"They were wearin' 'em in the 70s!"

The last time I went jogging on my own volition, I was 20 years old, studying abroad in Geneva. I was trying to impress this girl I liked named Margaret. She was a big jogger who went to Wake Forest. One night, we were out at some bar, drinking quite a bit, feeling warm inside, when she mentioned that she was training for the Venice Marathon.

"How does that make you feel?" She was mocking me.

"How does what feel?"

"That a girl like me can run an entire marathon and you can't."

"I can run a marathon," I said, on the defensive.

"Yeah right."

"I can run a marathon, Margaret." She could barely hold it in. "I can. It's all mental. It's just about putting one step in front of the other, over, and over, and over." I was really drunk, by the way, when I was saying this. "I can run a marathon."

"Whatever." Margaret wasn't buying it.

"Okay Margaret," I said, "I'm going to start training, tomorrow." The marathon was about six weeks away at this point, and I had taken more than two years off from physical exertion. It was a lengthy sabbatical.

The next morning, I woke up slightly hungover, with the memory of Margaret's challenge fresh in my mind. So I put on my shoes, walked outside, did some half ass stretching, stopped once it was too painful, my long dormant muscles simply not ready for that kind of abuse, and started to jog. About the shoes: they weren't exactly what you're probably envisioning. They weren't hiking boots, but rather, more of a hybrid between hiking boots and tennis shoes; the kind of shoes you'd find at REI. I was jogging in those. In my mind, they'd act like ankle weights -- once I get some good shoes, I'll feel like I'm running on air. These shoes probably played a major role in what was to come.

Switzerland is a pretty hilly place, and despite the amazing weather and alpine smell, the first day was less than enjoyable. Same with the second day, and the third. I kept going, though, because all I could picture was Margaret's mocking tone; I hate hearing "I told you so," and so I ran.

Then we went hiking that weekend in the Alps. It was a pretty intense hike. I didn't stretch nearly enough. And my Achilles tendons were not happy about that.

That was the end of my brief jogging career. My Achilles' took four months to heal; every time I moved my foot up and down, it was like a brittle rubber band you'd find on the ground, being stretched, and creaking. I could almost hear them inside my ankles, crreeeeaaaaaak.

At least I still got the girl, though.

Four days ago, for a variety of reasons -- no. 1 being that I don't want to carry on the Parsley men tradition of being fat -- I resurrected my jogging career. I've run three miles every day since then. And, knock on wood, my Achilles' are okay, for now.

We'll see how long this lasts. Garland is convinced I'm going to get injured, since I didn't pay top dollar for the newest technology in running shoes. Instead, I went and got a sick new pair of Nike Pegasus 83's, UVa colors, orange and blue. They are awesome shoes. I feel like a million bucks in them. Not "running" shoes? So what? Forrest Gump wore shoes just like them, and he ran across the entire country! Multiple times!

"They used to wear 'em in the 70s!" John yelled when I told him I'd been catching grief for not falling for the ultimate marketing ploy, the concept of a "running shoes" as distinct from an old school lowtop Nike Pegasus 83.

"I know! What was Bill Russell wearing when he played basketball?"

Probably Chuck Taylor's. Not exactly what you would see an NBA player wearing today.

It's ironic that Garland is leading the charge in criticizing my shoe selection -- the truth is, I picked them because of the colors, and that's it -- because I had already bought her a smaller pair of the exact same shoes over a month before. It wasn't until a few days ago, when I went back to Academy for some reason, that I picked up mine. But Garland has no idea that she's about to open her Christmas gift to find ... the exact shoes that I'll make sure to be wearing when she opens it up.

But don't tell her I said that; I know she doesn't read my blog, so if we keep it between ourselves, the secret should remain safe.

Margaret is now engaged, to someone else.