If, two days ago, you felt more inclined to travel by foot—this post is for you.

I’m a travel-by-foot person, myself. I’ve been running since I discovered the sport in my late teens. By the time I hit my early twenties, however, I was experiencing intermittent knee pain. A serendipitous conversation with a doctor caused me to suspect that I should lift weights if I wanted to continue running; specifically, I should target my quads (the muscles on the front of the thigh).

To my great relief, this worked! I did not experience knee pain as long as I did my strength exercises two or three times a week. During weeks when I didn’t make time for this routine, my knees would start to whine again.

Thus I seemed to have overthrown the oft-repeated refrain that running is bad for one’s knees . . . but I didn’t understand why it worked. Evolutionarily, I knew, humans were built for running. Did our hunter-gatherer ancestors do squats twice a week? Well, probably they did, regularly throughout the week, during ordinary hunter-gatherer activities like picking berries, utilizing one’s favorite digging tool, or, you know, taking a shit. But that still doesn’t answer the question of why the quads, specifically, need to be strengthened, as opposed to, say, the hamstrings, in order to run without knee problems.

Enter Christopher McDougall’s runaway bestseller. Born to Run, published in 2009, caused a sensation in the running community and running shoe industry that has not yet fully died down. The book advocated running in minimalist style. Barefoot running, running in sandals, and running in lightweight and minimally cushioned shoes became all the rage. In the book, McDougall quotes Eric Orton, his running coach:

“Imagine your kid is running into the street and you have to sprint after her in bare feet. . . . You’ll automatically lock into perfect form—you’ll be up on your forefeet, with your back erect, head steady, arms high, elbows driving, and feet touching down quickly on the forefoot and kicking back toward your butt.”

According to my local running store manager, tons of people started getting injured when running in minimalist, or no, shoes became all the rage. To be fair, McDougall duly notes that a quick switch away from a regular running shoe is a bad idea: “Eric warned me that I was cruising for a stress fracture if I tried to suddenly go naked after keeping my feet immobilized for forty years.” But this warning is buried amidst all the hype of McDougall’s radical running ideas; and minimalism in running shoes now has a mixed reputation. Some say it’s a miraculous life saver, while others say it’s a recipe for injury.

I say, do it with care, and it may just be the ticket to a lifetime of joyful fitness.* Ever since I read Born to Run, in 2017, the ideas therein—especially the ones about running barefoot after your kid; and about running easy, light, smooth, and fast—have been jogging, hither and thither, through my brain. I liked the idea of running lightly, up on one’s toes, well enough to try it . . . but when I did, something strange happened. My toes started banging up against the front of the traditional running shoes I was wearing.

I thought my feet had grown bigger. I went to my local running store and bought shoes a size larger, but returned them when they didn’t solve my problem. Next, I tried, on the recommendation of an employee, shoes in wide width; I returned those, too. Finally, I spoke to the manager, and that was when we started discussing minimalism and Born to Run. He discouraged me from getting minimalist shoes as regards cushioning. I was on board with that; while our ancient ancestors ran, for the most part, on soft dirt, I run mostly on asphalt and concrete. But then he brought out and sold me some zero-drop shoes (with a non-pointy toe box to accommodate my new stride and prevent toe-banging) . . . and something magical, very slowly, happened.

Zero-drop shoes keep the heel at the same height level as the balls and toes, like bare feet, and unlike traditional running shoes that elevate the heel. This means that the gait of a person wearing traditional shoes will differ from the gait of a person going barefoot or wearing zero-drop shoes. As it turns out, the latter gait keeps one moving more forward, and less up-and-down bouncy; more of one’s energy is put into the forward motion. That’s a good thing if you’re trying to get to the finish line fast—or trying to save your knees from excessive pounding.

But more to the point—and this is just anecdotal evidence from one person—I noticed something fascinating when I made the switch. My quads were insanely sore after doing a mini-run in my new zero-drop shoes. This seems to answer my question. I could of course be wrong, but I believe this explains why I had to do so much quad strengthening previously: my traditional running shoes with elevated heels were preventing me from having a natural running form that would force the quads to thrust more powerfully forward and back. Hence, a strength imbalance in the leg muscles. Hence knee pain.

A HUGE word of warning: it took me four weeks to transition from wearing traditional running shoes on every run to wearing my new zero-drop shoes on every run. It may take you even longer, depending on a bunch of factors. The best way to avoid injury is to listen to your body, and only do what feels right to you.

