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My last two runs felt off. Something was wrong with my gait, and I felt sore almost immediately after I stepped off the treadmill. The first time I wrote it off as a bad day, but the second time I knew exactly what was wrong. My beloved running shoes are done.

I still remember the day we found each other. We were in Minneapolis. My mom, brother and sister-in-law were all there patiently waiting while we ran up and down the sidewalk. I tried the blue shoes, too, but I kept coming back to the Newtons. Our first run together was in my parents’ neighborhood, where based on the weird looks I got, we were the first to ever run on the street.

We went far together. Literally. We put in hours at Green Lake and up and down Greenwood Avenue. We did a 5Ks together in Seattle and then in New York, where we trained in Central Park, but more frequently up and down the Hudson. Most recently, our time spent together was either on the treadmill downstairs or walking to boot camp in Chelsea.

I’ll miss you, old friend, but maybe we’ll keep walking to Chelsea together, even if we can’t run anymore. And I’m sorry or all the times I made you walk through the grimy subway stations.

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