Imitating the annoying spring wind, I blew out the cobwebs from my recreational shoe budget account, ventured down into town, and purchased another pair of walking shoes. A few, or I should say more than a few words, danced in and out of my imagination as I farewelled my old shoes and acknowledged that with them I never walked alone.
Requiem to my Asics
Noble steed of synthetic mesh and crumbling foam,
Weeks short of a year and too many kilometres ago, you were bright-eyed, bouncy, and full of cushioning optimism.
Now? You resemble an exhausted spaniel that’s been through a tumble dryer.
You bore me well—across uneven footpaths with gabbling holes, gravel, mud, mystery solids, and litter from shedding trees and homeless dwellers.
You gripped when I slipped.
You flexed when I faltered.
You squelched when it rained and screamed quietly when it didn’t.
Together, we faced a few hills of despair, the well-known paths that scenery only changed with new walkers and faster cyclists.
You, my Asics, were there through it all. A loyal sponge for my aching knee and shins.
Do you remember that morning?
You held strong when I accidentally stepped in a puddle that may or may not have contained half of Tauranga’s remaining water table.
And what of the day my right sock folded like an origami swan mid-stride? You didn’t judge.
You just kept plodding forward, like the champ you are (or were).
But oh, how time has changed you.
Where once was tread, now lies a smooth patch of regret.
Where once your arch support stood proud, now it hangs like me after Pilates.
Your laces are frayed. Your soul, sorry, sole, is now battered.
Not quite smelling too foul, though there seems to be an air of a will to live.
And yet. I cannot quite bring myself to throw you away.
Not after all we’ve been through.
Not after the numerous hills, the building of tears, the songs we quietly sang together, drowning out traffic and overly loud humans, the cherry tree incident, and that unholy cyclist, who has obviously never heard of the merits of a ringing bell.
You carried me when my knees wailed, my hips screamed, and my toes felt like greased lightning.
You may never walk again, dear Asics.
But know this: you didn’t just carry this older woman.
You carried a dream, a late-life crisis, and many, many changes of socks.
Rest now, oh rubbery warrior.
May the wind from the North Wester dry your insoles, and may your next life be as a sensible house slipper in a warm, dry home with zero incline.
Goodbye, my faithful foot-shaped friend.
Life at No. 22 