Last fall, reporting on my 10,000th barefoot mile, I commented on a confrontation in a coffee shop, and even today I still recall the young woman’s hazel eyes, above the light-blue surgical mask, glaring with hostility.  Then there was the art museum in Ft. Worth, where a portly security manager dressed in a navy blazer explained, patiently, that “it’s the law.”  Which it’s not.  (Trust me, I do my research.)

But I am nothing if not stubborn.  On the way to 11,000 miles, I made it into both these places without shoes, as well as dozens of other establishments, as part of my participation in the Barefoot Autism Challenge, and as part of my unplanned transition to a mostly barefoot lifestyle.

I don’t track steps, however, so coffee shops and art museums did not contribute to the cumulative total.  Rather, it was running and mountain-climbing that got me to this latest milestone.

Barefoot Racing

I follow a highly-respected performance fitness coach/sports scientist on Twitter who advocates for lots of easy training in low heart-rate zones — and cautions against too much intensity.  I listen to him.  Ponder this craving for intensity that so many of us feel.  Ask myself, where is the line — what happens if you cross it — and how would you know?  For me, the last thousand barefoot miles included 18 races:  six marathons, one half marathon, two 15 K’s (9 miles), four each 10-K’s and 5-K’s, and one ultra-marathon.  Maybe this was too much — or maybe it was too little, for I would’ve happily done more:

• I ran the Ft. Worth Cowtown Marathon for the third time, this year dressed in a cow suit.  The crowds were very supportive.  I recall a young child calling out, “Look mom, it’s a barefoot cow!”  This was my first time running in a costume.  Veterans of this practice had advised cutting slits in the fabric for ventilation.  Mercifully, the weather was cool.
• At the Cheyenne Mountain Trail 10-k race outside Colorado Springs, I finished in the middle of the pack, which I was quite pleased with considering the altitude (6,500 feet), my age, and no shoes.  Compared to the rocky trails I’m used to in New York, these trails consisted mostly of hard-packed dirt.  Three months later I tried to repeat this unlikely triumph at the Barr Mountain Trail 12.6-mile race, but this time the path was steep and full of gravel.  Moving at a very slow pace, I made it to the 10-mile mark, glanced up, saw from the position of the sun that it was now late morning, which meant that the cut-off time was fast approaching.  It’s precisely for these kinds of situations that I carry in my waistband a pair of Fitkicks, which are like slippers but with a protective sole.  Pulling these on, I picked up the pace — why, I positively flew down the mountain — bounded from rock to rock — reached the paved road 1/4 mile from the finish and now I’m tearing past people shuffling along and I’m thinking there’s not much time left — when up ahead I see a toddler wander onto the course.  Such was my momentum, a collision seemed inevitable.  Then the mother called, and the little girl stepped back, and catastrophe was averted.  I completed the race, so out of breath I could hardly stand.  In last place.  With thirty seconds to spare.  The shufflers did not make it.
• I redeemed myself at the Sizzlin’ Summer race in Ft. Worth, by claiming 2nd place in the 15k.  The challenge here was neither altitude nor surface (the race took place on a paved trail at around 500 feet above sea level) but rather Texas summertime temperatures — which start at 85 F no matter how early you wake up, and predictably reach 90 F by 9:00 am before surging over 100 F. Most of the runners chose the 5k or 10k options.  I didn’t actually see anyone finish behind me.
• The next weekend I woke up with a stomach bug, and when I reached the inaugural Sasche Police Association 5k, discovered there were no porta potties (eventually I found a restroom in a local school, after which I felt a little better).  The race took place on a nice smooth road, and despite the morning heat, I ran hard (heart rate reached 172 beats/minute, which is 12 beats above my age-predicted max).  A hundred yards in front of me a young lady was running steadily.  I tried but couldn’t quite catch her.  She finished third, I came in fourth (out of 80 participants), and afterwards I saw in the results that she was 14 years old.  (Less than one-quarter my age.)
• Back in the Northeast, I ran 30 miles barefoot in the Loopy Looper timed event, which is incidentally my longest distance yet barefoot on pavement.  Then put on the Fitkicks for 2 more loops, bringing me to a total of 37.5.  The temperature peaked at 88 F.  It felt like a good day’s work.

