What a beautiful way to spend an oddly mild Saturday morning in December: running with Cliff’s group in Point Pleasant Park, doing 3 x 8 minute and 1 x 4 minute threshold runs (3:40/km pace). Feels good to get on the trails and do some longer, more sustained pacing after so many weeks of shorter intervals on the track.
Today, I ran with Mike, and Mike was running in a shiny new pair of New Balance shoes – the same brand that I currently wear. He groaned every time we ran through some mud – I totally understood. It’s funny, though; I hate the glowing white of new shoes, but I also hate getting them all mucked up, especially in the first week or two. I guess it’s because running shoes cost so darn much. I want them to last as long as they can before I have to shell out another $150, and a dirty shoe seems closer to death than a clean one.
Thinking about Mike’s new (and now dirty) shoes, though, got me thinking about a question that’s been troubling me for a long time – a question that I’ve refused to ask in any meaningful way for years because, to be honest, I don’t think I really want to know the answer: is running gear made in a socially and environmentally responsible way?
Running shoe companies have been notorious for their less than stellar records. But that was sometime in the 90s, wasn’t it? Mike’s new shoes made me wonder if things are any better today. So tonight, I’ve been doing some preliminary searching on the web, trying to see if my New Balance shoes are the result of an ethical manufacturing process or not.
I started with the New Balance website, and (as you might expect) things looked pretty good. Here’s the first little factoid I learned from the corporate site:
“New Balance is the only athletic shoe manufacturer still making shoes in the US. We’re proud of that commitment. We're proud of the workers in our five New England factories. And we're proud to say that 25% of our shoes sold in North America are made or assembled right here.”
Hey, now there’s something you don’t see every day – running shoes made in the U.S. where there are labour laws and unions and some environmental protection laws (I guess). Could my shoes be part of the 25% that were made practically next door in Maine? I looked for the little U.S. flag on the heel and the Made in the USA sticker: nope. Crap.
Even so, it turns out that “Made in the USA” is not what you might think. Give New Balance credit, though, they are upfront about this, leaving it up to us as consumers to decide the ethics of calling shoes “Somewhat Made in the USA” actually “Made in the USA”:
“Where the domestic value is at least 70%, we have labeled the shoe ‘Made in the USA.’ Where it falls below 70%, we have qualified the label referencing domestic and imported materials. This determination is based in part on the Federal trade Commission's survey of consumers.”
Hmm. Well. Seems a bit fishy. But I guess a shoe doesn’t have to be made in the U.S. in order to be socially responsible. So where are the remaing 75% of New Balance shoes made? Well, the NB corporate website isn’t particularly forthcoming with that information. There’s a really inspiring corporate video about the factories in Maine, but nothing about where the bulk of NB shoes are made. And can you guess where they’re made? Take one guess.
Yup. China.
In order to get this information, I tweaked my Google search a bit from “New Balance shoes” to “New Balance shoes ethics.” Oops. One of the first hits was an article from 2006 published by WorldNetDaily entitled “New Balance 'pays workers 32 cents an hour': Report exposes harsh conditions at 'sweatshop' making American shoes.” Now, I’m not sure if WorldNetDaily is a reputable source of information: on the sidebar of the website there’s a link to the “Impeach Obama” website, so you know the site leans a wee bit to the right. And the study they cite is from the National Labor Committee and China Labor Watch – two organizations that I’m not familiar with. In fact, to make matters worse, the link the article provides to the study is broken.
I did, however, take a quick look at the National Labor Committee web site, and it looks pretty legit. I even found the report the article was talking about. In fact, there’s a press release on New Balance’s site concerning the report. Seems to me if a billion dollar corporation like New Balance notices and responds to a report from the National Labor Committee, then they are probably influential players.
Regardless, it’s no secret that manufacturing in China is not always carried out in ways we happy runners might like: below-subsistence wages, poor factory and living conditions, iffy work safety, mandatory overtime, scant worker’s rights, and so on. But we never come face to face with the manufacturing conditions of any of our gear. We just lace up and go for wonderful Saturday morning runs in the park while others labour long hours halfway around the world to make sure our slightly pronating strides don’t hurt our knees.
And what about the materials our gear is made from? What about the shipping? What about the disposal of the gear and the waste its manufacture produces? Just what are the social and environmental costs of all our gear?
To be fair, New Balance seems to have a lovely domestic corporate responsibility program. From breast cancer to girls in sport to trail maintenance in Maine, New Balance is giving away lots of cash to worthy causes. Does it matter that not one of those causes is in China? Should I care that New Balance is the official shoe provider for the U.S. military?
