Is there anything to be done with a squeaky pair of running shoes? Obviously not, or I would have found it. They’re not completely squeaky. Just one. The left. And not just a whisper of a squeak. A terrified mouse squeak. Such a terrified mouse squeak that when I walk through a crowded room, people start talking about what kind of mouse traps are best to invest in.
I had a dream way back in 2015 to run a triathlon. A triathlon is a three-part race of swimming, bicycling and running. My swimming ability was slightly better than a dog’s, my bicycle had more rust than wear on it, and the last time I ran anywhere, Uncle Sam was making me do it. So, I took some swimming lessons, greased up my bicycle, and bought a new pair of running shoes.
Good running shoes are expensive. My first pair didn’t squeak at all. If they had, I would have asked for a refund. “First pair” because you can’t have only one pair when you’re starting a running adventure. I’d never owned two pairs of running shoes at the same time in my whole life. I was determined to triathlon my best. The third pair started to squeak about six months after I bought them. Just the left shoe. Terrified mouse squeak.
If I was a running shoe manufacturer and wanted to make sure of a steady stream of income, I’d design my shoes to squeak after a specific amount of mileage, annoying the runner to the point of ditching the old for some new. Squeaky shoes would be like squealing brakes that warn of end of brake life, and if you don’t have them replaced soon, you’ll have nothing but trouble and strife. Keep the old pair for mowing the yard or gardening. That’s what I was thinking.
But then I bought the fourth pair of running shoes, just to walk around in. They started squeaking, too, and not after high mileage. Just the left shoe. Probably out of spite. Very little wear and tear. No stuck pebbles between the treads. Terrified mouse squeak. I only wear them now when I forget not to wear them.
No matter how hard I think about it, I can’t come up with an explanation for why only my left shoes are squeaking. You, on the other hand, probably came up with a perfectly plausible postulation post haste.
“It has nothing to do with his left shoes, expensive or not.”
“Obviously.”
“Are we thinking on the same wavelength?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“The problem is not with his left shoes. It’s with…”
“His left foot. He has a squeaky left foot.”
Sorry. It’s not my left foot. That would be just plain silly. I can walk around barefoot all day with nary a squeak, shriek, squeal, or screech. Unless I step on a rock, of course. But that’s different.
No, I think all that squeaking is a reminder that it’s okay to have a squeaky wheel whenever the universe deems it necessary. It’s okay to make a little bit of noise. To speak out. To transform your every-day Clark Kent persona into the fighting-for-truth-and-justice Superman. If only for a moment. To not would be pert near Lex Luther-ish.
Last year, I bought another pair of running shoes. High quality. Different brand. I don’t run in them. I use them as my daily go-to-Walmart shoes. At first, not a squeak. But recently they’ve been screeching like a pack of rats trying to steal the Feta right out of my fridge.
Looks like it’s time to dust off my cape.
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