In late 1984, I'd lace up the old Converse high-top Chuck Taylors and hit the urban pavements of Cincinnati or Brooklyn to do a few miles of roadwork as prep for my ill-fated boxing matches (once ran from the Castle 1526 to the Coney Island train yards and back -- in a pair of white All Star high-tops).

Those were the days: when athletic footwear was so primitive, and a runner's expectations so low, that you could basically cripple yourself with poorly-designed gear but still hit the showers saying "that was a great workout!"

Those days sucked. Here are the Chuck Taylor's I bought over a dozen years ago. Not sure why I decided this morning to free them from bottom-of-closet oblivion, but I did. Wore them around the house, then out for a bit of shopping with the family, and finally for some back-and-forth between the kitchen and outdoor grill. Finally sat back and unlaced them and HOLY CRAP DO MY FEET HURT.

What the hell? I mean WHAT THE HELL? I know I'm old and decrepit -- but even with a few years of the no exercise and the AS I never had this. I can't imagine running to the corner wearing those things, let alone running a few miles.

Anyway, the whole experience gave me the added opportunity to even sound old and decrepit as I explained to Cookie and Mojo just how much sports gear has progressed over the last 30 years.

Yet still they have the nerve to mock my off-white Merrills. Hell, I can play tennis in those and not have pain. I don't care if they make me look like a retired codger lost on a Florida back-nine.