Tortured soles

In love and life, I inevitably end up paying for what I take for granted. After finishing a 4-miler on Sunday, my leg muscles twitched, my knees ached for the ride home, but not creek from my feet.

Until the late afternoon, when my broken-in sneakers turned overly snug. The right foot's outside edge began responding poorly to the slightest pressure. On a downhill slop in the race's second mile, I remember a few strange footfalls, and since nothing else qualifies, that must have tweaked my foot. Why it took hours for the pain to kick in ... well, any guesses? I have none.

Five days later, despite a concerted effort to rest the feet, it still hurts progressively worse as each day goes on. "Concerted" in my case means dropping down to one walking trip a night, and moving slowly by the end of that walk. I can't stop moving these days .... well, I won't let myself stop. That's when my mind runs wild, and leads me in havoc-wreaking directions.

Feet ... we don't like to acknowledge them, but damn they're important. If one of the neighborhood panhandlers got fussy with me, I couldn't run away. The game of Human Frogger I play every time I cross High Street has leapt to a challenging level.

I already sent in a check for one more run this year, two days from now.

I'm debating whether I run through the pain Saturday, walk the course with a subtle limp - or grab my run T-shirt, finish my Christmas shopping and save a pair of soles for 2007.

In the parlance of the NFL, it will be a game time decision.