It’s early in the Dublin marathon, and I am running through Phoenix Park in my pink-trimmed shoes (see Bring the Mizunos and Throw in Some Magic Jelly Beans). I feel the pavement beneath my feet. Rain has stained the road dark and left shallow puddles. I feel the breeze on my face, and a few stray raindrops. I see the still-green trees and rolling meadows. I focus on a runner ahead of me, a young woman. Her shoes kick up a fine spray. I think about my shoes, still fairly pristine. All around me are runners, thousands in front of me and behind me on the course. I realize this is what my shoes are for.
Later, they get indiscriminately soaked as I walk back to the hotel through a postrace downpour. In my room, I peel one sock gingerly away from my heel, which is caked with blood. My mother notices the red stain spread across the back of my shoe. “Oh, on your new shoes!” she says.
Cute pink. That's not that much pink, by the way. :)
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