What kind of shoes should a man who rarely walks wear?

As a child,  I wasn’t concerned with my wardrobe, but shoes mattered. On the field or the rink or the court.  I was an equal opportunity competitor, so I amassed quite a collection: black Adidas soccer cleats, CCM skates, white and grey Pumas for lacrosse. Everyday sneakers mattered, too. The look. The brand. Sam Smith. Converse. Then Nike. Each new pair seemed too white. I had a well-established ritual involving a tough break-in period. Dirt was applied. Shoes were bent to loosen them up. Laces needed a little fraying. Because I was a being in motion, and my shoes reflected that notion, I sought an arrogantly shabby ideal: not too new, not too old. For a long time, I nourished possibilities. New shoes might help with quick fakes or sudden stops or explosive jumps or my cool factor. Look at that kid. He can fly!

Those concerns seem like faint echoes. These high-arched feet of mine now require protection and inspection. Is my skin color okay? How’s my circulation? When did I get that bruise and that cut?

Like many wheelchair users, I constantly need to monitor my feet. It’s all about manual adjustment. My technique is to grab my pant leg as leverage.  I have the unsettling sensation of losing track of them. Are they sliding off the footplate? Are they completely under the sheet and covered by the blankets? And, on one particular occasion, are they too close to the fire pit?  (They were!) Because of my condition, the soles of my feet are super sensitive. It’s not an ideal combination with paralysis. The slightest pressure can trigger a bout of spasticity, uncontrollable shaking that starts at my toes and then travels up my spine. It’s exhausting to experience and distressing to witness. I spend a good deal of time on preventative placement.

Changing footwear is no easy matter, so seasonal transitions can be tricky. The Chaco sandals I have been sporting for the past four months (and the five summers before) are close to being unwearable. I’m flummoxed. These feet of mine have been along for the ride for quite some time. I doubt I’ve taken more than a thousand steps in the Chacos. And I’ve long abandon any break-in measures. Shouldn’t these shoes last forever? Shouldn’t the purchase itself be a lifetime guarantee?

No guarantees on much these days, that’s how I’m feeling.

At the dog park, my friend, John, noticed that I’ve been avoiding the inevitable. The Chacos should have been shelved for the season. But that means I have to add sock-and-shoe wrangling to my morning routine. I’ve figured out the right density of socks for quicker pull ups. I identified a trusty pair of Keens that serve me well. But I still need to stuff and cram and then test. My feet feel like prisoners. No more wind rushing through my toes. Farewell sun baths.

Zooming on the bright downslope of Jackson Street that last day in my Chacos, I imagined onlookers. Look at that guy. He can fly!