A Step At A Time

Our local Community Centre would hold classes - elevated plastic platforms littered the floor of the decrepit, timeworn hall. At seven years old I was confused as to the purpose of the set up, and even more so at the assembly - predominantly women - of all ages, eagerly queued up outside. The doors opened and they joined the nationwide legion of neon-clad followers decked out in headbands and sweatbands whilst moving to the beat of their favourite band on the colossal Walkmans clipped to their waist. It was the late 80s and Step Aerobics was King, and peering through the glass was to be my first encounter with a fitness ‘craze’. 

A little time later, the masses found they no longer needed to attend the local centre, gym or church hall as Exercise VHS (or Betamax) tapes found their way into homes around the globe. Why venture out when an overly-enthusiastic, impossibly toned Athena would bellow at you from the comfort, and convenience of your own living room? 

The fads kept (and continue to keep) coming - most households in the UK have likely owned an ‘Ab Cradle’ and/or light dumbbells at some point. That said, the term ‘fad’ is perhaps a little harsh given its negative connotations, the likes of Step Aerobics offer a solid, science-backed cardiovascular workout, it’s just the participants' often fleeting engagement in the activity that’s somewhat, well, faddy. That said, even if only for a brief period, if the endeavour gets people moving and trying to better themselves, then surely it’s a positive?

I am myself, of course, just as guilty as the masses and it was many years and many fitness-based dabblings (Circuits and Spinning particularly unfruitful ventures) before I discovered running and found something that has stuck - now for well over a decade. 

The current, and seemingly dominant, craze though, appears to have the legs to stand the test of time - the daily Step Count. Its success lies in its simplicity and accessibility - if you are able to walk then you’re able to partake and the essential equipment is absolutely minimal - a phone or Fitness Watch (which, as I found, you can pick up for as little as £8), unless of course you’re just REALLY good at concentrating and keeping count, then you’d need nothing whatsoever. 

10,000 daily steps appears to be the heralded golden goal, the magic number touted around, the one we should all aim for. I’ve a friend who holds a streak of 10K+ days spanning several years, and another who has completely transformed his body composition simply through a dedication to a daily step count and making a few small nutritional changes. They aren’t alone, and with today's dominant obsession with logging (and sharing) fitness metrics, it would appear that counting steps won’t be just another flash in the pan. Again, as simple and arbitrary as 10K steps may be, if it gets people out of the door then I’m all for it. 

I don’t specifically count steps, nor ‘log’ them, but find novelty and amusement in how many/few I’ve amassed that day through an £8 ‘smartwatch’ which I wear more to simply tell the time rather than keep track of any activity. Despite its budget price tag, I’ve found the device to be perfectly accurate when measured against a much more expensive GPS model I wear only for running. Through running and my role in a Primary School (in which I’m standing much of the time), my weekday count will be in the region of 20,000, whereas Saturdays will exceed 30K when I generally do a Long Run. Sundays tend to be substantially more sedate as I’ll traditionally have a day off from running, don’t work, and thus can be as little as 2,000 - racked up pottering around the house or playing with the kids. 

It was only a few months back that I saw a clip of someone declaring themselves to be “pumped about attempting this physical challenge that only the elite dare face”. The feat in question? 100,000 steps in a day. I didn’t even click to see if/how he’d managed the stunt - his shouting and narcissism was hurting my ears, but the seed was sown. 

I personally certainly didn’t deem 100K to be an ‘elite’ endeavour, but was instantly curious as to what it would entail. My first thought was the word ‘relative’. To some, 100,000 steps would be akin to scaling K2, whereas I’d imagine Ultra runners to guffaw at its brevity - a saunter which wouldn’t break a sweat. Surely it’d just require some tired legs and a load of perseverance? 

There was only one way to find out. 

To provide a little background, I’m (just) on the right side of 40 and have been running for 12 years, after the clichéd path of realising there's more to life than booze and following a perpetually mediocre lower league football team (I still enjoy both things, just in a somewhat condensed fashion). I’ll train perhaps an average of 50ish miles a week and have a 5K PB of 17:00 and Marathon 2:55, though my training investment suggests I should actually be substantially better at running than I actually am - I just appear to be somewhat of a physiological misfit, paired with a tendency to screw things up. 

In short, whilst I’m far from a beginner, I’m a million miles from being considered a decent athlete, but have plenty of experience in spending time on my feet, which would surely prove beneficial in attempting to cover the distance that 100,000 steps would demand. That said, I was also conscious of the fact that running may not necessarily be a transferable skill to walking.

