sacred shoe ceremony

I got new running shoes Friday. This morning I hosted the Changing of the Shoe Ceremony. It was touching. I set old and new side by side on the living room floor by the couch. I thanked old for her service, for her unwavering dedication to supporting my rickety frame and keeping rocks out of my toes, for staying relentlessly tied. I apologized for all the water she had to take in at Dam to Dam and during a few other training runs that turned into monsoons. I apologized for not always airing her out properly and letting her get smelly. I apologized for how painfully slow I am. If she had landed on the feet of a faster runner, she would not have to work nearly as long.

Old looked tired. She was ready to retire, to pasture, to transition to easy walking-the-dog shoes, and occasional mowing and gardening shoes. (Chris will scoff at that, because I only mow about once every 2 years.)

New was very eager and crisp, like a young hunting dog or a kindergartner with a new dress.

And then I gave them a few moments alone so Old could advise New on my short, slow, lumbering stride and my tricky knees. I'm sure Old also had some advice about: persevering through the storm of vulgarities I unleash with some regularity around mile 13; enduring cat calls when I choose to run through our neighborhood; and I'm sure Old also impressed upon New the importance of not giggling when I perform the chant about being a powerful warrior horse.

Then I ran 17 miles. (I was only supposed to run 16, but I got my route wrong and accidentally ran 17, which is probably the first and last time I will ever utter those words. Accidentally ran 17. That's ridiculous.)