The important thing, of course, is to move a bit. The sane and measured part of me that concerns itself with well-being is enthusiastic about walking to the extent that it appreciates the undeniable benefits—the fresh air, the raising of the heart rate, the breathing, the meditative quality of the rhythmic, mesmeric, pacing; the little adventures, chance encounters, happenstance experiences that inevitably unfold when out and about—and ostentatiously disregards the actual ten-thousandness of things, since that’s not the point. That’s just numbers, targets, figures on a screen.
The other part of me, the bit that obsesses over numbers, targets, and figures on a screen, the bit that is constantly working out daily averages and making quick calculations about timings and organising my day to achieve a certain step-count, well that bit knows it’s not really the point but gets quite worked up about it anyway.
Some of us get a bit lost in the details, perhaps. We like patterns, and we like routine, and we like nice round numbers; and when the church organ of red bars showing me my average for the year begins to pulse and swing, and my head gets quite full of numbers and simple formulae and it starts to spill over into my everyday and I know not to talk to anyone about it because they might think it a bit odd, I let the sane and measured part of me remind me of the actual and objectively measurable benefits, and keep the slightly ridiculous thrill of will I and panic of won’t I to myself.
I began the day needing 7,686. I had been at 10,006 overnight, delighted with the over-exertion yesterday of a couple of hours of tennis during which I ran a bit more than I really needed to, fetching every ball in a slightly circuitous loop to add precious steps like some hamster stuffing his cheeks or maybe more like a squirrel, er, squirrelling. And the not-strictly-necessary stroll to Sainsbury’s and a couple of other perambulatory tasks that would stockpile steps in anticipation of today, a day of travelling, yet ironically without so much opportunity for walking. A day for flying to France.
A very early start: car, train, and the bonus traipse to the North Terminal, eschewing the travelator and choosing instead to walk beside it at a slightly uncomfortable increased tempo that almost gave me shin splints so as to keep up with my wife who busied herself with pretending that everything was completely normal. The merciful curvature of the duty-free, easily worth a casual 50 extra; the careful and expansive perusal of the various shops that surely added another couple of hundred before we headed to our gate. The point, as much as there is a point, I suppose, was to accumulate sufficient paces by the time we reached our destination and relaxed that I could gaze beatifically upon the glory of a triumphant figure for 2024 without having an awkward conversation this evening containing phrases like “I just need to walk around the block a couple of times, you know what I’m like, I need to get to 10,000 for the year and I’m really close, do we need anything?”
I knew that the walk up from the French train station to the old town would barely add 1,500 and I was just trying to pick up scraps where I could. A trip to the loo at the departure gate would yield perhaps 120. I could probably go again on the plane, which might be 30 or so, depending where we were sitting.
As luck would have it—and I really do like to think providence smiled on me this morning as I reached the gate—the young man in a heady mixture of hi-vis and strong cologne happened to notice that my passport is due for renewal in the next few weeks and mentioned to me in passing that I wouldn’t be able to travel to the South of France. I can’t begin to describe the feeling, as if a weight was lifted from my shoulders, the sudden realisation that while my wife would continue on to the Riviera, I would be able to walk back alongside the travelator and all sorts and, barring an unimaginable mishap, my 10,000 was now assured.
An airport departure system is designed very much to shepherd people in one direction, like the pulsating of the oesophagus, moving everything inexorably to the stomach and eventually expelling passengers into their waiting aircraft. It’s actually quite difficult to go the wrong way. None of the signs are facing you; none of the ‘flow’ is designed to regurgitate you. I tried walking the other way through duty-free, like a salmon leaping up the raging torrent back to its spawning ground. It’s virtually impossible, especially on one of the busiest days of the year. I needed help. I found the information desk, where a couple from Morocco were in conversation with a customer service person. They had apparently missed their flight to Edinburgh for Hogmanay, but had just heard that celebrations had been cancelled there because of the weather and were now trying to get there out of principle, which greatly impressed me. They were required to take a train from Gatwick to Heathrow. I explained to the customer service person what I had done, making it clear that it had happened to me, that I was simply a hapless victim of circumstance. I told her that my wife wasn’t currently talking to me, but that since she was in an airplane and I was here, that didn’t much matter. She agreed and used the phrase “moot point”. I seized the opportunity for a hilarious play on words, suggesting instead that it was a “mute point” on account of her not talking to me. She was a bit busy and the Moroccans didn’t look like they really wanted me to explain the joke, so I’m afraid it didn’t get the reception it deserved. The customer service lady did know another route that involved PIN codes and swipe cards and backstairs, although the digestive tract analogy falls down a bit unless we were now passing through the stoma of the airport.
So look, I won’t keep you, because you’ve probably worked out from the screen grab that I have been successful in my quest. My smart watch even chipped in with an encouraging “A great start to the day!”, and it’s hard to disagree. I’ve booked an eye-wateringly expensive appointment for an emergency passport renewal on Friday, and a flight later the same day. Remember, you can achieve anything if you really put your mind to it. Happy New Year, all!