It is said that confession is good for the soul. In my case, it's more that confession was good for the soles.

I admit, until recently I'd been a 23-year member of RSO, better known as the Running Shoe Obsessed. I had more than a slight eccentricity about hanging on to old shoes.

Some people have wine cellars; I had a shoe cellar. It wasn't stocked with Italian hand-sewn tassel loafers crafted from natural exotic leather, but instead it was packed with racks of retired running shoes. We could revisit 1981 together, revel in the full-body aroma of the aged synthetic- leather upper and rubber outsole, caress the worn heel and tattered laces. Remove a shoe from its box and let it breathe while reminiscing how that indeed was a very fine year.

I could give you every detail imaginable regarding the personal relationship I had with my running shoes. I could pull out that 1984 model from the Pre- Advanced Combination Construction Era and recite, "The peak of this 13.2-ounce shoe with enhanced motion-control and traditional eyelet-lacing was setting a half-marathon PR on a point- to-point course. The shoe and I had already experienced wonderful training runs by that juncture in our relationship, and I came away from the race completely free of foot blisters or black toenails. The shoe lasted three more months until replaced by a more-attractive lighter model. But I won't ever forget what that shoe and I had together in the summer of '84."

Truth is, I'm not an obsessive collector of all things and don't need an off-home storage facility to maintain my running-related magazines and race t-shirts.

Nonetheless, with running shoes, I had the mentality of the pack - rat that is - and couldn't part with any shoe in which I'd traveled comfortably for more than 10 miles. By that point, a personal bond had been created. We were attached at much more than just the foot. The end of some relationships warranted a tearful ceremony before delicately placing my long-time friends in their shoebox tombs. But then something changed.

I read a story about better uses for old running shoes than stockpiling them and boring friends with cellar tours. I knew that each time I moved on to the latest in running shoes, like some pathetic footwear philanderer, that there might be more miles left in my prior pair. Nonetheless, I stored them away and couldn't say shoe sayonara.

But then my compulsion came up against my compassion. I saw an article with pictures of young runners training without shoes, and learned that there were organizations that collected, sized, cleaned and shipped used shoes to these hard-working athletes. I realized there comes a time when even the strongest of obsessions must come to an end.

As I packed the last pair away, I shed a small tear upon a recently- occupied toebox. I knew that they'd go on to a better life. They'd breathe fresh air again, feel trails under their carbon-rubber soles, bask in the warmth of a loving touch on their heel counter. It was time for me to cut the proverbial shoelace.

But before I went to the post office, I decided to do what any longstanding member of RSO would do. I grabbed the video camera.

Give me a call sometime if you want to see the cinematic chronicle of my life with running shoes. It only lasts 14 hours.

Excerpted by permission from "I Run, Therefore I Am-Nuts!" by Bob Schwartz. Copyright (c) 2001 by Human Kinetics Publishers, Inc. Available at bookstores, Amazon.com, humankinetics.com or 1-800- 747-4457.