Crossing the Line

Spring Cleaning

My girlfriend f inally addressed the problem. Specifically, a problem in the bedroom.

The closet shoe rack was overf lowing – with my shoes. I shrugged. She then led me to the hall closet – another shoe rack rife with runners – my runners. Next, she directed my gaze to the rattan storage chest at the front door – filled with sporty footwear. “So I have a few shoes,” I said, albeit defensively. “A few?”

She took my hand, walked me into the garage and pointed. There, on a shelf in the shadowy recesses, were the worn-out relics of kilometres past, old friends covered in dirt, dust and cobwebs. I sighed. “We’re not done,” she said. Really? How could there possibly be more?

She popped the trunk of her car, then mine. I stared. I turned to her defiantly – pleadingly, with a look that screamed: Yes, but surely these runners don’t count – they’re emergency shoes! I knew my vegan girlfriend was serious about me having to downsize my collection when she said, “Perhaps it’s time to cull the herd.” Reluctantly, I promised to see what I could do.

The following Saturday I carved out a block of time and gathered up the sport specific tools of the trade. Laid out before me was a representation of some of the biggest names in sport. You’d think I was sponsored. I categorized them: road running, trail running, minimalist, casual, sandals, cycling, mountain biking and hiking. My brain quickly calculated that I likely could have purchased a small island in the Caribbean for what these shoes cost. But by and large, I mused, it was money well spent.

Seeing them all together brought back memories of past accomplishments. Here were shoes that had carried me over rugged mettle-testing terrain or had cushioned me while pounding it out across endless pavement – shoes that had helped me achieve athletic goals and define me. We had survived battles together and it was hard to think about letting them go.

But let go I did. A few pairs that hadn’t worked out for me and were virtually brand new were delivered to a local thrift store. Some others unfortunately went to the great shoe-pile in the sky. There were more – ones that had hit their mileage quotas in terms of running and though they were retired from service in order to avoid injury, they were still fine for kicking around. That saucy f lorescent-orange pair that looked great when I tried them on in the shop went to a school crossing guard. The mountain of mesh, rubber and intertwined laces had been reduced to a molehill.

It had been a difficult task, but in the end it felt satisfying – the cull was complete. My shoes now only occupied the rattan chest and the hall closet.

I viewed the organized closet with its neatly arranged and manageable display of running shoes and patted myself on the back for a job well done. There was even an empty cubbyhole. It caught my eye. I stared at it. It looked odd – empty. I knew exactly what was needed to remedy the situation – a pair of those minimalist racers called the Dashlites. After all, I thought, as I headed out to the running store – space abhors a vacuum. Steve Crabb runs trails in the beautiful rain forests of Vancouver Island. He resides in Nanaimo, B.C. where he gorges post-run on Nanaimo bars and writes short stories.

“My brain quickly calculated that I likely could have purchased a small island in the Caribbean for what these shoes cost.”