Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Dear Nike, thanks for the Darts

Today I threw the best pair of runners I've ever owned into the bin.



It was time Migo, it truly was.

It was a pair of Nike Dart 9's that I bought...uh...that I bought...well I've completely forgotten when I bought them. Suffice to say they've lasted many Summers, along with countless Springs, a barrel load of Winters and plenty of Autumns, many revolutions and quite a few elections. I think I bought them to help blowtorch an acre of fat off my midsection and once upon a time they looked a little like this:

And in my true 'change my shoes for this dirty job? What the hell for?' attitude, I put them through absolute shoe destroying hell...and it shock absorbed it all and kept asking for more.
Built like a dump truck and just about eye blindingly garish as a nuclear meltdown, they were in the cross training section of Rebel Sport long before Crossfit was a glint in many instructors eyes and I reckon I ran a third of my neighborhood block before I completely blew up and decided running was for the far fitter than I.
So I used them for...well pretty much everything else:

Digging holes in my garden? I rocked the Dart 9s.

'I can't feel my legs' training sessions at The Human Mechanics? I crashed and burned in my pair of Nike Dart 9s.

Walking the dog, attempting to run with the dog, for work, playing golf, running around getting dirty on the outlaws farm, random sports attempts, resealing the back deck, working on the car, cooking, cleaning the house, washing the dog, shopping - all this and so much more, all in a pair of Nike Dart 9s.
In comparison I've had a pair of far newer runner shoes for just over a year now that look like they're completely overdue for their 100,000,000 k service. The Darts looked brand new compared to the completely worn out and falling to bits $100 specials.

So if they were so good, why are they now in the bin?

Well mainly due to the fact that they could completely gas a sewer full of feral rats from three blocks away.
 
I am Almigo, gasser of rats.
Yes through the swimming pool levels of sweat, fungus and god knows what else that's emerged from my pores over the years, my Dart 9's had turned from cross trainers to lethal weapons that could kill a fully grown man at ten paces. In the end they contained a stench so strong, it lifted elephants at the local circus.
And no matter how many deodorant bombs, odor eaters, drops of aromatic oil or trips to the washing machine I threw at it, the waves of stench plague kept coming back like unwanted relatives at a swingers party. You're honestly not impressing anyone when the smell of your boots opens a door five minutes before you walk through it. And when you're working out and you feel the burn...in your eyes, instead of your muscles, you have a problem.

I could have kept them of course, relegated them to the shed for pure outside duties...but I really didn't want to wake up one day and find my shed melted to the ground from the pure funk wafting from the Darts. No it was time to go - thank you my Nike's, may you not spontaneously combust the truck on the way to the tip.

Now to find out if Nike still make these tough as nails shoes...and find a pair of socks made of pure disinfectant...

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