I also want to note that, despite this seeming solution to my problem, I still lift weights two or three times a week. ’Cause, while I do sometimes pick berries and use digging tools, I spend way more time sitting at the computer and sitting reading. And I pretty much always use toilets.

*Please take me and McDougall's book with a big grain of salt. I have def not been to med school since writing the footnote here.

Would you rather travel this road by motorcycle or foot?

Either way, you might enjoy a book called Born to Run. . . . That is, you might enjoy one of two books, both called Born to Run.

It’s amazing that, when Bruce Springsteen wanted to, for some reason, only seven years after the book Born to Run by Christopher McDougall became a runaway bestseller, publish a book with the same title . . . the publishing house actually let him do it!

(That was a joke.)

While these two books are very different—in subject matter and style—their similarities don’t end with the title. Both books, you see, harbor countless pockets of wisdom, interspersed among fascinating stories.

I’d like to juxtapose two quotes from these books that I adore . . . though don’t necessarily fully understand. Both quotes are about the feeling of doing something you love: how it feels to do something so naturally that you become somehow one with it.

Here’s a lesson in running from an incredible distance runner known as Caballo Blanco, as quoted by McDougall:

“Think Easy, Light, Smooth, and Fast. You start with easy, because if that’s all you get, that’s not so bad. Then work on light. Make it effortless, like you don’t give a shit how high the hill is or how far you’ve got to go. When you’ve practiced that so long that you forget you’re practicing, you work on making it smooooooth. You won’t have to worry about the last one—you get those three, and you’ll be fast.”

And here’s a lesson from Springsteen in letting the good times roll—while performing:

“I’ve still never regularly quite had the mojo to freely let the ‘bon temps rouler.’ Except . . . onstage. There, strangely enough, exposed in front of thousands, I’ve always felt perfectly safe, to just let it all go. . . . I don’t know why, but I’ve never gotten anywhere near as far or as high as when I count the band in and feel what seems like all life itself and a small flash of eternity pulsing through me.”

I don’t really know what it means to run easy, light, and smooth (though fast makes perfect sense); but if I try, and sometimes even if I don’t try, I feel these things while running. And I don’t really know what it means to dwell amidst pulses of all life, plus a small flash of eternity, while engaged in an artistic, or otherwise skilled, endeavor; or perhaps I do. . . .

Do you?

On New Year’s Day, the inquisitive one sat down with a brand new pad of paper and brand new pen, both received as gifts the previous month.

The inquisitive one thought very seriously for a few minutes, biting softly on a thumb. Then suddenly, the inquisitive one removed the thumb from the mouth, picked up the pen, and wrote a string of words on the pad, reciting them aloud while writing:

“This year, I resolve to GROW more VEGETABLES, RUN more MILES, READ more BOOKS, and COOK more HEALTHY MEALS than I EVER have in ANY YEAR before!”

The inquisitive one underlined the key words several times and then drew little illustrations of veggies, running shoes, books, and cooking utensils all around the sentence on the pad. Happily, the inquisitive one tore the top sheet off the pad and taped it to the fridge.

But a week or so later—alas!—things were not going well as regards the resolution. You see, the inquisitive one had had some pretty impressive years in the past, in the realms of vegetable growing, mile running, book reading, and healthy meal cooking. This year so far, the inquisitive one had been sadly neglecting those activities, in favor of relative entertaining, light bulb replacing, nose blowing, highway driving, obscure fact Googling, schmancy gala attending, and frantic HVAC guy calling.

To make up for lost time, the inquisitive one tossed some dry beans, frozen kale, and stock in a crock pot, drove to the gym, got on a treadmill, and attempted to run while alternating between reading a novel and browsing a seed catalogue.

By the end of that day, the inquisitive one had decided to grow tomatoes, variety TBD; run half a mile; read half a page; and cooked a healthy meal that tasted like pebbles in a polluted stream.

Angrily, the inquisitive one snatched the resolution off the fridge, crumpled it up, and threw it away. The inquisitive one got out the special pad and pen and wrote a sentence on the topmost sheet, reciting the words while writing:

“This year, I resolve to make NO New Year’s resolution!!”

The inquisitive one, having neglected to draw anything around the sentence, proudly ripped off the sheet and taped it to the fridge.

The next day, however, the revised resolution did not sit well with the inquisitive one. Every time the inquisitive one went to get some string cheese, hummus, broccoli, butter, or whatever, the sentence seemed to stare outwards with menace.

After a couple of days of repeated, unsettling intimations from the fridge door, the inquisitive one tore down the paper, crumpled it up, and threw it away.

