Living a Lie

It is one of those very early childhood memories that is singularly clear from a time otherwise forgotten.

I am in an exclusive doctor's office on the Upper East Side of New York City (I did not live in New York at the time). The room looks more like the office of a big executive than an MD. The fact that my mother has brought me to this expensive specialist must mean that my condition is serious.

After the exam, the doctor gives his report in a tone that is somehow both reassuring and condescending. He speaks in the deep voice of undeniable authority. "He has flat feet, and he toes out. It's not a serious condition. He'll never be an Olympic runner, but you have nothing to worry about."

And that was that. My career as an athlete was over before it had even occurred to me to dream of one. Since then, I have known myself to be a flat footed boy. There is nothing seriously wrong, I just shouldn't get too excited about athletics.

When I took up running, I read that folks with flat feet are "overpronators" and should wear "motion control" shoes to avoid the increased chance of injury. I was very happy with the shoes I was wearing, but based on what I had read I went out and bought the motion control shoes with the best reviews.

It was a disaster. Running with these shoes felt like running in cement blocks. After two miles in these shoes my feet were all blisters, and all the muscles in my legs were sore. I ditched the moton control shoes, but it's always bothered me. After all, I HAVE FLAT FEET. I must have the flatest feet on the planet. It's just who I am.

Today, I took the famous "wet feet on paper" test, so often recommended by running guides. The test involves wetting the feet, and then stepping onto paper to see the imprint. Below are typical examples of what to look for:
On the left, a "neutral" or normal arch. In the center, a flat footed overpronator. On the right, a high-arched underpronator.

I put some water in the tub, stepped on some paper, and I couldn't believe my eyes.

The imprint was a perfect match for the neutral or normal arch.

My whole world shook. Could this be? My handicap was a giant lie? My brilliant athletic career stolen at the age of 5 by some pompous incompetent podiatrist?

Sure, in one sense, it was great news. According to this test, I was wearing the right shoes. I may not have been slowly destroying my feet, knees and hips without realizing it.

But now I don't know who I am. I am lost. I am angry. I don't have flat feet? What else don't I know? Am I a communist? An assassin planted by the Russians hypnotized into thinking that I am an average, mild mannered, flat footed fella?

There is only one way I can resolve this for myself. On November 4th, me and my normal arches are going to run us a marathon, and we are going to have a good time. So take that, Mr. Podiatrist.