Feet You Free
It had been too long since I’d last visited this place—guilt and a sense of failure lingered like shadows. Often, I’d think about writing, but my mind found itself trapped between two opposing forces: the calm acceptance of “letting things be” and the relentless push of persistence. After much reflection, I decided to be myself—roll up my sleeves, pick up the pen, and tap out the images swirling in my head, attempting to turn them into words on the screen.
Looking back, my last post was about shoes— more than100 days ago. A lot has happened since then: a new job, parent’s visit, a trip to Paris, teaching a fashion course remote. I recall someone saying, “Life is what happens when you’re making other plans.” Plans always fall short of change, and willpower is no match for luck. Glancing around now, I see the yoga mat gathering dust in the corner, a half-burned incense stick on the windowsill, and running shoes with their laces undone. These aren’t symbols of my attempt to control life, but rather reminders of my effort to get closer to its essence.
Speaking of running, it’s been over ten years of on-and-off commitment. I remember deciding to start in 2011, inspired partly by Haruki Murakami’s book on running, and partly by Jun Takahashi’s Gyakusou collection with Nike. Armed with a new pair of Nike Free Runners, I rushed to the treadmill in my apartment gym, convinced that with the right mindset, I could conquer anything. Five minutes later, I was out of breath, and no mental model could save my body from its desire to collapse. In my mind, scenes from high school military training played on repeat. That evening, I met with some friends for dinner, proudly wearing my favorite Gyakusou jacket. Takahashi, being obsessed with both running and Dieter Rams at the time, had designed the jacket with Rams’s Less but Better design ethos in mind. There was a small transparent window cut into the left sleeve so you could check your watch in the rain, and terry fleece on the right sleeve for wiping away sweat. The jacket was a maze of ventilation holes and loops for threading iPod earphones, complete with a clip to hold the headphones in place at the nape of the neck. Ironically, after drinking too much at dinner, I left the restaurant without my jacket. By the time I called, it was too late. Takahashi’s masterpiece, along with my iPod and its 5,000 songs, had vanished into the ether.
Though I lost the jacket and the soundtrack to my youth that night, the habit of running stuck with me. Murakami kept writing books, Takahashi kept making collections, and I kept running. I have no impressive achievements to boast of, nor have I ever entered a race or marathon. Yet as Malcolm Gladwell once said, anything done for over 10,000 hours naturally yields insights that beginners can’t grasp. Oddly enough, I don’t even like running particularly. Given a free hour, I’d much rather play soccer, read a book, or take a nature walk. For me, running is more like a monastic practice—a meditation of the body. If one can commit, every few days, to doing something hard that they dislike at first yet benefits both their mind and body, perhaps they can eventually face life’s unexpected blows without resentment or bitterness. And once the wounds heal, they can lace up their shoes and smile through it all. In a way, this must be the closest feeling to loving someone deeply. It also beats the validation approval hunger on Strava. Plus that guilt-free ribeye after a long run just tastes too divine.
Recently, through a close friend’s introduction, I’ve learned about the Tarahumara people of Mexico and their near barefoot running lifestyle. In the documentary Goshen, you see men, women, and children crossing mountains and valleys, day after day, on foot. Whether visiting neighbors, tending fields, or trading in town, they walk or run for miles. The average daily distance? 30 miles, in sandals made from old tires and grass braches, with nothing but a small pouch of chia seeds for sustenance. Sometimes they play a game called Rarájipari, kicking a wooden ball the size of an orange as they run, chasing it through the rugged terrain. Onlookers shout, “Iwériga”—breathe with spirit—to encourage them. The wooden ball represents the earth, and kicking it is a way to keep it spinning. Each runner wears bright, balloon-sleeved tops and natural cotton shorts, their movements from afar looks like a flowing poem.
Interestingly, for spring summer, designers have also send models down the runway in various barefoot running shoes —from Issey Miyake to Junya Watanabe. Even Kiko Kostadinov’s sub-line, Otto 958, along with Suicoke’s five-finger shoes, seems to suggest that the fashion world is no longer ashamed of toes. Finally I bought a pair myself, equally curious about its functionally and ability to raise eyebrows. Perhaps it’s because during the pandemic, when we couldn’t leave our homes, we chose thick-bottom shoes for the illusion that with the chunky cushion it could send our mind float above reality. Now, four years later, when we can hear birds and smell flowers again, what we long for is not just lighter shoes but the chance to kiss the earth we’ve neglected for too long.
