So I think I’ve found my barefoot running schtick. Most (all?) barefooters seem to be motivated by a variety of aspirational and inspirational things. There is a definite undercurrent of a wish to improve humanity and such. Apparently, however, I’m the only one who gives a rat’s ass about winning.
That’s not an indictment on my fellow fungus-and-fancy-free footers. Don’t worry, I’m not going to go into a Greed-Is-Good-esque diatribe. Some barefooters can run faster and farther than me, too, so it’s not about me suffering delusions of grandeur. Well, not in this particular case, anyway. My athleticism is what it is, until I get faster, which I have every intention of doing. Because, as much as I love to run, and as much as I truly and dearly love my fellow runners, I want to see how fast I can go. And, perhaps more accurately, I want to be faster than everyone I race.
I’m not evangelical about this barefoot yahoolery. I’ve got opinions that I’m more than happy to share, sure, and I’m right and everyone else is wrong, of course, but I strongly feel one’s footwear decisions are none of my business. What is my business is catching runners in races and not letting anyone catch me.
Anyway, I said it. My competitiveness does not in any way diminish the joy and comaraderie I feel at running get-togethers. I just want to get to the post-race food before any of you do.
Man, that fartlek must have pumped me up a bit. Excuse me while I go stuff a nerd in a locker.