My initial thought was to walk somewhere picturesque - the Cleveland Way is within 60 minutes from our house, but with a wife eight months pregnant, driving an hour to be somewhere with very little phone signal wouldn’t be the most sensible of choices. We’re fortunate to live just outside York and I therefore decided I’d attempt the effort by covering the pavements of our beautiful City. Determined to make it an enjoyable endeavour, I’d basically have set ‘pit-stops’ to get coffee, food and use the loo, whilst knowing the area well enough to easily get a Taxi home if I’d had enough. It’d be a glorified walking picnic.

The 100K was a casual target, not for an announced ‘challenge’ or charity - just a bit of fun - I told no-one but my wife and wouldn't be upset if I had to call it a day early. I’ve suffered enough debilitating injuries in the past to risk being sidelined should it begin to hurt beyond the common discomfort of fatigue. I despise being unable to run, so had zero desire to break myself once more, especially through an activity that wasn’t even running itself.

I’d done the logistics and maths - I’m in work four days a week and spend the other attempting to get a pitiful writing career off the ground - penning nonsense much like the piece you’re reading now -  so am fortunate to have a day in which I can attempt such a ludicrous task, and if I’m going to write about it then it’s kinda like work, right? Each and every one of my previous articles have drawn upon past experiences, so penning notes and undergoing (minor) research before, and during, the undertaking would be a first too. 

I’m an early-riser anyway so would ‘cheat’ by running long and getting a decent chunk - 20ish miles, around 30,000 steps in the bank by 7am. For the remaining 70K , I’d made note of the time it takes me to walk 1,000 steps (around nine minutes when walking to collect my daughter from school), and calculated it’d take around 10.5 hours (excluding stops). All very theoretical of course, but manageable it seemed. One thing I failed to consider however, and completely overlooked, was the distance so many steps would demand.

This would prove to be a mistake.

I’d earmarked a couple of ‘contingency dates’ should the weather present unfavourable but needn’t have bothered as the forecast on the morning proved ideal - 13c, clear skies, and 0% likelihood of precipitation. Up and out by 4.30am, I spent a pleasant 2hr 30m on a near-deserted 33K (20 mile) country-road loop, blissfully seeing only four other people in the process. I often find Long Runs to descend into somewhat of a slog but was pleasantly surprised to notch up 28,500 steps relatively comfortably. 

Showered and fed, I walked my youngest to school, delivered the wildly optimistic declaration that I ‘might’ be back home for her bedtime, and set off on my way with little thought or consideration (ignorance) of the labour ahead. Owning no specific ‘Walking Boots’, I made do with some running trainers, previously worn more casually rather than for actual running, and opted for T-shirt and shorts, a light hoodie, and a small rucksack housing a bottle of water and some fruit - it seemed pointless carrying further provisions when I could simply buy and/or refill en-route. Again, the benefit of a predominantly urban route. The 800 pence wonder adorned my wrist, with a more expensive GPS on the other as a back-up and to provide amusement in the form of a Strava map at the end of the day, alongside some headphones for podcasts when the venture inevitably grew tiresome. 

A leafy riverside cycle path led me to the City Centre for the first sustenance stop with a coffee from a 14th-century-tower-turned cafe I’ve long wanted to visit (and didn’t disappoint) before dodging the abundance of tourists, each with a seeming absence of self-awareness or ability to look ahead, to cross the river and head towards work where I’d enjoy a second (free) coffee, help myself to the morning ‘Snack Stop’ trolley, and use the facilities. 

It was on the way there that I surpassed 45K steps - the apparent ease with which I was already almost half way providing a spring in my step, complemented with passing my favourite bakery/cafe I’d visit later to devour one of their colossal focaccia breads. I wasn’t hungry for one just yet and thought better of carrying one around all day in the Spring sunshine. No, a fresh one would be mine in about 25,000 steps time.

Whilst the step count appeared to climb to 50K without too much effort, it seemed the next ten thousand took just as long. Or perhaps I was starting to get tired. Nevertheless, the sun was shining as I approached the area in which we used to live, and the pub we used to frequent, and I decided to reward my efforts thus far with a nostalgic pint. Upon approach I questioned if the hostilery was actually open as the vast Beer Garden was (given the weather) strangely devoid of any punters, and it was 2pm on a Monday afternoon. 

The illusion however, was short lived as I stepped into the darkness of the bar and my pupils adjusted to the scene of 60 people staggering in large groups, revelling to the jukebox and the potent aroma of fried chicken, around tables jammed with discarded bottles of Sauvignon Blanc. The barman’s vacant expression suggested this not to be an uncommon occurrence as he pulled my cider and I escaped to the sanctuary of the Beer Garden, passing the neon ‘Wine & Wings Mondays’ advertisement by the door. 