Once again, the inquisitive one got out the deliciously beautiful, and amazingly functional, pad and pen. Once again, the inquisitive one chewed softly on a thumb. And once again, suddenly the inquisitive one wrote and recited a sentence:

“This year, I resolve to make a New Year’s resolution.”

The inquisitive one decorated the page with illustrations of flowers, birds, clouds, and special pads and pens; boogie danced on over to the fridge; and taped it up.

The next day, the inquisitive one spent a lot of time working on a project for the boss, shopping for clothes, and talking on the phone.

The day after that, the inquisitive one went on a long run, finished reading the novel, and baked a big batch of granola.

And the day after that, the inquisitive one, with great excitement, decided to plant a variety of sweet pepper that was, according to the seed catalogue, “very productive,” “early maturing,” and “displease resistant.”

One thing Émile Zola handles particularly well in his novel The Ladies’ Paradise is contrast.

The existence or absence of contrast in a novel is, in fact, a pretty good indicator of quality. After all, it is only in relation to other things that we are able to perceive anything with any degree of accuracy or understanding.

Can we fully understand and appreciate joy and excitement without having sometime seen sorrow and frustration? What is virtuous living—or to use a more modern and secular term, wholehearted living—if not something to be contrasted with despicable or tormented living?

And so we have, in Zola’s novel, a rich character who hosts a social gathering “in her large Louis XVI. drawing-room, the brasses and brocatelle of which shone out with a clear gaiety.”

Her well-off guests drink tea and eat sponge cake surrounded by luxurious brass furnishings and brocatelle—the word means “raised design on upholstery or curtains”—and it is all very fancy and sophisticated and immaculate and charming.

Meanwhile, the employees of The Ladies’ Paradise dine noisily in the damp basement: all packed in together, eating less than palatable food. Everyone feels crowded, overworked, and hungry. And then comes one of my favorite lines in the novel:

“The walls reeked with moisture, a slow asphyxia fell from the moldy ceiling.”

This is, of course, a translation from the original French; but in English, anyway, it’s a stunning line. Asphyxia cannot actually fall from anywhere—the word means “lack of oxygen” or “suffocation” . . . and yet we know precisely what is meant. We can feel it! I wish I could read this line in the original French and experience it as it was written; but I’ll have to remain content, for now, with this version—and I’m more than content with it!

What are the best and worst social dining environments you’ve experienced?

I know, I know—we were in the middle of a series of posts about Émile Zola’s The Ladies’ Paradise, but I’d like to hit pause on that to share some exciting news with you all: I have acquired my first byline! So, apologies, but you will have to live in suspense as regards the nineteenth-century novel I was previewing—it’s a lot to ask, but I’m confident that you will find the strength to abide the delay—as I tell you about something really cool called Silent Book Club.

Unlike traditional book clubs, Silent Book Club has no assigned reading. You don’t have to read what other people are reading—although you can, if you want to. Like traditional book clubs, Silent Book Club brings book lovers together to talk about books and interesting ideas, make new friends, and hang out with old friends.

What do people do at a Silent Book Club meeting? Well, first, we bring whatever book we’re reading to the venue, and we order a drink; meetings are often held at places like bars, wine bars, breweries, and the like (though, of course, there’s no obligation to drink alcohol, and people order what they please). Then, we alternate between chatting informally about books and anything else we feel like yammering about, and reading in friendly silence.

I first heard of Silent Book Club through an article in Poets & Writers magazine. Upon learning that the nearest club was farther from my home than I wanted to travel, I started my own local club. This was one of the best decisions I have ever made. I discovered that Silent Book Club is a great way to meet interesting, smart, and fun people. It’s also a great way to get some reading done.

I have been hosting Silent Book Club meetings for two years now, and our club has recently expanded from offering meetings every other week to offering meetings most weeks, at two different times and days so more people can participate. We also recently took a “field trip” to a bookstore / wine bar in a nearby town, which was great fun.

But back to my exciting news—I was invited to write a blog post for the Silent Book Club website, and it is now live! I invite you to read my article New Year’s Book Solutions, which is about tips for making time for reading. If you’ve ever struggled to find the time to read, or if you, like me, have made a New Year’s resolution to read books, you may find something useful in there. Click here to read the article!

I want to thank you all for reading my writing—it means a lot to me. I hope it helps you in some way. Our regularly scheduled programming will resume on Wednesday. Until then, stay safe, stay warm, and keep on reading, folks.