I[/b]f you've never bailed out of a moving police car wearing 20 pounds of gun, ammo, baton, flashlight and spit-polished paratrooper boots to chase down a hooker's john (“customer&rdquo
who's trying to zigzag between apartment buildings and elude you while desperately trying to yank his pants up from his ankles, well, you've missed a life altering event from a runner's perspective. There should be marathons where cops in combat boots chase after johns with their britches roped around their ankles. The hookers could cheer from the roadside, which, oddly enough, I've also experienced. Not sure which corporate giants might sponsor such events, but the races would sure draw publicity.
Here's what such chases taught me as a runner: The dude with the biggest adrenaline dump wins nearly every ¼ mile sprint between the good guys and the bad guys, no matter what you have on your feet or where your pants are…but you can't zigzag efficiently farther than about five blocks wearing combat boots once the bad guy finally loses his pants and shoes. That's not to say the bad guy won't get caught. Lordy, no…he will be caught once somebody's watchful momma sees him tearing down an alley with no britches and barefoot and she dials 911 to give us this pervert's final location so he doesn't stop long enough to mess with the neighborhood kids. Thank God for momma's who help out weighted-down cops! I cannot give you an accurate number of how many drug runners (take that literally), johns, hookers and other perps I've chased and caught while I was wearing combat boots. But in my 24 years as an officer, I can accurately attest that combat boots are only as fast as adrenaline can push them, and once the perp loses his or her shoes, they've won the foot chase portion of the “Free-Trip-to-Jail” Fun Run.
Up until I began running barefoot a few months ago, I'd often made the observation that the more naked a perp was, the faster he/she became once I bailed out after her. Granted, the single-and-looking among my peers in blue often became more motivated to chase harder after some of these near nude folks, but being professional, I always looked at just the facts, ma'am. J Even after my department finally authorized our officers to wear a thick, all terrain shoe with a polish-ready hard toe instead of combat boots, which helped level the field between the patrol car and the crime scene, anytime the perp went barefoot the good guys were often bested.
I'd always assumed this frequent increase in thrust away from the police happened because by going barefoot, the perp: 1. Lost weight off his/her feet, thereby speeding him/her up; and 2. Surely felt more like escaping my handcuffs than worrying about what he/she was feeling underfoot so they didn't slow down for rocks or glass or anything. I also assumed that when my own body ended my pursuit through a twisted ankle or pain from shin splints, and I had to watch my perp get caught (eventually) by another officer, it was my own body's fault, not the mechanics of my footwear.
Now I have more info on the mechanics of shod vs. unshod running, which has led me to reinterpret the reasons for the outcomes of past foot chases. I can see where a cushioned shoe with a huge heel led to me twisting an ankle, yet the person barefooting like a Tasmanian devil away from my grasp was striking the ground solidly with his/her feet flexing over those same roots or chunks of concrete that could fell me. I was looking at—without realizing it at the time—prime examples of how running barefoot could lead to injury-free running longevity. The barefoot bad guys who, out of fear of my handcuffs, were oblivious to any tenderness underfoot, were running faster and longer on rougher terrain than could I in my supercushioned shiny departmental issue all-terrain shoes.
So when my lovely wife Karen handed me real running shoes this past July, I used them maybe twice before Shin and Splint yanked them off my feet, and that wonderful book by Christopher McDougall kept them off as I trained to save my life. I tested my glucose three times a day, trying to get the blood sugar junkie who was running nuts through my body under control. I ran barefoot. I changed my diet from all carbs to low and closely monitored carbs. My wife ran with me every step of the way and I love her for it.
As of this writing—three months into barefooting—I've had no injuries of any kind. No reappearance of the evil twins Shin and Splint. No sliced up ribbons of bloody fillet-of-Clay's soles. During one run on pavement I did stop for a millisecond of minor surgery to remove a sliver of glass out of one foot, but the skin of my sole had thickened so much there was no blood, so I kept going.
The only aggravation thus far in my new lifestyle was a twelve-year-old do-gooder boy I met up with during that 5K race Karen and I ran on Monte Sano Mountain two weeks ago. The kid was probably an Eagle Scout and straight-A student. Probably had hobbies like helping injured animals rehab back to youthful exuberance, carrying old ladies in his arms through crosswalks during power outages when the stoplights for careening cars weren't working, running door-to-door alerting neighbors during thunderstorms to potential tornado strikes nearby.
