes was there other than going for a run in them? It seemed so obvious when I said it loud. (I didn’t say it out loud but for the purposes of that essentially repetitive and annoyingly dull paragraph I thought it was fitting to suggest that I had.)

I was quite excited by the prospect of going for a run in these new running shoes. I have been running for several years in a cheap pair. Undoubtedly this was the reason I wasn’t very good at running. These new, impressive, technically superior, bright yellow trainers were surely the very thing that would propel me to unknown speeds along the highways of Manchester.

Occasionally when I go for a run my calves hurt. Some people call it cramp, a convention I have adopted – also referring to it as cramp. I get cramp. My calves are quite big. I measure them before; they are 19 inches or so. (Yeah, 19 inches in circumference; how many other people could would need 7 of their penises to wrap round one of their calves?)

Occasionally when I go for a run the bottom of my foot hurts, really fucking hurts actually. Research has lead me to believe this is called plantar fasciitis. I am uncomfortable with how close this is to the word fascist. The soles of my feet – like the rest of me – or not fascistic.

Recently I have been having some trouble with my hamstrings…yes, I am falling apart. I have been so preoccupied with these hamstring issues that I ignored these recurring problems and just worried about stretching my hamstring sufficiently. This would be something I would regret about 10 minutes of agony later as both my calves and foot arches did their best to make me cry. And so I did something I rarely do; I gave up running and walked home. I always carry on running through the pain but this time I didn’t. The pain was too great.

And this tragic figure of an overweight, bearded hobo walking down the Princess Parkway was the first experience of ‘going for a run’ my lovely new yellow trainers had. A poor start can be terrible. Multi-million pound footballers can often crumble if they don’t start well at a new club; losing all confidence they fade. At United the condition is synonymous with the name Gary Birtles, each football team tends to have one of their own (Manchester City have hundreds. BOOM BOOM).

Is this to be the case for my new running shoes? Only time will tell. We all hope they will have the confidence to shrug it off and be a class act on the end of my running legs. We prey that they do not  start to overthink being a pair of trainers. Struggling to do the basics of being a pair of trainers and before too long being replaced on my feet half way round a run; people hurling abuse at them as they try to be a good pair of trainers as people shout “fack off you trainer fuckers that fat loser cunt would be better off running with a paperback copy of The DaVinci Code strapped to each of his facking plates of meat”.

I don’t want my trainers to be Fernando Torres.

These shoes were made for running. They were.

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