Dear Nike, Are We Breaking Up?

Dear Nike,

We’ve maintained a steady and committed relationship for years now, but lately it seems that I’m the only one trying.  Last week, during a long Sunday run in Philadelphia, you refused to connect.  I’ve become dependent on GPS data and lugging that Nike GPS watch around on my wrist FOR NO APPARENT REASON was like carrying dead weight (which, now that I think about it, could be the reason that my left hip is always hurting—that damn watch is keeping me off balance).  I felt like flinging the watch into the Schuylkill river.

You’ve taken the joy out of travel.  I used to love to return from a trip, plug the Nike GPS watch into my computer and watch your website recreate my runs—with pace, distance, elevation and heart rate.  I could see where I had to slow for traffic, where I picked up the pace, and how much that hill increased my heart rate.  Now, more often than not, there is nothing—12 recent runs “with no GPS data.”  I had hoped to see the little green dot that represents me, move up the Ben Franklin Parkway and then jag to the left for a quick trip up the Rocky steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art—would the dot bounce up and down like I did during my Rocky Balboa routine?  I’ll never know.

Your excuses are getting thinner, “Way to get out there! Our maps are having issues, but we’re working on it.”  I don’t believe you are “working on it” anymore.  After the GPS glitch during my Austin Half Marathon in February, I believed your customer service person who explained, “GPS satellite issues on that day—didn’t pick up my trail run either.”  However, instead of “working on it,” I noticed that you must have spent all of your time developing something with that slutty little “fuel band” you introduced last month.   Your interest in style over substance could not have been more obvious.  With all of the Nike GPS issues, your engineers should have been devoted to addressing the Nike GPS software issues—not flirting with the “fuel band.” 

I’m an Oregon native and my connection to Nike is a point of pride.  I like to imagine Steve Prefontaine in Bill Bowerman’s garage, both hunched over a waffle iron, creating the first Nike soles (I don’t know if this really happened, but it was in one of the Pre movies).  I even like the way Phil Knight has turned the University of Oregon into his own pro team, heaping millions on the university and dressing up the players like Barbie dolls—each game something new and fashiony for the best dressed team in college football.   In fact, I’m currently sporting the new Nike Eclipse in a shade of purple (with bright green accent) that the salesperson told me were part of the “Easter colors.”  If there is a choice, I choose Nike and wear it with pride.  But now, I’m starting to shop around.  

And, I’m not the only one.  During the last six miles of my Sunday run in Philly (was it 6 miles?  I’ll never know for sure, I didn’t have GPS), I noticed a lot more Garmins on the wrists of the most serious runners.  I noticed a lot of Asics and Mizuno on their feet.  I googled “Nike GPS problems” and found a Facebook page dedicated to people who now hate their Nike GPS watches.  I’m thinking of starting a 12 step program for people who need to quit Nike.  The Garmin isn’t as sexy as the sleek Nike GPS, but it seems reliable, and reliable is what I’m looking for.

You were there for Tiger—maybe that says it all.

(Not) Running with the Big Boys

I live in Ashland, Oregon--what is arguably the ultra running capital of the world.  If the Oregon part of that—all Nike and the University of Oregon and Prefontaine—isn’t convincing, the Ashland part should be.  Our local running store is owned by Hal Koerner (one of the top ten ultra running athletes in the world).  Our coffee shops and trails are frequented by Jenn Shelton (the girl who was Born to Run), and a host of other stars of the ultra running world who either train here or live here, or both. 

Even local races are often dominated by world class runners like Max King or Erik Skaggs.  I doubt you could shout, “I’ll race you to the park!” on a lazy Saturday afternoon without having someone sponsored by North Face or Patagonia show up and kick everyone’s ass.  My sister said, “Wow, it must be cool to be out there and log miles with those guys.” 

It must be.  But, I wouldn’t know, because I am not cool.    A few months ago, I needed a lightweight jacket for cold mornings.  I was checking out the options at Rogue Valley Runners (see “local running store” mentioned above), when Hal himself stepped up to help me.  He pointed me to a North Face jacket and we briefly discussed the colors and sizes available.  I really wasn’t listening to the technical details he provided about the jacket because I feared suddenly stammering something like, “uh…I’m trying to increase my mileage, but it makes my legs hurt...any advice?”  I bought the jacket (about $120—has any aspiring runner ever NOT purchased something Hal himself recommended?).  Later, I had to peruse the North Face website to learn whether or not the jacket was waterproof (remember, I wasn’t actually listening to Hal), when I caught a photo of Hal himself, wearing the jacket.

So, you can imagine that I felt especially cool the first morning I sported that Hal-Koerner-recommended-super-awesome running jacket.  And I did.  Until the day I actually ran into Hal.  I recognized him running toward me on the main boulevard in town.  I was wearing the jacket (and, possibly coordinated socks—don’t hate).  He was wearing something that looked well worn, even tattered.  As if he had just rolled out of bed, slid on his shoes and ran a fierce yet easy pace on single track for 30 or so miles before running down a deer, skinning it, cooking the meat over an open flame, and then sated, running into town to meet up with a few buddies and catch another 20 plus miles.  I was dressed as though I would likely avoid stepping in any kind of dirt (let alone a trail) for fear of messing up my shoes. 

So, yeah, I imagine that it is pretty cool to dominate the trails around Ashland with those guys. However, I’m the girl on the boulevard in the awesome jacket (and I don’t really want to risk getting it torn or snagged by some errant tree branch in the forest…).