Waaaaaay too helpful for me to appreciate his enthusiasm until much, much, much later after the race.
I ran this first 5K wearing minimalist shoes because of the gravel trail portion, a substance that still leaves me tender-footed for three days afterward (I'm getting better, though). So the kid didn't comment on my shoes or lack thereof when he caught up to me; nope, he read right into my soul. I'm just off the gravel mile under leaf speckled sunshine and thinking “maybe I coulda' done it barefoot!” when Mr. America Junior pulls up alongside me. I encourage him…'cause he's a kid and that's what we adults do, right?
“Hey, you're doin' good” I said.
“Thanks!” Big grin. “This your first race?” he said.
That question should have clued me in, but I was sucking for oxygen, high on the fragrance of wildflowers and sweat, and running faster than I'd dreamed I'd be able to this day, so I bit at the line.
“Yeah. How'd you know?” I'm looking at my race number, thinking maybe it's somehow got clues to my lack of experience hidden in it, like the first digits of a car's tag can tell a cop if the car's a rental. This kid thinks maybe I rented these running shoes?
“I just haven't seen you before. You having fun?” he said.
I glared at him with all the fun I could muster.
“Actually, I think I am.” And I really was; dry mouth, breathing thin oxygen, but feeling no pain and running smooth.
“That's great ‘ca
use you'll love it once you win your first race and you'll really want to run more. I run all the time with my mom and dad. I just passed my dad. I've won five races so far for my age division and….” Mr. America Junior's words were all a blur after that. I remember nodding politely as he further encouraged me for the next mile, and wondering how soon the water station manned by the other Boy Scouts was coming up.
I paced the little champion, or he paced me (I don't really recall which), up until mile three. Then he took off. How in the world could a little kid have that much fun, jabber jaw through almost the entire race, and then have the fuel to kick in afterburners to scorch me at the finish line?
As I look back (well, as I remember him looking back at me from the finish line) I believe he embodied what I am trying to achieve. He was running without worrying about split times, about life, about health. He was running because he loved it, and he was willing to let the action of running take care of the act of living.
By training and running barefoot, just three months in and I'm pain free, gaining speed, and am getting my health under control. If that's what you desire for your life, or, I reckon, if you just want to up your chances of eluding cops in combat boots chasing you through back alleys, shuck the shoes and let life take the lead.
--Barefoot Clay
who's trying to zigzag between apartment buildings and elude you while desperately trying to yank his pants up from his ankles, well, you've missed a life altering event from a runner's perspective. There should be marathons where cops in combat boots chase after johns with their britches roped around their ankles. The hookers could cheer from the roadside, which, oddly enough, I've also experienced. Not sure which corporate giants might sponsor such events, but the races would sure draw publicity.Here's what such chases taught me as a runner: The dude with the biggest adrenaline dump wins nearly every ¼ mile sprint between the good guys and the bad guys, no matter what you have on your feet or where your pants are…but you can't zigzag efficiently farther than about five blocks wearing combat boots once the bad guy finally loses his pants and shoes. That's not to say the bad guy won't get caught. Lordy, no…he will be caught once somebody's watchful momma sees him tearing down an alley with no britches and barefoot and she dials 911 to give us this pervert's final location so he doesn't stop long enough to mess with the neighborhood kids. Thank God for momma's who help out weighted-down cops! I cannot give you an accurate number of how many drug runners (take that literally), johns, hookers and other perps I've chased and caught while I was wearing combat boots. But in my 24 years as an officer, I can accurately attest that combat boots are only as fast as adrenaline can push them, and once the perp loses his or her shoes, they've won the foot chase portion of the “Free-Trip-to-Jail” Fun Run.
Up until I began running barefoot a few months ago, I'd often made the observation that the more naked a perp was, the faster he/she became once I bailed out after her. Granted, the single-and-looking among my peers in blue often became more motivated to chase harder after some of these near nude folks, but being professional, I always looked at just the facts, ma'am. J Even after my department finally authorized our officers to wear a thick, all terrain shoe with a polish-ready hard toe instead of combat boots, which helped level the field between the patrol car and the crime scene, anytime the perp went barefoot the good guys were often bested.
I'd always assumed this frequent increase in thrust away from the police happened because by going barefoot, the perp: 1. Lost weight off his/her feet, thereby speeding him/her up; and 2. Surely felt more like escaping my handcuffs than worrying about what he/she was feeling underfoot so they didn't slow down for rocks or glass or anything. I also assumed that when my own body ended my pursuit through a twisted ankle or pain from shin splints, and I had to watch my perp get caught (eventually) by another officer, it was my own body's fault, not the mechanics of my footwear.
