Window Shopping

I cringe at my latest indignity - being filmed (from the back, waist down) on a high-tech running machine in the shop window of a fitness emporium.  Lesser mortals may choose new trainers in a more pedestrian fashion, however, in my search to overcome tortoise pace and a pain in my shin, I had taken myself considerably out of my comfort zone by visiting a specialist running retailer.

 Note to myself; when shopping for trainers, don’t borrow husband’s old socks and wear a pair of jeans that at least try not to default on the backside - in fact, wear running gear and at least look like a runner.

I enter the shop –reluctantly - with expectations of customer service based on existing experience of buying trainers and on my accepted boundaries of the customer/retailer relationship; I would not have entered the shop if I had anticipated the remotest possibility of working up a public sweat on a running machine, in a High Street shop window, and having my personal data and metatarsals crunched by a computer.  I had not even intended to go shopping today.

I favour the anonymity of internet shopping.  No flicker there from a specialist shop assistant to indicate a restrained belief that this was a running imposter; a time waster, a couch would-be marathoner with ideas of grandeur.  But, I have learned the hard way that discounted trainers from the internet are for runners with low self esteem.  They are discounted for a reason.  How can a bespoke running shoe be fitted from such a distance, anyway?  I would need moral support to get new trainers sorted.

But I don't  like to ask for help.

On the one occasion when I did persuade a non-running friend to brave a bespoke running shop with me, it was in fact the friend who emerged brandishing a pair of state of the art running shoes and the prospect of a date with the sales assistant.  Somehow, they had run out of time when it came to my turn to be fitted, and I sensed that I had been made to run up the steep hill outside the shop, to facilitate the exchange of telephone numbers rather than for my running gait to be assessed.  I bought those trainers anyway.  I don't like to make a fuss.  Besides, my friend was more than happy with the service received.

Strange that I don't see myself through the same lens as those who love me. Somehow, my line of  running medals, strung so proudly across the window in the downstairs lav by my husband (and sufficing as a net curtain for the bashful) seems only to alert visitors to the fact that there is a closet runner somewhere in the house.  This makes me tense, anticipating that a new guest will ask who this runner might be, and that I may have to laugh to try and ease their discomfort when the revelation is made, that the runner is indeed I.  I can't hurt  my husband’s feelings by asking for the removal of my trophies – it would dent his pride in me.  The irony.

Note to myself; stop prevaricating and get these trainers sorted!  Nothing is more of a giveaway on race day than a perfectly white set of trainers.   I, more than anyone, need to blend with the crowd.

So, here I am apologising  for my entrance into a new running shop.  I hadn’t known this morning that this was my destination; it was a surprise from my husband who wanted to put a stop to my whinging and the whiff of trainers well past their sell-by date.  I hate surprises, and I resent him for picking up on my depleting motivation and impressive list of running ailments. I don't remember bothering him.

And so, here I am, being filmed on a high tech new running machine, cursing my husband. 

Despite myself, I find myself fascinated by the replay of my performance on the screen afterwards.  The assistant draws cursors from the sole of my foot to my ankle to demonstrate my ‘perfect’ running position.  This equates to evidence not sales pitch in my mind.  I am drawn to the image of my feet rather than the cinematic image of my backside on the monitor, but, actually the latter isn't too bad for an ‘old girl’ either. I am beginning to trust this lens.

 I realise that the assistant, seems to be taking me seriously.  We are discussing races I have run, and he is asking me for my recommendations of cross-country routes.  I feel relaxed.  Genuinely relaxed. 

For the first time ever , my high arched, ultra wide feet are offered a choice of running shoes.  The pros and cons of each are explained, demonstrated and I am given time to ‘road test’ each.  I find myself giggling with the young customer sitting beside me; an exciting girl, fresh off the plane from South America apparently.  I hear myself offering the girl advice about running marathons, and the girl appears to be listening.  Genuinely.

I leave the shop with the best pair of trainers I have ever owned.  I chose the pair with memory gel around the ankle, incidentally – perhaps a sales gimmick, but I wanted the support, and I wanted to remember this day.  Better still, said trainers are soon officially muddy and in danger of giving that hare a run for its money.  It turns out that the niggling pain in my shin – and perhaps my snail paced running - have been caused by one of my feet pronating outwards.  Diagnosis, along with a new word to play with, means that I have chosen a pair of trainers that work with me, rather than against.

Later, running in my muddy, gorgeous new trainers, achieving a PB for Sunday dog exercising duty, I feel genuinely smug.  Loved even.