Most runners run for health, appearance, competition - or because they like running.

Not me. I ran because I hated it. One year, I ran a minimum of three miles for 357 days (outdoors, through a Vermont winter) because I hated it so much. That's like running from Southern Pines to Dallas, and about as much fun.

Why, then? For discipline.

Almost every morning, I'd go from nightgown to ratty running clothes, with only a gulp of coffee and half a banana intervening.

Eventually I acclimated to the obsession, like you get used to having Hannibal Lecter as a roommate. Wherever I traveled, so did my running shoes. They were what separated me from the hot-icy-wet-muddy-snowy-leaf-covered road.

This insane odyssey began in the late 1960s when tennis/track shoes were metamorphosing into New Balance and Adidas. My first pair of NBs felt like winged pillows. They were to a runner what Manolo Blahniks were to the "Sex and the City" gals. Only problem: They wore out fast. The sole separated. My toe came through the fabric. Grommets pulled loose.

The engineering had not been perfected.

Nevertheless, in running circles you were what you wore even though what you wore resembled the next guy's brand.

Soon, fashion latched on. People who took taxis to the corner were wearing running shoes with their velour jogging suits. This engendered cheap knock-offs. Kids wore them to school. Secretaries walked to work in them. They became everybody's Saturday shoes. (Tut-tut, clucked the real runners) And, despite more engineering than goes into your average hatchback, I ran through at least a pair a year.

The brand was less important than fit and materials: A wide toe box and snug heel are vital. I find fabric uppers much cooler. The interior must accommodate orthotics to shore up my sagging arches.

I've never fallen for gimmicks. My $40 Avias don't sing songs or light up. They just run comfortably for about a year.

The first day in new shoes is sad, like bringing home a puppy after the old dog dies. They don't feel right. They aren't you. Therefore, I discard the old pair immediately to prevent backsliding.

Gradually, good shoes stretch out, mold themselves to your feet. The ancient trick of wetting them down before wearing speeds the process.

I ran for more than 40 years - never a marathon, only 30Ks (18 ? miles). After a two-year hiatus caused by plantar fasciitis, I decided that discipline had been achieved. Instead of running, I walk fast on the treadmill, four miles a day, seven days a week.

I've been to Dallas and back a couple more times.

Obsession, I've learned, is a transferable vice.

Now, along come Vibrams Five Fingers and other back-to-barefootwear which, in my opinion, are the emperor's new shoes. What if your toes are too long, or chill easily on cold surfaces? What if your arches need the equivalent of an underwire bra? What if you don't want to resemble the Clemson tiger paw?

What if you just want to run instead of attracting attention?

What about socks?

Yet I'm fascinated. Now that I'm done running maybe I'll buy a pair. They're cheaper than Manolo Blahniks and, come summer, should look smashing with a peasant skirt and halter top.

Contact Deborah Salomon at debsalomon@hotmail.com.