“Babe, why are you doing laps of the flat?” It was a fair question, so why did it feel like Jeremy Paxman was asking me repeatedly whether I’d threatened to overrule Derek Lewis? I tried not to answer. The truth would only lead to more questions, but by this stage, toothpaste was dribbling down my cheek and my options were running out.
“I’m only 350 steps from hitting my target,” I said, aiming for insouciance but almost certainly stumbling on disturbed. You see, this is what happens when you subcontract your emotional well-being to a steps app.
Maybe it’s the gamification. The way the bar chart rises ever so slightly when I walk to the kitchen. The burst of confetti when I hit 10,000. The medal for 20,000. The opportunities for statistical analysis are endless. It’s only midweek and I’ve reached 82 per cent of my target.
It gets worse. Last year, I discovered that certain varieties of trouser were more lenient when it came to counting. I had to throw away one pair of jeans that insisted on charging me a 10 per cent discount on steps. You say it’s wasteful, I call it self-care.
There are positives to this way of life. For instance, there are no more wrong turns. Every step is equally valid in the eyes of the counter. Conversely, lockdown was a blow. The week after my phone was stolen was a calamity. I knew my photos were saved to the cloud, but what about my steps? And sure, let’s address the 800-pound, largely sedentary gorilla in the room. The 10,000 steps thing is a myth, based on a Japanese marketing campaign from the Sixties to sell a pedometer called a manpo-kei, literally the “10,000 step meter”.
You see, none of this is about my health. What in the previous 270 words has indicated the writer is a person radiating good health? It’s about the sense of achievement. And doing a little bit better today than yesterday. It’s exhausting — frankly, the walking is the easy bit.
Most Albert Einstein quotes appear to have been made up so he may not have said that “everything that can be counted does not necessarily count; everything that counts cannot necessarily be counted”. Either way, I have no defence. There is no value in any of these numbers. There is joy in besting the previous day’s exertions, but it only makes the next day’s task harder still.
We live in a world awash with real-time data. These things shape countless daily experiences. I think it’s supposed to be liberating — information is power, right? But the iPhone — what began as a pocket revolution designed in California, the home of counter-culture, self-expression and boundless space — now compels me to circumnavigate my basement flat in a small corner of the old world. That wasn’t in the adverts.
I hit a milestone last month. Somewhere between Old Street roundabout and Cambridge Heath Road, I walked my 24,901st mile since records began (October 2015). I had circumnavigated the globe, largely without leaving the M25. I felt… nothing. Only a deep foreboding that I had to do it all again.
In other news…
Arsenal have made their best start to a season for more than a century, winning nine of their first 10 matches. I should be excited, dreaming of glory under Mikel Arteta, below. Except, it’s not possible. Not when Manchester City are there.
When Liverpool manager Jurgen Klopp said no one could compete with City, he was accused of sour grapes. But his point about the wildly different spending power of clubs backed by nation-states is undeniable.
Sure, money is no guarantee of success. Just look (and laugh) at Manchester United. While Leicester City can be rolled out as a “yeah, but” until the end of time. Something has shifted, though. Just 20 years ago, you could lose half a dozen matches and still win the league. Today, to beat City, you have to be perfect. Old man yells at cloud — fair enough. But if you can’t dream in football, what’s the point?
