Running is a good way to sweat out yesterday's booze. That's science.
So, in training for my first half marathon, I realize it's new-shoe time. And since my last few pairs of Asics were sale-rack Sports Authority numbers, I decide to enlist some professional help. A friend's recommendation sends me to Road Runner, where they have some fancy gizmo to help me find the perfect shoes.
One catch: It's in Tempe Marketplace.
I brace myself for the onslaught of '90s one-hit-wonder pop songs as I open the car door. My head hurts already. At least there aren't any sullen high school kids in sight.
Let's get this over with.
Shoe salesmen are always a bit creepy (I'm looking at you, Fashion Square Dillard's). But Road Runner's employees manage to mix the traditional sleazy shoe guy with a running nut. In other words: even creepier. And definitely with more unnecessary pep.
They chat me up, size my feet, test my pressure points and put me on a treadmill barefoot. Forty-five minutes later, I'm out the door with the same shoes I probably would have picked on my own.
Next time, I'll wear the new pair out. So I can run to the car.