| Reebok Intervals |
by Richard Bolt
Mile 0 -A pair of Reebok Intervals came into my life on April 30, 1997. It was a warm spring day; a relief from the ravages of winter and a good day to introduce a new pair of running shoes to the world. As I opened the bright blue box, the "new running shoe smell" poured out and filled the room with that leathery rubbery odor. I parted the crinkled white paper to reveal in all their splendor, a set of white and dark blue, size 11 sneakers still unlaced. I carefully lifted each shoe from the carton, removed t he packing paper from the toe box and began lacing. "Over and across, over and across", my anticipation mounted. Soon I would take my first steps in a pair of Reebok Intervals. It was a day I will never forget. It was the beginning of the end for thos e shoes!
Mile 32 - I'm in the middle of a tempo run through the Lincoln Woods. It's raining and many of the trails have turned into small streams. Many small streams have turned into ....well....bigger streams. I left the thought of keeping my feet dry somewher e along the trail several miles back. My Reeboks are now a nice shade of brown as I've traversed several long muddy sections of trail. Coming down off Mt. Misery, I take a corner a bit too wide, catch my shoulder on a small tree and am spun off balance. I stumble forward, my legs and torso fighting over which way to go, and just about reach a happy equilibrium when I catch my toe on a rouge root. Ordinarily, I would have pulled off a miraculous recovery, but the muddy rain-slicked trail has bested me. I go down hard, landing chest-first and slide over a few rocks on my way to a largepine tree. As the tree rushes up towards my face, I can't help but think that this must be some kind of conspiracy. Rolling to the left, I miss the tree and come to a stop on my back. I jump up and make a quick three step check of the situation: (1) Did anybody see me fall? No, pride intact and operational; (2) Equipment check. I pull my heart-rate monitor chest strap up from my waist and remo ve a wad of pine-needles from my under-garment; and (3) Medical check. Nothing broken and I've got a pulse.
Back in the 1930's, the Dartmouth Ski Team used to havean annual ski race down the narrow, un-groomed hiking trails of Mt. Moosalukee in New Hampshire's White Mountains. It was said that if you didn't fall at least a half dozen times on the way down, you were not going fast enough. I like to think the same rule applies to trail races and fast trail workouts. Upon finishing the workout, I slosh around in a big clean puddle to get the mud off my Reeboks, peel them off my wrinkled feet and toss them in th e back of my truck. If I'm lucky, they might dry off before tomorrow.
Mile 147 - I've just finished an 8 mile run along the old rail corridor between Groton and Pepperell, MA and am driving to work when I notice an unpleasant odor wafting up from my shoes. Upon getting out of my truck, I take a gander at the underside of m y Reebok Intervals to reveal a smear of dog scat. Arragh!
Mile 289 - I'm beginning to wonder why on earth I decided to put myself through this torture. I never run this far. I'm a short distance runner. Training for 3 and 5 mile races is my cup of tea. I'm on the Minuteman Trail in Lexington, MA, at the 20th mile of a 26 mile run. The temperature is 88 degrees, the humidity 90 percent and it's now 1:00 PM on a sunny day. About 15 miles ago I decided to run my first impromptu "marathon" just so I could see what it feels like. It's do or die, 26 miles or bust, time to make the donuts, etc.. I forced myself into this distance by running an out and back course, and now the only way home is to keep running or to call a cab. A quick ego check reveals that calling a cab would be unacceptable, so onward! When I finally make it home, nothing feels better than getting these Reebok Intervals off my feet. While they have served me well, they don't look like they have suffered as much as I have in the previous 26 miles. While I sit back, relax and eat (and eat and eat), I think about ways to make those shoes suffer. As I fade away into a marathon induced sleep, I dream of sharp rocks, water, mud, sand, ice and snow. All ingredients of a nightmare for a pair of perfectly good runni ng shoes.