解放你的脚
这个地方太久没有来,当然会有内疚与罪恶感。其实也经常在想要写什么,但脑子夹在了一切随缘跟坚持不懈两种非常不同的中心思想的中间,一半是seth godin的地,另一半是francis weller的天。想了太久还是决定做我自己:挽起袖口,拿起笔,敲起键盘,把脑子里的画努力变成屏幕上的字。
回看起来上一篇写的是鞋,已是100天以前的事了。过去的100天里也发生了不少的事情:新的工作,父母的探访,巴黎行,夏令营的教书。记得谁说过“生活是在你忙着制定其他计划时发生的事情。”计划永远改不上变化,意志永远斗不过运气。回头一看,墙角的瑜伽毯,窗台上半燃的香,鞋带松弛的跑鞋,其实不是我想驾驭生活获取某种控制的证据,而是想向生活的本质更靠近地努力。
说起跑步,断断续续地也坚持了10年多。记得2011年决定开始跑步的时候一是看了村上春树的关于跑步的书;二是看了高桥盾Gyakusou系列的第一季。精神物质甚至连东风也不差,拿着刚买的Nike Free Runner就往公寓里健身房的跑步机狂奔。5分钟以后就以经上气不接下气,任何mental model也无法唤醒只想躺平的肉身。脑子里突然不停地放起高中军训的画面。那天晚上跟朋友吃饭,穿着我最爱的那件Gyakusou的外套,爱的原因是那时的高桥盾深迷跑步与Dieter Rams,遇到为Nike设计跑步系列的机会当然把form follows function的设计理念发挥到极致:左袖的袖口切了一块一寸左右透明的类似pvc的窗口,为了雨天的时候不用淋湿手表也能看时间,右手的袖口3-4寸的部位用极细的类似浴袍的布料方面随时有手擦去额头的汗。整件夹克也布满迷宫般的通风处跟走Ipod耳机线的洞,背部靠颈椎的地方还有一个卡住耳机的小夹子。讽刺的是晚饭之后我酒喝得太high,离开餐厅的时候忘记了我的外套,意识到以后火速电话餐厅但为时已晚。高桥盾的杰作跟U2的ipod还有里面的五千首歌一起消失在以太里。
虽然那天晚上丢失了我心爱的外套跟半个青春的旋律,跑步的习惯竟然坚持了下来。村上的字还在写,高桥的衣服也还在做,我当然也要不停地跑。虽然没有值得炫耀的成绩,也没有参加过任何的跑步比赛与马拉松,但就像Macolm Galdwell说的那样,任何事情做到了超过1万小时自然会有一些初学者所领悟不了的心得。其实我是不喜欢跑步的,如果上天赐予我免费的一小时,我宁愿去踢足球,读本书,甚至去大自然散步。跑步对我来说更像是一种修行,一种身体的冥想:一个人的一生里如果每一两天都能坚持做一件虽不喜欢,却能锻炼德智体的“难事”,而且当生活无意中给你一量耳光的时候还能够不埋怨自己,不愤世嫉俗,伤愈后穿上跑鞋一笑而过。这应该也是最接近爱的一种情绪了吧。而且对我来说这比在strava上天天晒自己的成绩或IG上发布下一个竞跑的人更有意思。另外一个大的bonus是跑完以后的那块毫无罪恶感大口大咬的ribeye。
最近经一个朋友的介绍开始了解墨西哥塔拉乌马拉族群以及他们以几乎赤足跑步的生活方式。在Goshen的纪录片里可以看到村子里男女老少每天以足代步翻山越岭。他们无论是串门、到田地里耕作,还是去城镇买卖作物,都要步行很远。每天平均距离在30英里,脚下着的是轮胎底的草鞋,唯一的食物补给是一小袋奇亚籽。有时他们会玩一个叫Rarájipari的游戏。他们把树干削成一个柳橙大小的球,跑者用脚把球踢到远处,接着朝木球跑去再踢出。旁边的人会大喊Iwériga(呼吸很灵魂)鼓励他们。而这个木球也代表他们生活的地球,不停地踢下去也是让地球不停地转下午。每个人身着五颜六色的类似泡泡袖的上装与天然棉色的短裤,远处看去像是一首流动的诗。
有意思的是SS25这季大家也不约而同的给每个模特穿上了赤足的跑鞋,从Issey Miyake到Junya Watanabe。Kiko Kostadinov的支线Otto 958与Suicoke的五指鞋也终于想时装人事再也不对自己的脚趾害羞。也许是因为疫情期间足不能出户的我们宁愿选择厚底的鞋,幻想起码我们的意识可以踩着气垫飞离现实。而4年以后我们终于可以开始听到鸟语,闻到花香,希望的也是脱掉厚厚的跑鞋底,亲吻这个被遗忘太久的地球。