So I went out tonight to buy a new pair of shoes. Shoe shopping has been very simple for the past 15 years: find the local purveyor of Doc Martens, try on a pair of United Kingdom size 11’s, swipe my credit card, and enjoy my new shoes for the next few years.

I only made it to step 2 tonight when the problems began. My feet couldn’t have grown a full shoe size in the past few years, but the laws of physics and sewn leather were telling me that size 11’s were too small. Size 12’s fit - technically speaking - but didn’t feel right. The sole was hitting my feet in all the wrong places, and the leather seemed to be a lot “wrinklier” than I remember.

When I took them off, it all became clear. Emblazoned on the inside of the shoe were the three words I absolutely refuse to wrap my feet in: “MADE IN CHINA”.

I was flabbergasted. This must have been some sort of sham! I almost complained to the store, but decided to make up an excuse about having left my wallet at home. A quick google search showed that I wasn’t the only one crying fowl.

There are a few things that I hold sacred. The only pens worth writing with are filled with ink that comes in a bottle. The only film that passes through the film carrier of my Nikon F2 is Kodachrome (I have been known to bastardize my morals and use Ektachrome, but only when I’m caught in a pinch). And - shoes should be made in either Canada, the United States, or England.

This has nothing to do with some sort of silly patriotism - it’s simply a decision based on quality and longevity. My introduction to Doc Martens came circa 1990, when my father and I ventured to a store in Toronto called “IXL”. It was (and still is, I am told) frequented by heavily pierced individuals, so we must have looked like quite the sight that day. I came out with a pair of black and white Doc Marten brogues, and wore those shoes until the soles were split and the leather was literally falling apart. This was during my “hip hop” years, and the endless hours of dancing had worn “facets” on the bottoms of the soles that explain why I weighed a lot less then than I do now.

I can remember virtually every pair of docs I have had since. My second pair were bought in Ottawa, when it was finally decided that the black and white brogues were unfit for public consumption (I kept them for a good many years since, and finally got rid of them almost 7 years after they were bought). The next pair were “cherry docs”, which were a shade too small and wore a blister on my big toe. I toughed it out in those shoes and the leather eventually became as supple and cozy as a person could ever hope to have. These were the shoes that I did both my car and motorcycle driving tests in.

Shortly before I started university, I got a pair of brown suede Docs. These shoes and I were simultaneously introduced to the world of student pubs and spilt beer. We walked home together down frigid Peterborough streets in the dead of winter, long after the last city bus had been tucked away in the garage.

There were many more. A shiny pair of black dress brogues that might have caught a glimpse of me doing my watchmaking apprenticeship on watches worth five and six digit figures. My first pair of “hiking” boots that were with me when I bought my Harley Davidson. And my current pair of plain black Docs that I bought a year before we moved to North Carolina.

It’s amazing that a pair of shoes can last over four years, and still look respectable. My hip-hop years are long gone, but this particular pair still climbed Heart Mountain just outside of Canmore the third day I had them. Lugging a fifty five pound camera bag up a mountain isn’t easy on the best of days, and these shoes looked like they had been in the war when I got home. As always - a quick wipe with a wet rag and some black shoe polish made them look shiny and new.

These shoes joined my at the last Stompin’ Tom Connors concert I saw in Calgary.

I wore these shoes when a king stewardess let me come up to the cockpit of a 767 I was flying in, in August of 2001. I took all sorts of great photos and had a great chat with the pilot and co-pilot. I’m guessing this would be a federal felony nowadays.

I was just putting these shoes on when my mother called me in the morning to tell me that something terrible was happening at the World Trade Center.

These shoes were on my feet when I signed the paperwork for my first brand new car. And my second.

I wore these shoes last year when we drove thirteen hours (from North Carolina to Coburg, Ontario) to see the first annual Shelter Valley Folk Festival in my second new car.

And I will still be wearing these shoes tomorrow, and the day after … until I find a suitable replacement. If a new pair of British Doc Martens still exists, I hope to find them …

… and if not, it will be the end of a long and wonderful relationship.

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Posted in Blog
Written on Wed, 26 January 2005 at 11:08 pm

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