I stood, pacing slowly to keep the steps going, and was about to judge the mentality and vulgarity of the contingent inside, spending their Monday afternoons necking cheap plonk in the dark, when I realised that I’ve probably done it myself previously, and how I was choosing to spend my Monday - walking 100,000 steps for no reason whatsoever other than curiosity, was probably equally as absurd.

The temperature continued to rise as the afternoon wore on and the peaking climate coincided with the emergence of some moderate discomfort in my heels as well as the back of my neck, the latter I assume to be a result of poor posture perhaps. I realised I’d now far eclipsed my previous step ‘best’ - the day of the Rotterdam Marathon where I notched up 55,000 during the race and moving between numerous bars and pubs in the Dutch port city, but still had 35,000 to go.

I’d arranged to meet a friend, a former colleague who was a ‘stepper’ herself, and we walked together for around an hour, catching up on events since we’d last seen each other several months back, but during the exchange I found myself unable to both adequately concentrate on what she was conveying, nor able to offer any response beyond a few short words. Fortunately she found amusement in my inability to verbalise, understanding my growing fatigue and hunger, and suggested we return to the Bakery where my efforts thus far would be toasted with the giant Focaccia I’d promised myself hours earlier. 

Fate, and the inconsideration of the bread-buying public, had other ideas.

The empty cabinet, absent of not only Fociacca, but also any edibles whatsoever, hit like a heavyweight blow I’d not anticipated, and at that moment my entire demeanour flipped and I was immediately ready to throw in the towel. Resilience:zero. I was knackered, suddenly ravenous, and HMS DumbStepChallenge had entered uncharted, choppy waters. I’d been diligent with my water intake so far, refilling my bottle at every opportunity but may have mistakenly assumed I’d be able to get by on just a few light snacks throughout the day.  

I bid my friend farewell and continued onwards - there was a convenience store ten minutes up the road which, although it wasn’t a flat leavened oven-baked Italian bread the size of my head, would at least offer some vital sustenance. It’s become apparent the forecast was inaccurate as there's not a hint of wind and the temperature is in the mid 20s. As I began the tired ascent of the long road I caught sight of a creature in the distance, an illustration of an omnivorous mammal elevated in the sky - an animalistic beacon of hope.  It was a fox. It was The Fox. 

I’d always been fond of the pub since my teenage years , a traditional establishment in a classic, unspoilt building, its history inextricably linked to the golden age of rail given its proximity to the local carriageworks. With little debate I opted to pop in, bought a pint and a share-sized pack of crisps, and allowed myself to sit down, in the garden, for the first time in around nine hours -  78,000 steps and, as it’d finally occurred to me to check my GPS, 44 miles behind me. 

I allow myself 15 minutes before groaning (pure habit after 40 years) to rise from the bench, but as I returned my glass to the bar and stepped back onto the street I appeared to have got a second wind. It may have been the salt in the crisps, or the splendour of an earnt beer in the sunshine, but it wasn’t game over just yet. 

I find myself back in the City Centre and things are winding down somewhat, the tourists have thinned out, folk are heading home from work and I find myself fooled that my ‘working day’ is also nearly over, yet my watch - displaying 85,000 steps, begs to differ. Everything below the waist now hurts- though it's a different pain from the one I’ve encountered so many times during the Marathon. 26 miles feels like I’ve taken an external bludgeoning, yet today it's an incessant throbbing from the very core of my lower limbs.

I consider walking straight home from here - running has allowed me to develop a near-precise ability to know the distance-from-my-doorstep to pretty much every point in the city, and thus I know I could be home within the hour. It’s sorely tempting but would leave me around 8,000 steps short of the target. 

I lean, weary against the 11th century stone of Bootham Bar - once a gateway to the Roman Fortress of Eboracum, and previously adopted to display the decapitated heads of traitors, pondering if to commit my own act of treason against utterly pointless feats of complete nonsense. 

The road to the left leads home. I turn right.

It’s not some moment of glorious bravado, but more a solemn resignation that I’d completely berate myself for throwing in the towel when the steps ahead were in ‘single figures’. Still, I’m one to celebrate life’s small victories so reward my resolve with a swift half in a pub I worked almost three decades earlier, only to have said resolve again tested somewhat when the bloke behind the bar sheepishly announced the 284 millilitres of IPA to carry a levy of £4.60.

£4.60 for a half. I look him in the eye, incredulous, but he shows not even the slightest smirk. I briefly considered a rant against the establishment but recall the day, standing in the exact same sport 27 years ago that he does now, that I grimaced at telling the locals we’d put Carlsberg Export up to £1.90. For a pint, not a half. 

