The Early Bird

A clamor of shrill tones erupts from a phone on the bedside table, the insistent crescendo slicing through the serene silence of dawn like a persistent, discordant symphony. But the Early Bird is already awake, sprung to consciousness by a more forgiving alarm, courtesy of nature and the familiar chorus of birds nesting on her fire escape. Relying on the pre-sunrise light, she rummages through the pantry, seeking out her daily concoction of vitamins: D for bone health, C for immunity, B12 for energy, and Omega-3 for heart health.

Pulling her hair back, she twists twenty-four inches of locks tautly into a braid. She zips up her teal-blue hoodie and fits her sunset-lensed running shades snug to her face. Heading out the door, she shifts through a tower of running sneakers before settling on the Cascadia 18 silhouette, courtesy of Brooks and Extra Butter. The new design, pimped out with the Trail Adapt System (for a stable ride over any terrain) and fast-drying breathable mesh, means it can carry her from a pre-work 8-miler to a 6-hour rave. She ties the lime green geometric laces into a sturdy knot, glancing at the neon digits on her watch. 6:26 AM. 

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Clutching for her ankle, the Early Bird draws her leg in for a deep stretch. The crisp, cool air catches her as she lunges back and presses the balls of her feet into the pavement releasing the tension of previous days. “Good Morning New York,” she mumbles as her foot hits the asphalt, the Cascadia 18’s generously cushioned DNA LOFT v2 sole carrying her through the streets of the Lower East Side. 

“Deep breath in, deep breath out,” the rhythm of each exhale and inhale locks her into a steady tempo. The city streets are an obstacle course. She zig-zags through a sea of delivery men, dodging the jenga-stacked skyscrapers of Amazon boxes that patrol the footpath. Unlike the newly vetted run clubs that populate the streets these days, the Early Bird and her trusty Brooks have been tackling them for years with much success. 

Turning the corner at East 6th and Ave A, the Early Bird paces past the wrought iron gates and into the cement jungle of Tompkins Square Park. On the back railing sits an older man with a peppered grey beard and a semi-stale baguette tucked under his arm. A creature of habit, the Wise Sage, hasn’t strayed from this bench in over twenty-five years. 

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The Wise Sage 

Clutching onto a copy of yesterday’s newspaper, he unfolds the A3 broadsheet, scanning the columns of text like clockwork. A relic of the past (yes, you read that correctly, some New Yorkers still get their daily dose of news analog), he acquired it during his routine pilgrimage to the bodega on Ave A, a fitting compliment to his usual order of black coffee—with a splash of half-and-half, of course. Leaves from the cherry blossoms rain onto the ground around him, constructing a white rug of foliage. The crisp rustle of the paper as he flicks through the delicate pages causes a subtle commotion. The Wise Sage takes a generous gulp of the lukewarm beverage, the bitterness of the watered-down deli coffee soothing his tastebuds. 

Putting pen to paper, he surveys his surroundings, searching for answers to the daily crossword. “Water flowing from the continental crest through the headwaters of the Pacific,” one reads. His eyes tilt down to the blue wave-like pattern of his sneakers, then back up to the puzzle, then down once more taking in the intricacies of its designs. “CASCADIA,” he grins, printing each letter into its respective box, his elation contagious. Reaching into his trench coat pocket, he pulls out a brown paper bag filled with bird feed; an assortment of sunflowers, safflower, and cracked corn. He charitably scatters the crumbs onto the gravel, the offering attracting his usual posse of pigeons.

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Glancing up from the inked paper, the Wise Sage spots a curious figure squatting by the flower bed. He’s watching the bees flit between blooms, eyes glued on the tart-red tulips and pink petunias. Dressed in a honey-yellow windbreaker and khaki cargos cinched at the ankle, the Nature Enthusiast is ready to explore the rugged terrain of downtown New York. 