The messy fact of the matter is that running is not pure when it comes to social and environmental responsibility – our shoes are a little bit dirty. Running makes us healthier in body and maybe even in mind, but it does nothing to make us better consumers.
So what am I supposed to do with this fact? Stop running? Run barefoot? Run naked?
I don’t know how to answer that yet. But there are some questions that I think all runners should start asking: Where is my gear coming from? How is it made? What are the social and environmental costs?
And most importantly: how can we do better?
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Julie-Ann and Monica: Training Wisely
It’s 6:30 in the morning and Julie-Ann has just left to catch the ferry to Halifax. It’s dark. It’s cold. It’s way too early. But she’s on her way anyway – on her way to meet up with Monica (our massage therapist) to do their second training run in preparation for a spring 10k.
Here’s the funny thing, though: Julie-Ann hates getting up early and she hates running. Monica hates running too. But they’re doing it anyway, God love 'em. And their mutual distaste for running makes them perfect, although unlikely, training partners.
This morning, as we were sipping our 5:00am coffee, I asked Julie-Ann why she was doing this, given her dislikes. She just looked at me and went back to her coffee. 'Perhaps it's a bit early for questions,' I thought, so I left it -- but not for long. Later, as we were eating breakfast, I asked her again. “I don’t think much about it," she replied with a shrug – "I just do.” 'Huh,' I thought -- 'that's so not like me.' Julie-Ann certainly is a doer – she leaves the brooding and cud chewing to me. In this case, it’s probably a good thing that she’s not over-analyzing: too much introspection would probably gum up the works.
So here's the program: at 7:00am, they’ll meet at the SMU track and run a lap. That’s it – one lap. The training schedule they’ve decided to follow really takes to heart the notion of starting small and building slowly. In this first week of training, they are meeting three times (Monday, Wednesday, and Friday) and simply running one lap of the track. From there, they'll add one lap to their runs each week. So next week, they’ll do two laps each run, the week after they’ll do three, and so on. According to the math, it will take them 25 weeks to build from 400m to 10k. By May, they’ll be close.
For Julie-Ann, the program is starting a bit small – she ran a 5k last year and has been doing 2.5k runs fairly regularly to maintain her fitness. But she was more than happy to have someone to share her training with. In fact, having to meet Monica will be what gets her out of bed and into her running shoes as the mornings get colder and colder and as the bus ride seems longer and longer. If she’s scheduled a meeting, she’s going to show up – that’s what managers and administrators do. She doesn’t need dreamy goals and aspirations to motivate her in this case – she just needs an entry in her daytimer.
The training program was the brainchild of an athletic therapist that Monica works with at SMU. Monica asked him how she, a beginner, should build for a 10k. And I think his one lap progression idea was quite clever. Building slowly will give their bodies a chance to develop while minimizing the risk of injury. It’ll be interesting, though, to see how this all plays out when the mileage starts piling up. They may get to a point where they need to keep two of their runs at a certain level and just push one run as a long run. Either way, in building slowly, they’ll be able to learn to listen to their bodies and adjust the program accordingly.
The two haven’t decided on a goal race yet, and they’ve both wisely decided against having a time goal. For now, they're just running for distance and seeing what happens. As new challenges arise – time constraints, schedule conflicts, snow, boredom – they’ll meet them the same way every other runner does: any way they can.
Here’s the funny thing, though: Julie-Ann hates getting up early and she hates running. Monica hates running too. But they’re doing it anyway, God love 'em. And their mutual distaste for running makes them perfect, although unlikely, training partners.
This morning, as we were sipping our 5:00am coffee, I asked Julie-Ann why she was doing this, given her dislikes. She just looked at me and went back to her coffee. 'Perhaps it's a bit early for questions,' I thought, so I left it -- but not for long. Later, as we were eating breakfast, I asked her again. “I don’t think much about it," she replied with a shrug – "I just do.” 'Huh,' I thought -- 'that's so not like me.' Julie-Ann certainly is a doer – she leaves the brooding and cud chewing to me. In this case, it’s probably a good thing that she’s not over-analyzing: too much introspection would probably gum up the works.
So here's the program: at 7:00am, they’ll meet at the SMU track and run a lap. That’s it – one lap. The training schedule they’ve decided to follow really takes to heart the notion of starting small and building slowly. In this first week of training, they are meeting three times (Monday, Wednesday, and Friday) and simply running one lap of the track. From there, they'll add one lap to their runs each week. So next week, they’ll do two laps each run, the week after they’ll do three, and so on. According to the math, it will take them 25 weeks to build from 400m to 10k. By May, they’ll be close.
