Endurance Shopping

I should begin by saying I am not a shopper. I generally associate shopping with anxiety and guilt, so I put it off until absolutely necessary (like my little toe starting to poke through the upper of my running shoe). People like to say, “Oh, it’s because you’re from New England.”

That might be true but it is also the way I grew up. My friends would go to the mall on the weekends and come in with new clothes on Monday. We went to the Kittery Trading Post in Maine once or twice a year to get Levi’s and we survived quite well. For this reason it is significant to me that I spent a good hour and a half or more in Niketown NYC this morning—shopping.

It was a terrific spring day and the city was looking great, trees with new leaves and everything in flower. I breezed in, gift certificate in hand. (Otherwise, I would have had to be content to press my nose against the glass or maybe splurge on some socks—this place is not cheap.) My husband, Joe, had won a $500 gift certificate at the Niketown Run for the Parks four-miler. In fact, he ran it with the express purpose of trying to win this prize, knowing I was a bit hard up for shoes, and he was successful by six whole seconds. The store is just steps from 5th Avenue on 57th Street and is surrounded by Tiffany, Bulgari, and Burberry, to name just three of the luxurious neighbors in the epicenter of high-end Manhattan shopping. It was a Cinderella moment or maybe Breakfast at Niketown.

To be sure, everything it sells is nice. It is stylish, elegant even, but somehow I have never been able to justify spending $70 on a pair of shorts and a shirt to run in. I have broken down a bit on this front when it comes to shoes. I spent over $100 for a pair of shoes once in my life. It turned out that they were totally wrong for me, huge and heavy and way too much shoe. After getting major blisters wearing them in a 50K, I concluded that more is not better, in price or shoe. Reinforcing this were the looks I got from the other runners and at least one comment (“You’re racing in those?”).

There are several floors at Niketown, and as I wanted to hurry up, buy, and get out to the park for a run, I headed to the elevators and looked for a store guide. There was none to be found. I’m sure I could have asked one of the staff, but I felt a shopping experience without human interaction would be the most efficient. After all, I knew what I wanted and I didn’t want to be distracted or persuaded in any other direction. Such is the mind-set of one who spends very deliberately. So I took the elevator to the top floor, figuring I would escalator it down until I hit the women’s running area. As luck would have it, it was on the top floor. I spied what I took to be women’s running shoes and made a beeline, not totally sure it was what it appeared to be.

The departments there seem to blend into one another and everything seems vaguely similar. Was I in the running section or was it the training section and what exactly is training anyway? Lifting weights, maybe? Yoga? Taking a power walk to Starbucks? I headed for the shorts, which I needed pretty badly. I have five pairs total, I think, which isn’t bad, but twice-a-day running means I must always be aware of the laundry situation and what is where and is it clean and/or dry?

I was immediately descended upon by a salesperson who introduced herself as Candace and who I guessed must work on commission because of the interest she took in me. I’m not used to that kind of attention, nor am I terribly comfortable with it; but in this case it was actually helpful, as it appeared that much of what I might want was not out on the floor but stored somewhere and had to be requested.

With my gift certificate tucked in my bag and resisting the urge to hightail it out of there, I was feeling blithe and quite at ease in my role as consumer, with a capital “C.”

This is not to say that I am not aware of what there is out there to buy. I read the magazines and the Web sites; advertising is not lost on me. In fact, I’m sure advertisers have me in their crosshairs. Compared with some places, there are no deals here. There is no sale rack loaded down with last season’s or last year’s odds and ends. This place is all about presentation, and I was looking at the latest that Nike had to offer.

Oddly enough, the inventory was really low. I found a pair of shorts that fit and had pockets (great for ultras). I went back to find three more of the same pair in that size and color. To my surprise, there were none. Not that there weren’t other shorts in other sizes, but I was surprised that a store of this size would have just one of anything. So I asked Candace. She would check on whether there were more somewhere in stock. She asked whether I liked the prints or the solids. I said I preferred solids in dark colors. I was hopeful and passed the time checking out the “training section,” which somehow mysteriously morphed into a mini-maternity section. I retreated immediately.

