Buying our shoes

In our last post you left us poised at the door of Runners’ Needs in Holborn like schoolchildren left outside the main gates on their first day. Charlotte led us in.

We passed all the cycling paraphernalia on the ground floor and ascended to the running section. Having previously considering running to be something that one simply does oneself, I was not quite ready for the huge amount of stuff that the runner ‘needs’.

Rabbits in headlights have shown more life and understanding than we did that fateful afternoon but the two shop assistants were very helpful, answering our questions and chuckling with the warmth and understanding of a nursery teacher – one like Miss Honey as opposed to Miss Trunchbull!

What we needed, apparently, were trainers that were comfortable and would support our ankles according to how we ran. To assist us in discovering the perfect shoe a running machine (sorry, treadmill) had been placed by the window and as we ran (me in my tweed jacket, Clio almost as inadequately attired) a small camera captured our feet as they connected with the ground. We watched the replays as though we had never seen someone running before while Charlotte tried to stifle titters and giggles at our hopeless ineptitude. 

We tried on many shoes, often remarking on their snazzy colours, interesting designs and the fact that we had to slam our heels into the ground once they were on to make sure they were settled right.

All the while, Charlotte was offering us advice: pointing out gel packs and how they would give the energy to keep going when all our reserves had failed us; explaining how cotton shirts would weigh us down with soaked up sweat and chafe our nipples until our chests ran with blood; how these shoes and socks would stop us from losing toenails to the constant barrage of bashes and bruises on a marathon; all the while laughing at our innocent ignorance and wide-eyed horror.

Eventually we settled on our trainers – the shoes that would get us the 26.2 miles from start to finish in April. Clio even bought one of their fancy shirts. With our bank accounts suitably ravaged, we stepped back out into the London showers and exhaled slowly. There was no going back now.