running (shoe) commentary

The adidas company, purveyor of fine running shoes, posted 9M 2005 sales of EUR 1.924 billion (up 9% year-on-year). Sales were up in all regions EXCEPT EUROPE (the all-caps are mine, adidas apparently doesn't announce its quarterly results like a 14-year-old girl writing in her diary, which is - as I'm sure you've noticed by now - the way I write this blog).

I should really save this insight and sell it to adidas for top dollar, but I've always been profligate with my insight, so why stop now? adidas' sales are not increasing in Europe because its salespeople at the Na prikope store in Prague 1 ARE CRAP.


Did you get that, adidas-Salomon AG chairman and CEO Herbert Hainer?

CRAP.

I should know. I've been shopping there regularly for the past 10 years.

I have never dealt with the same person twice in the Na prikope store, which is always a bad sign (management obviously does not know the secret to employee retention i.e. TAKE THEIR PASSPORTS) but the shoe-buying scenario is always exactly the same. I walk in and find the model I want to try (the falcon or the cheetah or the hungry housecat - this last doesn't exist but it should, in terms of land speed, few animals can match the velocity of a housecat that's been waiting since 5 p.m. to be fed while you've been out gallivanting). I pull out my telescope and scan for a salesclerk. I spot one, half hidden, eating a crocodile sandwich behind a cardboard cutout of Martina Navratilova. I ask if it would be possible to try this model in a size 38. And that's when the fun begins, because the clerk, male or female, old or young, mildly autistic or full-on retarded, always responds in the same way: he (or she) checks the tag on the display shoe to see if it's the size I want.

Dear readers, I am not blind nor do I have difficulty recognizing numbers and figures: I have read the tag on the display shoe myself. I know it is not the size I want. I know it is two sizes larger (or smaller) than the size I want, but I also know that if it's anywhere within a three-size spread, I will be invited to try it on, just to save our special little adidas friend a trip to the stock room.

Now that I've grown wise to their ways, I will sometimes, if the shoe actually is a 38, try it on. It's a start, but trying one shoe just isn't enough for me. I'm demanding that way - if I'm going to BUY two shoes (and that's generally the way I buy shoes) I want to TRY two shoes. I also question the value of trying on a shoe that the clerk has forced on every customer who has expressed interest in that particular model since it's been introduced. I imagine whole families taking turns: Dad forcing his size 44 foot in, the baby fitting both feet in with ease, the dog having an exploratory chew on the heel.

If (and it's not a given) I succeed in convincing the clerk to get me a pair of shoes in my size, he/she will return with one pair of shoes (remember shopping in North America where the clerk would return with the shoes you wanted in your size, the shoes you wanted in a larger size, shoes you didn't want but perhaps should consider in your size, a garden rake, and a box of roofing nails, just in case? Gosh, sometimes I miss North America!).

The clerk will then carefully remove the paper stuffing and lace ONE SHOE, which he (or she) will allow you to try. Should it fit, the second shoe may be forthcoming, if the clerk hasn't retreated behind the Navratilova cutout. (Sometimes, you can coax them out with bits of crocodile sandwich. I often bring a crocodile sandwich with me when I go shopping for shoes for just this purpose).

BEST CASE SCENARIO: The clerk has stuck around, for lack of anything better to do, you're given the second shoe, it fits, you say you'll take them, the clerk tags the box (with a pen, although I'm sure they're the same people who tag the front of my building with spray paint) to be sure to reap the rewards of his/her stellar salesmanship, and you get the hell out of there.

WORST CASE SCENARIO: The shoe doesn't fit and you - tiny fool - ask to try another size. Or another model. The clerk will look at you as though you've just demanded he/she give you his/her own shoes and go barefoot for the rest of the day. He'll (oh, whatever, let's assume it's a "he," being inclusive is exhausting) look puzzled and try to hand you back the shoe you've just tried. He'll look longingly back toward the display wall, hoping there's a size 38 SOMETHING that will keep you happy. Anything, anything, just DON'T SEND ME BACK TO THE STOCK ROOM!

I usually give up at this stage and leave.

But one day...