Bad news, Candace told me. The one pair I had in my hand was it. Amused to be holding the only pair of shorts of their kind in all of NYC, I found another pair that fit and was able to find three identical pairs. Variety is not important; in fact, I prefer a uniform. Less to think about. I did think that it was too bad about the black shorts because they have side pockets that zip closed—no need to tie my key to my shoes—and as I looked ahead to running the Vermont 100-miler in July I thought how convenient it would be to tuck some GU packets and my pill case with Advils into my pockets rather than in my sports bra. I have not had to change shorts in a 100-miler yet, so maybe this one pair will see me through.

Most important to me on this trip though—the motivating force—was to stock up on a few pairs of the shoes I had come to love, and which, for that reason, I was sure would be discontinued before too long. They are called Air Prestos, and they are similar to the Huarache in that they are very light and have a socklike fit. As someone who primarily runs ultras, I always thought I needed more shoe, but I don’t. It just took me 20 years to really figure that out.

I’m actually much happier in a bargain-basement environment where all the shoes are out on the floor and you can scan the inventory yourself; but here at Niketown there is a relatively small display with one sample per style, and the actual shoe must be requested and sent from another floor. This takes time, so I sat down among a group of women trying on shoes. I realized I was surrounded by European tourists who were checking out some of the retro styles that Nike has revived. They had cameras and subway maps and guidebooks. I have to say, though, that despite some of the inconveniences—low inventory, few sales, having to wait for things to be sent up—I was taken in and enjoyed the energy and the no-expense-spared look of the store.

As I sat there, I looked forward to taking my purchases to the gym, changing, and heading out to Central Park for a loop or two in my new clothes and—more important—new shoes. I had worn my current pair of shoes almost down to the nub, and a hard 50K and marathon seemed to be the nails in their coffin lid. With 20 years of mileage on my 35-year-old body, I now notice that old shoes bring on some aches. A bruise on my shin and a slight pain in my right hip were gentle, but constant, reminders. In past years I had been known to buy as few as two pairs of shoes a year with no ill effects or injuries, even though I was running more than 5,000 miles a year. When I heard that one rule of thumb was to get new shoes every 500 miles, I was sure it was dreamt up by a shoe company. I am still skeptical of that 500-mile rule, but I average about four pairs a year now.

I started running in high school, joining both the cross-country and track teams, but did not compete in college. I just ran miles and miles on my own, for my personal satisfaction. I had one regular running partner, but truthfully neither of us knew much about the sport and we just sort of made up our own routine as we saw fit. This meant everything was sort of trial and error. We didn’t subscribe to Runner’s World or Running Times and knew no other runners.

I look back on it and think how the old me, whose running attire included Duofold union suits and a Shetland wool sweater with a hole in the elbow that someone had accidentally thrown in the dryer, would have viewed the new me sitting there being waited on in Niketown, buying the latest styles, in synthetic materials no less. I used to think this stuff was appropriate only for the truly fast. My personal rule was dress for how you run. If you’re a schlepper, no amount of money is going to make you faster. I didn’t even own a digital watch until 1995, about 13 years after I started running. I figured I wasn’t concerned about seconds. Minutes, even approximate minutes, were good enough for the likes of me. But that changed. I care about seconds as well as minutes now, although I occasionally look back on those early days a bit wistfully and feel good about how much we did with so little.

Candace returned to tell me that though the computer said there was one XS (these shoes are sized XS, S, M, and so forth) left, this was actually not the case. Since the reason for this excursion was to get new shoes, I was determined not to leave the store without them. The now well-worn pair in my bag (my insurance pair) just would not do another day. This was not a totally irrational decision because my shoe size is right on the cusp between the XS and S anyway. True, they had perhaps a bit more toe room than I am used to, but I would wager that an expert would say they actually fit pretty well. I bought them and rationalized that they would be good for the Vermont 100 when my feet started to swell up in the later stages.