For Julie-Ann, the program is starting a bit small – she ran a 5k last year and has been doing 2.5k runs fairly regularly to maintain her fitness. But she was more than happy to have someone to share her training with. In fact, having to meet Monica will be what gets her out of bed and into her running shoes as the mornings get colder and colder and as the bus ride seems longer and longer. If she’s scheduled a meeting, she’s going to show up – that’s what managers and administrators do. She doesn’t need dreamy goals and aspirations to motivate her in this case – she just needs an entry in her daytimer.
The training program was the brainchild of an athletic therapist that Monica works with at SMU. Monica asked him how she, a beginner, should build for a 10k. And I think his one lap progression idea was quite clever. Building slowly will give their bodies a chance to develop while minimizing the risk of injury. It’ll be interesting, though, to see how this all plays out when the mileage starts piling up. They may get to a point where they need to keep two of their runs at a certain level and just push one run as a long run. Either way, in building slowly, they’ll be able to learn to listen to their bodies and adjust the program accordingly.
The two haven’t decided on a goal race yet, and they’ve both wisely decided against having a time goal. For now, they're just running for distance and seeing what happens. As new challenges arise – time constraints, schedule conflicts, snow, boredom – they’ll meet them the same way every other runner does: any way they can.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
A Breezy Entry
Okay. So I asked Julie-Ann for some feedback on this blog – you know, stuff like how’s the writing, is it interesting, is there anything you’d like to see? And during our conversation, I asked her about the voice in the writing: is it breezy enough? She laughed. She said it wasn’t breezy at all. I asked her is it at least conversational? No. Nobody talks like that, she said. It’s reflective, she said – introspective. She didn’t think this was a bad thing, but she thought that if I were trying to broaden my range, I should try different things. Apparently, the road from formal academic essay to reflective essay is not very long. Hey, I said – what about my little entry on the results of the National 10k road race? She read it. Sucks, she said. And worse, there was an embarrassing typo – and typos don’t count as broadening my range. Crap.
So she gave me an assignment. You want to write breezy, she said – then write breezy. Give me cotton candy, but don’t make me feel guilty like I might gain weight. What does that mean? I asked. Give me fluff – just fluff – without all of your self-conscious, broody stuff. Really? I asked. Really, she replied. She smiled slyly, clearly pleased with her idea: I think you’re going to have some trouble with this, she said. No kidding, I said. What qualifies as breezy and fluffy? Her grin broadened. You’re just going to have to figure that one out on your own. Great, I thought. Just great.
Hmm. Breezy. Here goes nothing…
Nipples. Man nipples. I never paid much attention to my own before I started running. They were there; they were unusual. When cold, they shrunk up and got hard. At one point, hair started growing around them. I wasn’t thrilled about that, but I didn’t really care. I mean, who cares about their nipples?
Runners do.
In fact, my nipples were the catalyst for my change from "runner who eschews running gear" to "runner who realizes the importance of good running gear" [Author’s query: can I say “catalyst” in a breezy article?]. Here’s how it happened.
When I started running, I wore cotton T-shirts, boxer-briefs, soccer shorts, and cheap cotton tube socks. Shoes were the only thing I didn’t skimp on. I figured shoes were important, but the rest of it? No way. Those “technical” shirts and skimpy shorts – designed for “real” runners – were purchased mostly by middle-class wannabes with too much disposable income. I figured, leave the pricey gear to those with talent and those who want to pose – I’m just trying lose some weight and complete a marathon.
And things went fine at first. I printed out my Hal Higdon training schedule. I started pushing my mileage. I felt smug and self-satisfied when I’d pass other runners whose gear was worth more than a month’s rent. I was cruising.
And then it happened. My nipples.
I remember the run vividly. It was a cold August morning: fall had slipped into town overnight, unseen. I went out for my run in shorts and a T-shirt (a white T-shirt, no less) expecting summery temperatures. I could feel the unexpected cold as soon as I opened the door to my apartment building. I could see my breath. Oh well, I thought. Nothing for it.
In the beginning, the run felt pretty much the same as every other run. In fact, after a kilometre or so, I was basking in the toasty warmth of a body hard at work. I passed some other runners wearing those really expensive Running Room jackets with the shiny silver strips and felt pretty smug. Actually, I felt tough in my shorts and T-shirt.
But after a few kilometres, I began to feel something. My nipples. They were getting a little uncomfortable. What was that? I kept running. The discomfort increased. I passed some other runners and they smiled at me. But it wasn’t a friendly smile – it was a smile I knew quite well: a smug smile. Did they somehow know I felt like my nipples were on fire? I had no idea what was going on.