£4.60 for a half. I need to sit down. I can’t sit down -I won’t get back up. I neck the amber ale, disappointingly not as delightful as the price would suggest, and vacate. In-and-out in less than three minutes. Easiest £5 they’ll ever make. Sucker.

I shuffle down the road, internally muttering at the outrageous notion that charging an inordinate fee for a drink is now seemingly commonplace. Almost as ludicrous as this entire, senseless undertaking - one that, given the way I’m feeling right now, will most certainly leave me with some sort of injury, which is a very negative thought indeed. I’m terrible if I can’t run - my wife will attest to that. It doesn’t necessarily need to be far or fast, but failing to get out of the door for a trot often renders the day as a failure itself. I attribute this to some suspected insecurity, or fear that missing one day means I’ll let myself miss many. At least if I choose to stay in bed it’s on my own terms - being physically unable to run (through injury) takes the choice away, and that isn’t a particularly attractive prospect. 

It then dawns on me that I’m fortunate to even be able to do this. Even if it is the pinnacle of idiocy, at least I’m physically capable of having a go when so many others simply couldn't, and again - that may not necessarily be of their own volition. Circumstance, situation, health - all often not necessarily dictated by choice, could see even the greatest will to be futile.  

One day I’ll join them. Eventually I simply won’t be capable of walking from dawn until dusk.

I soldier on, it’s nothing more than a trudge now. Passing a playground of teenagers, I can’t muster more than a “nope” or even a sideways glance when they call out “ere mate”, doubtlessly to ask if I’ll buy them some booze or fags. I’m oblivious that this would be an otherwise potentially intimidating situation, especially given I’m a mere 5ft6 and would be unable to run away, but am honestly past caring and don’t even break stride. They probably think I’m just a bit of a weirdo, or possess some strikingly un-teenage-like compassion and realise I’m not in the mood. 

A further two hours had passed since I left the Bankruptcy Arms and I allow myself a glance at my GPS. Eleven hours and 48 kilometres have passed since I left my daughter at her classroom door and - at 95,000 steps - the end was in sight. If I slogged on it’d be over within the hour.

It began to rain. Of course it began to rain, like a final insulting hurdle the (unforecast) precipitation patted on my woefully inadequate hood. I was now beyond the point of no return - it would be quicker to walk home than summon (and wait for) a taxi, and with my head down I turned into the wind and onto the home straight - a mile from my front door. 

The rain ceased just as I approached our road and I felt the warmth of the fading Spring sunshine on the back of my neck, but the glow didn’t transfer to my demeanour. There was no sense of triumph or euphoria, just a profound relief it was over - approaching the front door provoked the same sentiment as finally getting home after a long haul flight. My lower limbs pounded, my shoulders were sore and even my face somehow ached, how people do this often is beyond me.

To the delight of my inner-navigation system, the 100,000th step was onto the driveway, though the tally exceeded the capabilities of my trusty £8 timepiece - frozen on 99,999. Get what you pay for eh? My wife laughed heartily at the sorry sight before her, and believe me - she’s seen me in some states. 

Her humour turned to mild concern as I had little interest in the gargantuan pizza she’d had delivered - I’m always grateful for a mammoth carb fest but had absolutely no desire to do much more than shower and sleep. Broken and with a genuine fear I’d done myself a ridiculous injury that would dictate some time on the running sidelines, I took the last steps of the day up the stairs to bed.

Fortunately, my fears were unfounded and, with the exception of a couple of uncomfortable blisters and the odd throb of fatigue, I emerged the next morning unscathed, went to work and was able to run as normal (albeit VERY slowly) the following day. Despite the idiotic nature of the ‘feat’ I’d seemingly got away with it. 

Looking through the GPS data, it appeared I’d completely underestimated just how far 100,000 steps would take. The running and walking combined to a total of 53 miles (86 kilometres) over thirteen and a half hours, which is vastly more than my naive, ill-thought initial estimate. I’d gleefully told myself it would be nothing more than a walking picnic, but instead became a slow-slog Last Supper. Would it have been better to run further to lessen the time on feet? But running demands a longer stride length, and when the goal is to amass steps - not necessary distance - then would it end up counterproductive? I don’t possess the necessary intellect, nor inclination, to to find out, and whilst there is a small sense of satisfaction knowing the goal was ultimately achieved - I certainly won’t be doing it again anytime soon.

My main takeaway from the whole sorry endeavour? Walking takes a whole lot longer than running - the senseless flagrantness of this statement is almost as senseless as the challenge itself.

Some curiosities are best left unquestioned.