Every once in a while, though, we have a remarkable run. The kind of run that makes you remember that THIS is why we run, THIS is how it's supposed to feel. Sometimes it happens when you hit all your split times, or when you are up in the mountains, or when you have some kind of epiphany on your run. Your body feels electric, alive, full of muscle and energy and movement. I had a run like this today. It happened in a completely normal place, on an absolutely typical day. I was in a city, at a high school, on a football field. I was barefoot.
Barefoot running has popped up recently as a return-to-your-roots running phenomenon. I don't really know that much about it, except for two things: A. That it is championed as being much better for your biomechanics than running with shoes, and B. That the Tarahumara runners of Mexico are the most prominent example of how one can go for miles in minimal support footwear (much like how vegans rally around Scott Jurek as an example of how veganism does not diminish endurance potential). I really just wanted to try it because I absolutely hate wearing shoes and socks (it's so...I don't know, confining somehow), and if there's an excuse for me to take them off, then I'm all for it!
I arrived at the Roosevelt High School turf field expecting to do a speed workout, but was lured by one of my running friends into running on the turf barefoot instead. She had recently read a book by Chris McDougall called "Born to Run," which is essentially the barefoot runner's manifesto, and was absolutely gung-ho about the whole idea. She spoke pretty words to me about a world with no injuries, no pain, and no shoes. She told me stories of runners trotting up trails and mountains for generations without anything except the support of their own two feet. I was entralled. WWHD? (what would hippies do?). RUN BAREFOOT. And so I did.
The first lap around the turf felt strange. I was worried about high school meat heads spitting on the field. I was worried about getting beaned in the head by a stray ball. I felt a little off kilter, like I needed to step gingerly because my feet didn't want to get hurt. I relaxed a little on the second lap. The dangers of rowdy students was still present, but my feet were starting to find their stride. I was hitting the ground with more ease, and I noticed that I wasn't doing a hard heel-toe step anymore, but more of a mid-to-whole-foot sort of step. By lap three, I stopped thinking about my feet, and started to think about the scene around me: the bright lights of the field, the teenagers laughing and rough-housing in the bleachers. The speed workout group flew by. The air was crisp and cool, the sounds of rush hour traffic all around. The world was alive; I was alive. By the end of that lap, I was in love.
The next laps flew by, and I lost count of how many I did. I noticed that my arches started to hurt a little, but the feeling of having air on my feet was so liberating that I couldn't stop running. I ended by doing some fast strides across the field (so quick! so light! I'm a freakin gazelle!!), and then bounced over to the rest of the group in a fit of giggles. I told my friend that I wanted to do this every week, forget speed work outs! I had become a barefoot running convert.
I still don't know very much about the science behind barefoot running, but I can tell you that the spirit of barefoot running is very much what every runner needs. More than other feats of athleticism, there is a magical quality to running, a kind of mysticism. Our solitude on the trail or road and the simple movement of our bodies allows us to connect with our surroundings in a way that athletes in other sports cannot. For me, barefoot running is another way of enjoying my sport and another reason for me to love being outside. Whether or not you believe the physical benefits of barefoot running exist, I wholeheartedly suggest that you try it at least once.
Remember, WWHD?!
--Phylly
