These Shoes Were Made For Walking

I have to report a death.

It's been coming a long while, and has involved a process of long, slow, occasionally painful decay, and this week, the end came. I wish I could say I was nicer to the deceased than I was, but frankly, by the time they finally died, everyone who knew them was sick to the back teeth of them.

I'm talking, of course, about my walking shoes.

Really, I should have more of a sentimental glint in my eye - I bought these shoes about three or four years ago, so they've been with me through some amazing times. They've also been with me practically every day of that time. But, when all is said and done...meh, they're shoes.

I bought them with ruggedness and comfort over long distances in mind, in preparation of one of the craziest things I've ever done. When I was altogether more disappeared than I am now, I decided I was fit enough to so Maggies' annual Night Walk. For those who don't know what that is, Maggies is a charity that provides cancer recovery centres, and every year, thousands of people gather in London one night and walk through the night to raise money to fund its work. The year I did it, we covered 20 miles in the one night. I then collapsed into bed, having completed the walk, and soaked my blisters for a day and a half. But it was worth doing, just to see if I could. An example, as d would put it, of my bastard-stubborn streak. As I say, I was about half a stone lighter than what I was the last time I weighed when I did it, so maybe, just maybe, if I can continue to disappear this year, I might give it another try...we'll see. But the shoes were a nod to the seriousness of doing something like this. They were good shoes, serious walking shoes. They carried me through my subsequent year of joining a gym and gaining two stone of flab, and on this experiment so far, they've carried me through blisters, thigh-burn and a broken exercise bike. They were good, faithful shoes.

But for quite a while now, they were getting the footwear equivalent of Alzheimers'. They were losing their vigour, and cracking up, and letting in the damp, and looking as dishevelled as if they'd downed a bottle of Jack before I slipped my feet into them, and groaning slightly with the exertion I still demanded of them. I'd like to claim they'd taken to wandering off in random directions, but sadly, that's just me and my navigational incompetence.

So, two days ago, employing the 'Ole Yeller' school of compassion, I left them behind in a Payless Shoe Store in Buffalo for some poor unsuspecting teller to dispose of, and walked out in some new, interim, cheapo shoes with more than a touch of 'geriatric holidaymaker' about them. To be fair, these new shoes only really have to carry me to payday, when some new 'proper' walking shoes might be on the cards. After all, there's still a lot of disappearing to do - you can't really commit to that sort of thing in cheapo geriatric shoes, can you?

Blood was 5.6 this morning, so yay for pizza subs and walking round the district.