Back in April, I retired a pair of Nike Pegasus running shoes (here). I had put over 1,000 miles on them. Yes, one thousand. 1,012, actually. Good shoes, they lasted pretty well, and it was splits in the fabric along the sides that eventually did them in.
I was pretty pleased with that pair. 1,000 miles – that seems like a good amount for a pair of shoes, all the more so when I thought about how Nike and the shoe businesses would like me to replace my running shoes every 300 miles. Sure, I wasn’t running barefoot, but I was running on shoes that were well past the point of offering a lot of cushion or spring. I ran and ran and ran on that pair, in Iraq and Oregon and Lake Arrowhead and all across Oahu. I’d run in the desert, in the mountains, through snow and creeks and streams, on roads and sidewalks and trails.
So, with their retirement, I broke out the reserves — another pair of Nike Pegasus running shoes that I had purchased at the same time as the previous pair (if you find something that works, my dad use to say, buy multiples). They worked just fine. No blisters, no bumps, no bruises, no shin splints, no stress fractures — they worked. And after a little bit, I beat them flat and pounded the cushion and spring out of them, too. I ran them hard — from the Honolulu Triathlon, to my 300-mile month in July. But by July, they were starting to quit on me. Same deal — the fabric on the sides started to split, this time after a hair under 700 miles. By the end of July, and the end of my 300 mile month, I was writing a letter to my Nikes (here), telling them that maybe it was time for us to start seeing other people. What I wanted from our relationship (1,000 miles of no-questions-asked running) seemed to be more than they were able to give.
I even went so far as to do some social networking, to see if another shoe company would throw some free shoes my way. I wanted — I really, really wanted — to find some shoes that would love me unconditionally,ones that would be in it for the long haul and not long enough to amuse me until a new model came out and I could be convinced to buy a new pair.
Well, that failed. In the meantime, I went back into my kit bag and pulled out the last of my reserves — one more pair of Nike Pegasus running shoes. Maybe, I told myself, it’ll be different this time. Maybe, if we start spending time together again, it’ll be different this time. Maybe they’ve changed. After all, Nike has been talking a lot about running recently. Maybe they meant it.
They didn’t.
I threw them in the trash today. 535 miles of running killed them. 535 miles. I was just warming up to them. they were just starting to look right, with that mix of Hawaiian red and all-around mud. Their stink wasn’t yet to the point of warding off attacking bulls. As you can see, this time, the whole face exploded.
So, that’s it. I’m done with Nike. They’ve lost me. I was a good and faithful customer, someone who bought them out of hope and faith and dreams and fond memories. Gone are their days of making good shoes; from the looks of it, they appear far more focused on elite, specialty shoes (here). Which is fine — or would be fine, if the world was filled with elite and specialty runners. Racers, really.
I’m no racer. I’m a runner. It is not possible for me to care less about split times, or personal records for all the various distances. I don’t do fartleks, and I don’t limit my diet to only left-handed salmon that swim in the northern Pacific and favor jazz music.
I am a runner. Not a hobbyist, and not an olympic athlete. I run. You wouldn’t commute to work in an exotic and expensive to maintain Italian exotic sports car, and I’m not going to run in shoes that last exactly 3.5 months.
Here you go, Asics. Here’s your chance. Don’t let me down.