By the time I got home, my nipples were screaming. I got up to my apartment and ripped my shirt off. As I was hanging it up to dry, something caught my eye. Holy moly – there were blood streaks all the way down the front of my shirt. I quickly checked out my nipples in the mirror. The tips were rubbed raw. I couldn’t believe it.
What I did next, though, was just crazy: I had a shower. Remember when you were a kid and you got a scrape during recess because you fell off the climber or you tripped and skinned your knee on gravel and the school nurse cleaned the wound with rubbing alcohol? Remember the sharp stinging sensation? Yup – that’s what a shower does to newly sandpapered nipples.
So I did a little research. Turns out that salt from sweat, plus erect nipples from cold, plus coarse cotton T-shirts, plus running equals pain. The cure: some Vaseline and some good gear. From that moment on, I’ve worn gear. Turns out that gear isn’t just for “real” runners – turns out that people don’t wear it just to be posers – turns out that it saves numerous body parts from all manner of friction-related ailments.
So that’s my breezy story about nipples and running gear.
The end.
So she gave me an assignment. You want to write breezy, she said – then write breezy. Give me cotton candy, but don’t make me feel guilty like I might gain weight. What does that mean? I asked. Give me fluff – just fluff – without all of your self-conscious, broody stuff. Really? I asked. Really, she replied. She smiled slyly, clearly pleased with her idea: I think you’re going to have some trouble with this, she said. No kidding, I said. What qualifies as breezy and fluffy? Her grin broadened. You’re just going to have to figure that one out on your own. Great, I thought. Just great.
Hmm. Breezy. Here goes nothing…
Nipples. Man nipples. I never paid much attention to my own before I started running. They were there; they were unusual. When cold, they shrunk up and got hard. At one point, hair started growing around them. I wasn’t thrilled about that, but I didn’t really care. I mean, who cares about their nipples?
Runners do.
In fact, my nipples were the catalyst for my change from "runner who eschews running gear" to "runner who realizes the importance of good running gear" [Author’s query: can I say “catalyst” in a breezy article?]. Here’s how it happened.
When I started running, I wore cotton T-shirts, boxer-briefs, soccer shorts, and cheap cotton tube socks. Shoes were the only thing I didn’t skimp on. I figured shoes were important, but the rest of it? No way. Those “technical” shirts and skimpy shorts – designed for “real” runners – were purchased mostly by middle-class wannabes with too much disposable income. I figured, leave the pricey gear to those with talent and those who want to pose – I’m just trying lose some weight and complete a marathon.
And things went fine at first. I printed out my Hal Higdon training schedule. I started pushing my mileage. I felt smug and self-satisfied when I’d pass other runners whose gear was worth more than a month’s rent. I was cruising.
And then it happened. My nipples.
I remember the run vividly. It was a cold August morning: fall had slipped into town overnight, unseen. I went out for my run in shorts and a T-shirt (a white T-shirt, no less) expecting summery temperatures. I could feel the unexpected cold as soon as I opened the door to my apartment building. I could see my breath. Oh well, I thought. Nothing for it.
In the beginning, the run felt pretty much the same as every other run. In fact, after a kilometre or so, I was basking in the toasty warmth of a body hard at work. I passed some other runners wearing those really expensive Running Room jackets with the shiny silver strips and felt pretty smug. Actually, I felt tough in my shorts and T-shirt.
But after a few kilometres, I began to feel something. My nipples. They were getting a little uncomfortable. What was that? I kept running. The discomfort increased. I passed some other runners and they smiled at me. But it wasn’t a friendly smile – it was a smile I knew quite well: a smug smile. Did they somehow know I felt like my nipples were on fire? I had no idea what was going on.
By the time I got home, my nipples were screaming. I got up to my apartment and ripped my shirt off. As I was hanging it up to dry, something caught my eye. Holy moly – there were blood streaks all the way down the front of my shirt. I quickly checked out my nipples in the mirror. The tips were rubbed raw. I couldn’t believe it.
What I did next, though, was just crazy: I had a shower. Remember when you were a kid and you got a scrape during recess because you fell off the climber or you tripped and skinned your knee on gravel and the school nurse cleaned the wound with rubbing alcohol? Remember the sharp stinging sensation? Yup – that’s what a shower does to newly sandpapered nipples.
So I did a little research. Turns out that salt from sweat, plus erect nipples from cold, plus coarse cotton T-shirts, plus running equals pain. The cure: some Vaseline and some good gear. From that moment on, I’ve worn gear. Turns out that gear isn’t just for “real” runners – turns out that people don’t wear it just to be posers – turns out that it saves numerous body parts from all manner of friction-related ailments.
So that’s my breezy story about nipples and running gear.
The end.
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