My family and I spend a lot of time contemplating our feet.
Dr. Stanley, our podiatrist, is practically a member of the family. My dad, who probably won’t appreciate me writing about his feet in the newspaper, has suffered from peculiar foot problems his entire life.
The ailments of the Land family’s feet could practically fill a podiatry textbook - bone spurs, corns, calluses, warts, blisters, broken bones, tumors, nail fungus, unusually long feet, bizarrely narrow feet. We just have weird feet.
I always thought my family was a little obsessive compulsive about their peds. I mean, really, how many people visit their podiatrist once a month (or more)? As a child, walking barefoot was almost a cardinal sin; BE CAREFUL - you could stub a toe, step on a nail, pull your arch.
I started going to the foot doctor in grade school. I can’t really remember why, but I’m sure there was some good reason at the time. I do recall trying to contain my hysterical laughter as this strange man examined my toes; anyone who’s giggling to the point of stomach pain can’t be suffering from too serious of a malady. I was always a little cynical about the appointment. “What’s the big deal? Feet are just feet,” I thought.
I didn’t really start to treasure my feet until I began hiking. And now that I’m a runner, I can’t think of any member of the Land family more obsessive over their trotters than I am. I love my feet.
“Think of the magic of that foot, comparatively small, upon which your whole weight rests. It’s a miracle...” wrote Martha Washington, our first First Lady. I’m not really sure what possessed Martha’s pod-prose, but I agree; feet are perfectly engineered to allow us to move and walk and run - quite a gift.
Nowadays when I’m running, I frequently think of the importance of my feet - a part of our anatomy we tend to ignore unless there’s a problem.
In August, a sudden foot injury sidelined me from training for three miserable weeks. It was a silly but painful strain - the result of wearing running shoes that were too small. Believe it or not, my feet have grown over the summer.
Yeah, I know, it’s hard to imagine a 37-year old woman’s feet could still be growing, but in the world of long distance hiking and running, this phenomenon isn’t uncommon.
Before I hiked the Appalachian Trail in 1997, veteran hikers warned me that I could end up needing a new pair of boots a few months into my journey - not because they were worn out, but because of my feet spreading in every direction from day-after-day, continuous pounding. And they were right, I had to buy new hikers mid-trip because my feet expanded one size. It might seem wild, but it’s true.
So this summer, I ordered a new pair of sneakers - size 11. And for three long weeks, I didn’t run. I rested my feet, massaged my feet, loved my feet. And I thought of my dad; now finally, I could relate to his suffering. He had no choice but to love and care for his feet. His job required him to stand for 8 to 12 hours a day. Feet aren’t always just about fun, but earning a living and supporting a family too.
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