Countless runs ferment within my shoes. They know every single divot and curve to my feet, down to the last pinky toe. They have been with me in victory and defeat; indented with pain and supported by valiance. They store all the progress that I have made and still leave room for the betterment that is to come. My sneakers, in yellow and navy blue décor, swing off the back curve and into the last straightaway. They are adjoined to my feet, not only by white braided shoe laces, but bound tight in a double lace knot within my heart. Discovering the power to run mirrors Ponce de Leon withholding the fountain of youth; the endless possibilities that can await, and the art of testing one’s limits beyond means imaginable.

Over the grass hills, mud paths, and other rigid terrain, my shoes hug my feet. They are my supporters and bounce me off one step to the next, despite the grimacing-pained look on my face. My sneakers will not quit. They refuse the lingering benches that they pass by on long runs, and withdraw from the temptations of assuaged breaks.

My sneakers have been there from the beginning. Wrapped around by three distinguished Adidas lines, encoded with races past, present, and future, they lead the way. Sometimes my shoes give into the wile of a trail,, little pebbles of asphalt knock the metal spikes out of their allotted space, altering their design. Quickly, new spikes replace old ones. This time, they are ready to take the beating; going through the highs and lows of each course; slopes of extreme incline, and puddles camouflaged by fallen leaves of brown and yellow, all encrusted by dirt and gravel. Other times, my shoes are misled. They overstep their perfect stride and land back on the ground in an acute formation. One by one my shoes hit, but it only takes a few more steps until their stride is restored to its natural flow, disregarding the treacherous locomotion they have endured through miles of jaunt. The shanks of my shoes remain completely in tact, withstanding the rough and rigid terra firma, staying true to their original contour.

Making the transition from trail to mondo surface is no match for my shoes. Coated with a sweet white mesh, they run. When the gun goes off and it is time for my shoes to take flight, they force my feet in an upwards motion; perched up by the pressure on my toes. My shoes move; a gazelle running through shrubbery. It only feels natural. They hit the red track, they pass the big number one imprinted in white, they cross the line. Done.

But, they are never actually done. They will never stop. My shoes will keep moving. They will test my limits; they will exceed all expectations, including my own. They will be determined to run faster, stronger, better. The pursuit of determination radiates yellow with a lining of navy blue. The yellow, solely embodying the will to dispel whatever challenges may lie ahead. The blue, representing my shoe’s humility, my shoe’s preparedness that other shoes may and can run faster. Both harmoniously jibe, forever morpheme. My shoes are ready. They left the starting line a long time ago. They have made their own course. The shoes are mine, the shoes are me.