I have arrived, I have laced them on, and I intend to report faithfully. What I am wearing is a court shoe built around a named midsole, and the makers describe the Graphite Throttle construction plainly: a firmer forefoot for quick take-off, a softer heel for controlled landings, working alongside Feather Bounce foam. That division of labour is the entire expedition.
Push from the front, absorb at the back. Built with stability in mind, which matters more to a woman changing direction at full stretch than any amount of weight saved. Colour: natural.
Cushioned for the long haul.
Tennis is not running. Running is a straight line and a predictable landing; tennis is a stop, a twist, a push and a scramble, all in a second and a half, repeated four hundred times an afternoon.
What I can tell you from the ground is what that combination is for.
A midsole that is uniformly soft will feel wonderful for ten minutes and then wallow, and a midsole that is uniformly firm will beat your heels flat. A tuned midsole — firm where you launch, forgiving where you land — is the thing that keeps the four hundredth change of direction feeling like the fortieth. Lace it fully.
Judge the outsole, not the upper, when deciding whether it still has a season in it.
Now: Bhagalpur, and nobody warned me. I came for the Ganges and found a city of looms. In Champa Nagar they are weaving tussar silk by hand in the courtyards — hand-thrown shuttles, thread pulled from wild cocoons, the sound of a hundred looms coming out of open doorways.
Then east at Antichak lie the ruins of Vikramshila, a Buddhist university second only to Nalanda, a whole plan of monks' cells laid open in the earth. And in the river itself, along a fifty-kilometre protected reach, swims the Ganges dolphin, which is functionally blind and navigates by sound alone. I have travelled a very long way for less than any one of those.
A blind dolphin, a thousand looms and a ruined university, in a city nobody put on my itinerary.
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