Feet seek friends

Hannah Thomas

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My battle with the blisters came to a head last week. I tried to coax them away with a variety of foul-smelling creams and, when that failed, I popped them in frustration.

It was only after this bout of self-mutilation that I realised the problem lay not with my feet, but with my shoes - Hi-tec's cheapest offerings from the year 2000 that have been through the washing machine a fair few times.

I needed new trainers. Yes! Now that I was becoming a proper runner I deserved professional running shoes. This was definitely a good idea, I told myself as I entered a speciality running shop in Edinburgh's West End.

Who could have known that you needed so much gear just to run? Air-tec shirts with perforated underarms, reflective vests, sprint-torches... trainers were no longer enough. I needed all this stuff. It seemed so obvious - of course I couldn't run the marathon in old tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt. No! I needed high velocity low resistance shiny leggings with a ventilated posterior, and a drip-free sweat band, and twin skin socks, and...

'Are you looking for anything in particular?' said a sporty looking assistant.

'Everything! I want all the gear!' I nearly shouted.

'Trainers' - I restrained myself. One step at a time.

This was no normal shoe-shopping experience. It took over an hour and shared more than a few parallels with a doctor's appointment. Firstly, I was confronted with a large number of perplexing technical terms. Secondly, I immediately felt compelled to lie.

'So how far are you running each week?' my assistant asked. A loaded question. He's trying to ascertain whether I'm actually a serious runner or just a wannabe, I thought. This was a test. I had to impress.

'About fifty or sixty' I grossly exaggerated.

He looked incredulous and moved to his next question: 'And what distance are you at so far?'

The deception had to continue. I couldn't let him catch me out, so I went for double.

'Sixteen kay' I said casually, hoping the abbreviation would make me sound cool.

Then came the examination.

My poor blistered feet were scrutinised, measured and prodded, but the humiliation didn't stop there. I was forced to run barefoot on the shop's treadmill - without the aid of my trusty sports bra - as the assistant looked on.

Then came the damning diagnosis.

My feet are abnormal. One turns in and one turns out when I run. Great. I'm basically disabled and no shoe will ever fully cater to my needs.

Well that's what I thought before I tried on a sexy pair of silver Oasics, a shoe my assistant told me 'contains all the gadgets that you get in other trainers rolled into one model.' A super shoe! Its gel bubbles will save my fucked-up feet, its vented lining will keep them cool, and with this kind of spring, 20 kilometers will be a breeze.

Obviously I was sold straight away.

But the trainers weren't enough. I needed socks too, after discovering from my personal fitter that Marks and Sparks cotton ankle-socks don't cut the mustard.

"They're certainly not a runner's best friend" he said, shaking his head.

So now I'm the proud owner of proper trainers and two pairs of "double-skinned" socks. All for the bargain price of... £105. Yes I'm afraid so. It turns out running this marathon is going to cost me a lot more than my dignity after all.

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