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How to buy shoes when you’re old

Even though I’m old now and should have experienced almost everything, there are some things that Time has blurred; or should I say erased?

Buying running shoes is a good example of something that should stay with you forever. Even though most shoes stores have dispensed with Brannock Devices (those metal contraptions that measure the length, arch, and width of your foot) I’d like to think I haven’t lost touch with the distal regions of my body; I’d like to believe that I am still au fait with what a casual downward glance should confirm: that I still have a working knowledge of the dimensions of my feet. I have always used the rule of thumb my father taught me about shoe size (well, actually it’s a ‘rule-of-toe’ I suppose): does your big toe touch the end of the shoe you’re considering buying when you stand up in it? Sometimes simple things like that allow you to deflect a merely impulsive, beauty-driven choice into a wiser purchase. It’s what I do whenever I try on new things -especially shoes: block out the aesthetics.

Still, even if shoes have evolved, I’ve discovered that I haven’t. Like me, the concept of the ‘rule-of-toe’ is now ‘old-fashioned’ if I’m still allowed to use a Boomer expression (although I’ve now slipped into something called the Silent Generation, for some reason that doesn’t sound promising). Running shoes have evolved so much since I last bought any, that I realized I should have Googled my specific needs for the surface over which I would be running before venturing into a Sports Store, and being confronted with the labyrinth of choices by the young Gen Z’ers they all employ.

Of course, hiring older people in sports stores would be a lost leader for the overwhelming majority of its customers. Old people seldom run for anything but the bathroom, and I suppose that specialty shoes for that activity are not profitable either to make, or to stock. It’s no longer the ‘rule-of-toe, but more the ‘rule-of-sole’ that has gained a foothold (sorry) in modern specialty stores.

Certain areas apparently require extra (and therefore expensive) cushioning: the ball (for toe-offs or something), the arch (for seamless transitions from the front to the back of the foot as my young sales clerk explained), and most importantly, the heel: this is apparently the most cushioned part of the shoe and designed to absorb the heavy impact of a heel-strike. I thought I was always running on the flat part of the bottom of my feet and that any initial shock travelling up the leg to the knee and hip was just from tripping on unexpected tree roots sticking up like knees across a leaf-strewn trail, or unexpectedly jagged rocks surfacing for a breather. But I suppose that’s why you should go to a specialty sports store and ask detailed questions before choosing the shoes from their clearance table.

Of course employees are supposed to interview you in the expensive part of the store (so they can grab the new and pricey models off of the colourful wall display). I mean at my age, I’m not fooled by their tricks; I listen politely, and ask purposely old-person questions to disguise my certainty on what to look for. I disguise my determination not to overspend, and yet try to be naïvely attentive to what the 18 year old shoe-person is telling me.

As well as the rule-of-toe maxim, my father always followed with his view on the necessity of common-sense (he usually had to define the expression for me): don’t buy something just because it looks good on my feet, but only after I consider how the shoe would perform in the world outside the store.

First I tried on the trop cher selection my advisor chose for me after answering my questions and listening to my requirements. It dawned on me that there were probably graduated bonuses awarded for the high-end shoe sales. I mean he seemed interested in finding me the right shoes for my needs, but when I kept asking about the selection on the clearance table he kept shrugging as if old people like me were lost causes.

The clearance shoes were half the price of the shoes he’d been recommending although with obviously similar features described on the box with explanatory pictures. When I showed a distinct preference for them, he shrugged, and insisted that they wouldn’t stand up to the rocks, the roots, the gravel, or the cracks in the asphalt I had been describing about my running route -in other words, I’d still trip…

When I asked him if I could test-run them around the store a bit he shrugged again (clearly a store gesture in which he had been coached) and, looking increasingly irritated, said that it was a small store with no trees, or gravel.

So, I asked if I could run along the indoor corridor in the mall; I was sure, I explained, that there would likely be some gravel, or spilled candies – something, at any rate that hadn’t yet been brushed away by the cleaners.

After a consultation with his manager, they agreed to the test as long as I didn’t go outside the mall or into the parking lot: any damage to the soles would mean I’d have to buy the shoes. So, I left my backpack with the manager to guarantee my return and headed off to explore the corridor and then, naturally, the parking lot (a lot of stones there), and finally up and down the curbs that kept the cars from driving on the sidewalk (surrogate roots).

After barely working up a sweat, I jogged back into the store as nonchalantly as a old man who was just returning from the washroom. I was careful not to show the soles and quickly repositioned them in their original box.

“These’ll do just fine,” I said to the obviously relieved sales-kid and walked with him to the cash register.

“You went outside into the parking lot didn’t you,” he whispered to me.

I pretended to shrug but he wasn’t fooled in the slightest. I quickly donned my old man face, but a smile snuck onto my lips. “How did you know…?”

It was his turn to smile. “That asphalt mark on the front of your tee shirt wasn’t there when you started…”

Damn! It was just a little stumble…

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