Now I have more info on the mechanics of shod vs. unshod running, which has led me to reinterpret the reasons for the outcomes of past foot chases. I can see where a cushioned shoe with a huge heel led to me twisting an ankle, yet the person barefooting like a Tasmanian devil away from my grasp was striking the ground solidly with his/her feet flexing over those same roots or chunks of concrete that could fell me. I was looking at—without realizing it at the time—prime examples of how running barefoot could lead to injury-free running longevity. The barefoot bad guys who, out of fear of my handcuffs, were oblivious to any tenderness underfoot, were running faster and longer on rougher terrain than could I in my supercushioned shiny departmental issue all-terrain shoes.
So when my lovely wife Karen handed me real running shoes this past July, I used them maybe twice before Shin and Splint yanked them off my feet, and that wonderful book by Christopher McDougall kept them off as I trained to save my life. I tested my glucose three times a day, trying to get the blood sugar junkie who was running nuts through my body under control. I ran barefoot. I changed my diet from all carbs to low and closely monitored carbs. My wife ran with me every step of the way and I love her for it.
As of this writing—three months into barefooting—I've had no injuries of any kind. No reappearance of the evil twins Shin and Splint. No sliced up ribbons of bloody fillet-of-Clay's soles. During one run on pavement I did stop for a millisecond of minor surgery to remove a sliver of glass out of one foot, but the skin of my sole had thickened so much there was no blood, so I kept going.
The only aggravation thus far in my new lifestyle was a twelve-year-old do-gooder boy I met up with during that 5K race Karen and I ran on Monte Sano Mountain two weeks ago. The kid was probably an Eagle Scout and straight-A student. Probably had hobbies like helping injured animals rehab back to youthful exuberance, carrying old ladies in his arms through crosswalks during power outages when the stoplights for careening cars weren't working, running door-to-door alerting neighbors during thunderstorms to potential tornado strikes nearby.
Waaaaaay too helpful for me to appreciate his enthusiasm until much, much, much later after the race.
I ran this first 5K wearing minimalist shoes because of the gravel trail portion, a substance that still leaves me tender-footed for three days afterward (I'm getting better, though). So the kid didn't comment on my shoes or lack thereof when he caught up to me; nope, he read right into my soul. I'm just off the gravel mile under leaf speckled sunshine and thinking “maybe I coulda' done it barefoot!” when Mr. America Junior pulls up alongside me. I encourage him…'cause he's a kid and that's what we adults do, right?
“Hey, you're doin' good” I said.
“Thanks!” Big grin. “This your first race?” he said.
That question should have clued me in, but I was sucking for oxygen, high on the fragrance of wildflowers and sweat, and running faster than I'd dreamed I'd be able to this day, so I bit at the line.
“Yeah. How'd you know?” I'm looking at my race number, thinking maybe it's somehow got clues to my lack of experience hidden in it, like the first digits of a car's tag can tell a cop if the car's a rental. This kid thinks maybe I rented these running shoes?
“I just haven't seen you before. You having fun?” he said.
I glared at him with all the fun I could muster.
“Actually, I think I am.” And I really was; dry mouth, breathing thin oxygen, but feeling no pain and running smooth.
“That's great ‘ca
use you'll love it once you win your first race and you'll really want to run more. I run all the time with my mom and dad. I just passed my dad. I've won five races so far for my age division and….” Mr. America Junior's words were all a blur after that. I remember nodding politely as he further encouraged me for the next mile, and wondering how soon the water station manned by the other Boy Scouts was coming up.
I paced the little champion, or he paced me (I don't really recall which), up until mile three. Then he took off. How in the world could a little kid have that much fun, jabber jaw through almost the entire race, and then have the fuel to kick in afterburners to scorch me at the finish line?
As I look back (well, as I remember him looking back at me from the finish line) I believe he embodied what I am trying to achieve. He was running without worrying about split times, about life, about health. He was running because he loved it, and he was willing to let the action of running take care of the act of living.
By training and running barefoot, just three months in and I'm pain free, gaining speed, and am getting my health under control. If that's what you desire for your life, or, I reckon, if you just want to up your chances of eluding cops in combat boots chasing you through back alleys, shuck the shoes and let life take the lead.
--Barefoot Clay