Barefoot Peak-bagging

I’m working on the Northeast’s 4,000 footers, of which there are 115 separate peaks.  Perhaps I will become the first person to climb them all without shoes (or maybe a bunch of people already have).  My latest trip to New Hampshire was punctuated by my daughter’s graduation from a master’s program.  So I drove back down to Boston and caught a flight to Chicago.  After the ceremony, we were milling around at the reception, when my wife asked when was I leaving for the airport — and in the excitement of the graduation, following on the logistical chaos of a life with too much travel, I realized with a jolt of concern that the time hack had come and passed.  Feeling anxious, I summoned an Uber, but it took a while, given crowds and rain, to link up with the car.  Once at the airport and through security, I sprinted — and I mean I was running so hard I was gasping for breath — briefcase in one hand, overnight bag in the other, barefoot through the terminal.  I hurtled into the gate with about 90 seconds to spare.

The last 1,000 miles barefoot included 19 peaks:

• Twelve in New Hampshire, which completed my quest to barefoot all 48 of the Granite State’s 4,000-footers.  Except that when I got to the summit of Cannon Mountain, it was pouring rain.  So I took the tramway down, just for the fun of it, and sauntered back to my car along a paved bicycle trail — only to discover later that according to the rules, you must ascend and descend under your own power.  So I’ll have to go back, if I want the official certificate.
• And I barefooted another 7 peaks in the Catskills, including Panther Mountain with some friends who are serious birders, and Southwest Hunter with my son, who’s strong and fast, but also patient.

Counting these trips, the Adirondacks, and the large number of visits I’ve made to the Catskills, my lifetime total is now 305 peaks climbed barefoot, which I suppose might be a record (if so an obscure one).  For vacation in late August, it’s off to Maine, where 15 more of the Northeast’s 4,000-footers await me, including Mt. Katahdin.

Barefoot Lifestyle

When I first heard about the Barefoot Autism Challenge, it caught my attention.  And it shook up my thinking.  Which is exactly the point.  Unlike racing and mountain climbing, this Challenge requires little in the way of exertion.  All you have to do is go somewhere — anywhere — for the barefoot experience and to show support for the Autistic community (barefoot is popular among members for the natural stimulation and grounding).  The challenge with this Challenge is mental — confronting social norms and hopefully overcoming them.  Because few people today go barefoot.  And some people, like the lovely young woman with the surgical mask, get triggered.

The other day I tried to pull together some stats, but I haven’t kept detailed records — so take these as approximations for barefoot visits to:

• Over twenty-five coffee shops, in New York, New Hampshire, Texas, Florida, and Oklahoma
• A dozen grocery stores
• A dozen restaurants, ranging from diners to nice places
• Eight art museums

The Challenge seems to have flipped a switch in my brain that I never knew was there.  Given my experience, shoes are no longer necessary in most circumstances, so why should I use them? — and why should I let other people override me in regards to this determination?  Further, I don’t mind making the argument that too much technology is counterproductive, when natural options are still viable.  And I’m glad to take a stand for people who are little different (including myself) and ask my peers to show some tolerance.  Not to mention, going barefoot around town is extra conditioning for my feet — to keep them ready for the next mountain — and, once you get used to it, so much fun.

With some trepidation, I returned to that coffee shop in Chicago at the suggestion of my mother, who likes it as a place for lunch.  I showered and shaved and dressed up in fancy jeans and a stylish blazer, pinned on my Barefoot Autism Challenge button, and accompanied by my mom, walked straight in.  The people behind the counter were friendly.  One asked about the Challenge and nodded with approval at my explanation.  The hostile woman was nowhere to be seen.

The art museum was just a question of getting through to their staff for prior approval.  I showed up with four colleagues from work and a five-year old named Marie who scampered happily through the marble halls, stopping to stare in amazement and beckon to her parents.  Nothing could have been more natural.

What will I learn along the way to 12,000 miles, if I make it that far?  I have no idea.  We’ll have to wait and see.

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