Before heading to the cashier, I paused in another (not quite discernible as to what sport but definitely women’s) section to make sure I had not missed any good and less obvious deals. Leafing through a rack of camisoles and sports bras, I was amused to overhear a young man explaining the sizes and details as to appropriate sports use (such as high impact, low impact) to a customer. He handled it with aplomb, and I wondered how in the world the poor guy got assigned to the bra section. I found two that looked nice on the hanger but not on me. The one with skinny straps looked too much like lingerie, and I could just imagine the catcalls from rubes out on some of the back roads—not the kind of attention I wanted.

I presented my certificate (imagining for a second that I would be told I couldn’t use it there or that it had expired), checked out, and began my floor-by-floor descent by escalator, a perfect vantage point from which to view the various departments.

I was a bit reluctant to leave this well-lit, nicely designed, colorful environment. It was like the Land of the Lotus Eaters. Back out on the street would be the noise and crowds of midtown, albeit midtown on a nice spring

day. I paused briefly on the first floor, casting a last longing glance at the cool, colorful watches, and headed for the exit. A look at my own trusty bought-on-sale-at-the-grocery-store Timex watch confirmed what I suspected. I had spent so much time in Niketown that I did not have time for a run in the park before I met my friends downtown in Soho for lunch. In the past this would have perplexed me to no end. The idea that I had sacrificed a run to buy running clothes was not very “me,” but today, for some reason, I was OK with it. Maybe I’ve just mellowed into a less compulsive runner. Then again, maybe not. Even if it got too late to run outside, where there is a treadmill, there is a way.

For four shorts, three shirts, two pairs of socks, and one pair of (on sale) running shoes, I managed to spend $295 of the gift certificate. As the cashier rang up the sale, I marveled at what I was doing. I didn’t feel frivolous, but I felt out of step with the world or my corner of it. I thought, “I am buying things like a normal person.”

So how does the average person afford this? I couldn’t figure it out, and even now I still don’t know. How many pairs of shorts does the average high-mileage runner own? How many does one really need? And how long does one keep them? I know I have at least two pairs that are six or so years old and seem to be in good shape (except maybe in comparison with the ones in my shopping bag). “What is normal?” I wondered to myself.

Still, there was something about having all this new gear that made me look forward to my next run. I feel a bit transformed, and though I know it is arguably just a cosmetic change, if it makes for a positive attitude, the benefits must go beyond the superficial. Seeing me in a pair of new shoes, a friend once remarked, “Are those the shoes that are programmed to run 5:30 pace?” If only it were so.

In the past, in the tradition of inverse snobbery that once—and to a certain degree still does—pervaded distance running, I eschewed the look of the expensively dressed runner, believing that substance was more important than style. I ran my first national championship 100K wearing a wool sweater and Danskin tights under a pair of soccer shorts, and it never occurred to me that that was unusual. Placing third overall, I felt my choices were justified. My favorite tale of substance over style comes from my running partner, Barbara Remmers, who once ran—and won—the Detroit Marathon in 2:44:56 wearing a white cotton T-shirt on which she had scribbled “BAA” in magic marker because she had forgotten her racing singlet at home.

There is a happy medium somewhere, I’m sure. I read something that Steve Holman wrote not too long ago about runners and keeping up appearances. The gist of it was that we are de facto representatives of our sport and should try to do what we can to make the sport look good—by looking our best (he specifically listed the wearing of long underwear for running as a “don’t”). While I feel he has a point—to a point—one of the things that got me to run and kept me running was that all I really needed was a pair of shoes. No equipment, no membership fees, no fancy clothes.

When I lived in New York City and ran in Central Park, I used to see a man who ran every morning, rain or shine. I liked seeing him, as I liked seeing all the early morning regulars. Though we kept to ourselves, mostly running our own routes at our own paces, there was an undeniable camaraderie among us. Interestingly, when it was very cold, he wore layers of cellophane grocery bags on his hands to keep them warm. Besides that, I never noticed anything too out of the ordinary about him. If his clothes were particularly worn, I don’t recall it. I later found out he was homeless. His fortitude made a big impression on me, although I find it difficult to articulate it into some kind of “moral of the story.” I wondered, “Would he be treated well at Niketown if he decided to come in and take a look around?” Come to think of it, would I be if I didn’t have a fast husband who wins gift certificates at races?

Ellen McCurtin is one of America’s premier ultrarunners.