Mile 351 - After racing up Mt. Washington with a pair of Reebok Racer-X racing flats, I'm back in my trusty Intervals for the long, easy, 4300' descent to bottom. I had the option of getting a ride down, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to sluff of f some more tread. No, my Reebok Intervals don't even get "race-day" off.
Mile 419 - No ice and snow here, but I've been able to exact some measure of revenge on these slacker running shoes of mine. After a few months of running in the central New England lowlands (with the exception of a civilized run down the Mt. Washington Auto Road), I've brought my Reebok Intervals up to Northern Maine to challenge the "knife edge" of Mt. Kitahdin. As it tuned out, the knife edge was no problem. (Who needs a couple thousand feet of shear rock face when a fall off a 40 or 50 foot drop ca n be just as serious?) I was shown-up by a simple mud puddle. As I was running down a soggy section of trail within a mile or so of the parking lot, I misjudged the viscosity of said mud puddle, sunk in up to my ankle, and had my right shoe ripped clean off! I instinctually made the poor choice off hopping on one leg which resulted in me tripping on a rock. The rock, aware of my one-legged plight, had the good sense to send me sprawling into a small soft pine tree off the! t! rail rather than across the hard trail itself. Upon prying myself loose from the pine tree, I set about looking for my missing right shoe. I found my Interval embedded in a few inches of muck, with a pool of slime inside the shoe itself. A rinse in a nearb y stream returned my shoe to operational status and I was quickly on my way. Moral of the story? At home or in the wilderness, PYFUS! (Pick your feet up, stupid)!
Mile 637 - Picture this! I'm huddled with a small group of athletes on the edge of a glacier 5000 feet above Girdwood, Alaska and ice water is flowing through my Reebok Intervals. Visibility is about 50 feet in a light mist, the air temperature is 42 degrees, we've moved 200 feet in the last hour. We are hiking off the Eagle Glacier after flying in and skiing for a week. Normally, we can just walk off the top edge of the glacier on the snow that covers the ice. Because the summer has been warmer than u sual, we now have 300 feet of sloping, wet, melting, rippled blue ice to cross. We are being lead over this section by a guide with crampons, ice pitons and rope, but we can only go as fast as the slowest person. Unfortunately, the slowest person is moving at a rate of a few feet per minute. When everyone finally gets off the ice, we follow a rocky and gravelly trail over the ridge and down towards the valley. Because we will be hiking and sliding down several scree slopes, I have used duct tape to secure my Reeboks to my feet and taped up around my shins to keep the gravel out of my socks. I now have "high-top" running shoes. After much traversing and descending on rocky terrain, we come to a long steep slope covered with moss. As a skier, I figure why walk when you can slide? So, aided by the wet weather and nylon pants, I run and slide feet first across the moss. While this mode of transportation is very efficient, there are a couple of small drawbacks. The occasional stunted tree and bumpy ground make for a wild ride, but the lack of brakes is the greatest hazard. To keep my speed Now, half-way down, the slope is quite steep, I'm probably going 25 mph (no lie!) and getting good air off the bumps. Through the mist I can see the botto m coming up fast, and it looks very rocky! Thinking that I was "all that", I brought along a big sharp rock that I thought might work like an ice ax if I attempted a "self-arrest". Unfortunately, my bright idea isn't working. I've flipped onto my stoma ch and am digging my toes and this useless rock into the wet moss. Just before the rock garden, the slope becomes more shallow and I slow down a bit. In an attempt to save my fleshy underside, I stand-up (while sliding) but still manage to rip a nice h ole in my pants and bruise my buttocks. Yippee, what fun! For the last hour of the hike, we encounter numerous mud-holes, glacier fed streams and prickly plants before finally reaching the trailhead. A cramped ride in the back of a pick-up over a wash-boarded road brings us to the dirt airstrip where our adventure began over a week ago. In the hanger of Alpine Air Flying Service, I peel off my soggy Reeboks for the last time. Next victim!
