MOON JUICED Classic-shoe enthusiasts got a treat this summer with the release of the limited-edition 997 Moonshot sneaker. The result of a collaboration between New Balance and J.Crew, it pays homage to the Apollo 11 mission in 1969.
I always figured that there was some kind of magic involved in making running shoes. Or at least some strange, inscrutable process involving complex machines and clouds of steam and conveyer belts. From the factory floor in Skowhegan, Me., it doesn't take long to learn that this is not the case. Here at one of the last surviving sneaker factories in the U.S., a few dozen workers stand at presses and sewing machines, cutting leather, gluing soles and stitching uppers on today's run of shoes. The air carries the hiss of machinery and the chemical tang of glue. They stand in place and move in small, precisely measured steps, fingers deftly manipulating swatches of fabric and pressing buttons. There's no magic to this, only skilled workers, whirring machines and a former New England woollen mill that now pumps out 3,000 pairs of New Balance sneakers every day.
The shoes on the line today are a limited-edition take on New Balance's classic 997s. The Moonshot sneaker was born from a collaboration between the Boston-based shoemaker and J.Crew, which hit the web and select store shelves July 20 (only one J.Crew location in Canada, its Robson Street store, carries it). New Balance makes many of its shoes overseas, but maintains five factories like this one in New England, mostly dedicated to its lifestyle collections. With its quirky, chunky sole and distinctly nerdy retro vibe, the 997 is an unlikely candidate for a classic sneaker, but it has become a cult favourite among a certain breed of style-savvy urban man, including J.Crew's head of men's design, Frank Muytjens, who regularly remixes the shoes' aesthetic for limited-run J.Crew collaborations. To understand the strange appeal of the 997, which made its debut in 1991, is to understand sneaker culture as a whole: part style, part function, part marketing, part nostalgia.
"Sneakers have always spoken to my soul," says Dee Wells, an avid sneaker collector and the founder of the footwear marketing company Obsessive Sneaker Disorder. Wells came of age in the early 1980s in the U.S. Virgin Islands, where he'd watch the feet of tourists disembarking cruise ships, glimpsing a world outside the island through their shoes. For Wells, sneakers are all about expression. "When you get a fresh pair of sneakers you walk with more confidence," he says. "And you quickly realize that it's a wearable piece of art."
While certain sneakers may be considered objets d'art, they all started out as high-tech function. The Converse Chuck Taylor All-Star, probably the most recognizable shoe in the world, was the pinnacle of modern technology when it was promoted as a basketball shoe in the 1920s. The Adidas Stan Smith, with its unmistakable green-and-white colour scheme, was worn on the courts by Smith, a world-champion tennis player, in the early 1970s. In 1985, the first Nike Air Jordan, the basketball shoe emblazoned with Michael Jordan's Jumpman silhouette, appeared and changed both sports and fashion forever. More than any other, this was the shoe that turned sneakers into luxury items, collectible and coveted as any handbag or wristwatch, but priced for the masses. The 997 pioneered a dual-density midsole coupled with a mesh-and-suede toe, creating one of the most advanced running shoes of its day. Some 25 years later, you'd be as well-advised to run in a 997 as you would to shoot hoops in a pair of Chucks (which makes you wonder if we're less tough than we used to be or just less often injured), but the look endures.
Not only do sneakers possess that rare combination of comfort and style, the right pair do something that few articles of clothing can: They connect us to places, times and people that make us feel good about ourselves. In Dee Wells's formative years it was Run DMC's shell-toe Adidas Superstars and Jeff Spicoli's checkerboard Vans in The Breakfast Club. For others it was the image of Joey Ramone and Kurt Cobain in Chuck Taylors, and the allure of creativity and chaos they carried. For the next generation of sneakerheads, it's LeBron James's series of crazy-looking Nike high-tops, imbued with his air of winning and panache, that evokes desire. The 997 is both the same and different. No rock stars or movie stars or famous athletes have been known to wear them. Instead they look like the kind of thing your dad might have worn to a summer barbecue in the 1980s, which, as it turns out, is just as compelling a connection. "They transport you back to less complicated times and bring a smile to your face," says Muytjens. "They've always been with us like a dear old friend." Indeed, there's something comforting about the 997's unabashed oddness, something more than the sum of its parts. If there is some magic to be found in these shoes it's not happening on the factory floor in Skowhegan, but in our imaginations.