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The Nature Enthusiast

Strapped to his feet are his Cascadia’s, the heel webbing designed for the trail or the kinder city transit, keeping his feet nice and snug. In pursuit of damp soil and dewy ferns, he follows a trail of earthy scents leading him to the mecca of Mother Nature’s metropolis—the plant shop. Shaded by a forest green awning, a cast of plant varieties decorate the footpath—Monstera and Anthuriums included. Behind the humble tinted doors is a verdant oasis; a haven of greenery amidst intimidating skyscrapers and concrete structures. 

Inside the air is humid and sticky. With an empty canvas tote in tow, he wanders through the crowded, narrow aisles brushing past tall, elegant ferns with overstated foliage. Floating shelves line the walls, packed with families of succulents, their geometric patterns a testament to nature’s artistry. With a discerning eye, the Nature Enthusiast makes his selections filling the tote with the finest nature has to offer.

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Scaling the cylindrical metal pole, he fights for a footsure grip, using his upper body strength to lunge his torso upward. With apparent ease, the Plant Purist walks his legs vertically along the curved surface, the TrailTack Green outsole of his sneaker providing traction as he steadies himself on top of the traffic light box. “Mountaineering the cityscape,” he calls it. “12, 11, 10…” the red of the screen flashes. Fifteen feet above land level, he takes refuge from the urban jungle, away from the lawless thoroughfares teeming with people. At last, true peace. 

“5, 4, 3….” the digital countdown continues, the Nature Enthusiast, still watching on. Down the block, a woman drowning under the weight of garment bags scrambles to make the light. Her phone is lodged in the crevice between her shoulder and neck while she juggles the army of shopping parcels dangling off her wrists. The finest assortment of fabrics can be found within the paper bags—Japanese denim, Mongolian cashmere, and Egyptian cotton, each slinking in their respective packaging as the Stylist sprints to the subway. 

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The Stylist 

She scales the station staircase two steps at a time, her Brooks x Extra Butter’s treating the inclined surface like a mountain face. The metal prongs of the turnstile click as she swipes her MetroCard, drudging her way through the barricades, her bags trailing behind her. Stuck in a race against time, her cheeks radiate a permanent blush-pink. Minute-by-minute, on average ten late, she makes returns, clocking in the miles as she scampers around the bustlesome city. 

When she reaches Delancey–Essex, her pace switches from a steady jog to a speedy dash as she dances through the crowds of Times Square’s less touristy, more gritty cousin; avoiding all eye contact with the infamous McDonalds that lives on the corner of the block. Her necklaces clank, tangling with each thud as the Cascadia 18 makes contact with the pavement. Every few strides she pulls at the waist of her denim jorts, readjusting them as they threaten to dangle off her hips. She studies the street signs carefully, relying on her mind to mentally map the route. “Left down Delancey, right at Allen,” she recalls.

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With force, she leans against the glass of 125 Orchard Street, relying on her body weight to push the heavy door ajar. Towering above, a backlit movie theatre sign illuminates “EXTRA BUTTER,” casting a shadow on the dim-lit LES street. The boutique, favored by the sneakerheads of downtown was born as a love letter to film, fashion, and culture. Inside metal, hanging racks, and fixed shelves display a best-in-class curation of fashion’s finest, offering a cinematic experience to those who venture in. 

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Double-tapping her phone's LED surface, the time reads 5:58 PM. The bright light glimmering off her well-worn sneakers, an oath to the marathon of steps they’ve endured. She places the remaining box onto the glossy display case counter, the ocean-blue Brooks logo peeking through the sheer tissue paper. 

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From the hushed mornings of dawn runs and contemplative hours spent on park benches to urban mountaineering and laborious street sprints around the city; no terrain is too tough, no dream is too distant. Beneath their feet they share common ground, the Brooks x Extra Butter Cascadia 18 comfortably carrying them with every varied stride.

Written by Viviana Harris (Highsnobiety)

• Talent Musa Jackson, Sierra Rena, Joel Rodriguez, Kirsy Lovett
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