CHAPTER Twelve

Murray Feinsinger's goatee had just a touch of gray in it a little to the right of center. He looked to be around forty, with a round face, a receding hairline, and massive horn-rimmed glasses that had the effect of magnifying his brown eyes. He was kneeling now and looking up at me, with my shoe in one hand and my bare foot in the other. My sock lay on the floor beside him like a dead laboratory rat.

"Narrow feet," he said. "Long, narrow feet."

"Is that bad?"

"Only if it's extreme, and yours aren't. Just a little narrower than average, but you're wearing Pumas, which are a little wider than average. Not as much so as the wide versions of shoes that come in widths, but what do you need with extra width when you've got a narrow foot to begin with? Your feet wind up with too much room and that increases the tendency of the ankle to pronate. That means it turns in, like this"-he positioned my foot for demonstration-"and that's the source of all your problems."

"I see."

"New Balance makes variable widths. You could try a pair on for size. Or there's Brooks-they make a good shoe and they're a little on the narrow side, and they ought to fit you fine."

"That's great," I said, and would have gotten up from the chair, except it's tricky when somebody's holding one of your feet. "I'll just get a new pair of shoes," I said, "and then I'll be all set."

"Not so fast, my friend. How long have you been running?"

"Not very long."

"Matter of fact, you just started. Am I right?"

As a matter of fact, I hadn't even started, and didn't intend to. But I told him he was right. And then I emitted a foolish little giggle, not because anything struck me funny but because the good Dr. Feinsinger was tickling my foot.

"That tickle?"

"A little."

"Inhibition," he said. "That's what makes tickling. I tickle people day in and day out. No avoiding it when you've got your hands full of other people's feet for six or eight hours at a stretch. Ever tickle your own feet?"

"I never gave it a thought."

"Well, trust me-you couldn't do it if you tried. It wouldn't work. The ticklishness is a response to being touched in a certain way by another person. Inhibition. That's what it's all about."

"That's very interesting," I said. Untruthfully.

"I tickle a patient less over a period of time. Not that I touch him differently. But he gets used to my touch. Less inhibited. That's what tickling's all about. And what your feet are all about, my friend, is something else again. Know what you've got?"

Five toes on each of them, I thought, and a loquacious podiatrist for company. But evidently it was something more serious than that. I hadn't expected this.

"You've got Morton's Foot," he said.

"I do?"

"No question about it." He curled his index finger and flicked it sharply against my index toe. "Morton's Foot. Know what that means?"

Death, I thought. Or amputation, or thirty years in a wheelchair, and at the least I'd never play the piano again. "I really don't know," I admitted. "I suppose it has something to do with salt."

"Salt?" He looked confused, but only for a moment. "Morton's Foot," he said, and flicked my toe again. It didn't tickle, so maybe I was overcoming my inhibitions. "Sounds ominous, doesn't it? All it means is that this toe here"-another flick-"is longer than your big toe. Morton's the doctor who first described the syndrome, and what it amounts to is a structural weakness of the foot. I have a hunch it's a throwback to the time when we all lived in trees and used our big toes as thumbs and wrapped our second toes around vines and branches for leverage. Next time you get to the Bronx Zoo, make sure you go to the monkey house and look at the little buggers' feet."

"I'll do that."

"Not that Morton's Foot is like being born with a tail, for God's sake. In fact, it's more common to have Morton's Foot than not to have it, which is bad news for runners but good news for podiatrists. So you've not only got a nasty-sounding complaint, my friend, but you've got a very ordinary nasty-sounding complaint."

All my life the only trouble I'd had with my feet was when some klutz stepped on them on the subway. Of course I'd never tried wrapping my toes around vines. I asked Feinsinger if what I had was serious.

"Not if you live a normal life. But runners"-and he chuckled with real pleasure here-"runners give up normal life the day they buy their first pair of waffle trainers. That's when Morton's Foot starts causing problems. Pain in the ball of the foot, for example. Heel spurs, for instance. Shin splints. Achilles tendinitis. Excessive pronation-remember our old friend pronation?" And he refreshed my memory by yanking my ankle inward. "And then," he said darkly, "there's always chondromalacia."

"There is?"

He nodded with grim satisfaction. "Chondromalacia. The dreaded Runner's Knee, every bit as fearful as Tennis Elbow."

"It sounds terrible."

"Potentially terrible. But never fear," he added brightly, "for Feinsinger's here, and relief is right around the corner. All you need is the right pair of custom orthotics and you can run until your heart gives out. And for that I'll refer you to my brother-in-law Ralph. He's the cardiologist in the family." He patted my foot. "Just my little joke. Stay with running and the chances are you won't need a cardiologist. It's the best thing you can do for yourself. All we have to do is make sure your feet are up to it, and that's where I come in."

Orthotics, it turned out, were little inserts for me to wear in my shoes. They would be custom-made for me out of layers of leather and cork after the good Dr. Feinsinger took impressions of my feet, which he did right there and then before I had much of a chance to think about what I was getting into. He took my bare feet one at a time and pressed them into a box containing something like styrofoam, except softer.

"You've made a good first impression," he assured me. "Now come into the other room for a moment, my friend. I want to have a look at your bones."

I followed him, walking springily on the balls of my feet, while he told me how my personal pair of orthotics would not only enable me to run without pain but were virtually certain to change my whole life, improve my posture and penmanship, and very likely elevate my character in the bargain. He led me into a cubicle down the hall where a menacing contraption with a faintly dental air about it was mounted on the wall. He had me sit in a chair and swung the gadget out from the wall so that a cone-shaped protuberance was centered over my right foot.

"I don't know about this," I said.

"Guaranteed painless. Trust me, friend."

"You hear a lot of things about X rays, don't you? Sterility, things like that."

"All I take is a one-second exposure and nothing goes higher than the ankle. Sterility? There's such a thing as the ball of the foot, my friend, but unless you've actually got your balls in your feet I assure you you've got nothing to worry about."

In a matter of minutes the machine had done its nasty work and I was back in the other room pulling up my socks and lacing up my Pumas. They had never felt wide before, but they certainly felt wide now. With every step I took I imagined my Mortonic feet slipping dangerously from side to side. Heel spurs, shin splints, the dreaded Runner's Knee-

And then we were back in the reception room where I let a redhead with a Bronx accent book an appointment three weeks hence for me to pick up my orthotics. "The full price is three hundred dollars," she told me, "and that includes the lab charges and this visit and all subsequent visits, in case you need any adjustments. It's a one-time charge and there's nothing additional, and of course it's fully deductible for taxes."