Stepmaster 10,000: Walking All Over Lockdown
The one I had my eye on was 820mm in length. I wouldn’t have thought that size would impress me but from the from what I’d gathered, bigger is better. That one was €12.99 and its description was hitting all the right notes. “Minimum bending”, “aluminium frame”, “rubber faced jaws”. Foolishly, I peeked at some of the higher spec models. I laughed when I first saw the €147 price tag but soon it was all I could think about. “Ridged rubber jaw”, “sturdy grip”, “robust and lightweight”. And it was 7 foot long, good God. I had to stop myself from drooling on the keyboard when I read the line “pick up objects as small as matchsticks or needles”.
I was browsing online for litter pickers; aluminium rods that allow you to pick up rubbish without bending over. At that point I’d sunk about two hours into research. Although I liked the rubber jaws, it turned out that the ones the pros use are more like giant chopsticks. In the end I went for the cheaper one but paid the extra few euros for express delivery. I couldn’t possibly have waited. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be buying a litter picker while longing for a more expensive model. But I had a legitimate excuse — my master made me do it.
My master is a thin, black rubber bracelet that lights up when I obey its command. More accurately, it’s a Fitbit — a pedometer connected to your phone that tracks your steps. While wearing a Fitbit you have one real mission for the day — to get 10,000 steps, the recommended daily dose. Of course, life also provides you with supplementary tasks such as eating, breathing and keeping your various technologies charged. These all pale in comparison to your one, true, Fitbit-devised goal.
I have the old version with the five mini light bulbs. Whenever you tap it, you get an update on your mission. One light means you are a sedentary, worthless human being. A second light appears if you’ve done more than 2,000 steps. Depending on the hour this means different things. If it’s early it might mean that you’ve gone for a morning walk. If it’s in the evening, it suggests that you have the activity level of a bedside locker. This continues all the way to a full set of lights, which simultaneously signals that you have passed the 10,000 mark, and that you are just better than other people. It vibrates when you’ve achieved your goal which is nothing short of pure bliss. Time slows down and in that moment it’s just you and your Fitbit. I generally turn to it, bow my head and whisper a soft, courteous “thank you”.
My relationship with my Fitbit started in November 2018 but for the first 12 to 14 months it was more on and off than Ross and Rachel. We officially went on a break from December 2019 to January 2020 but things really stepped up after that. This latest romance was rekindled rather appropriately on the 29th of February — leap day. Stef and I were checking out wedding venues in Spain and hit 17,000ish steps each. The next day, although cripplingly hungover, we both clocked 14,000 steps. When we arrived home, I suggested that we go for a walk to keep the streak going. I then uttered words I wish I hadn’t, “we should keep this streak up and see who cracks first...”
Getting 10,000 steps is a healthy, wholesome habit. I’ve read a lot about creating good habits and how long it takes to form them. The popular view is that it takes 21 days. The more scientific take is somewhere around 66 days. Anecdotally, I find that a good habit is created when you’d rather walk barefoot through shards of glass than let your girlfriend get a better streak than you.
Together, we passed the 21 day and 66 day marks. Soon we were trending towards 100 days and nothing was going to get in our way. Rain didn’t stop us, neither did hangovers. My hunch was that sickness would ultimately be the end of it. Although, unless the illness was heavily foot-centric, I didn’t really see that stopping us either.
Still, there were couple of near misses. I had long, arduous work days where I’d barely leave my desk. One time I checked my Fitbit at 8 o’Clock and realised that I’d only taken 5,000 steps. Tired and mentally drained, I couldn’t believe that I had to do five thousand of something before bed. I started circling the block, mumbling to myself, cursing my master, my situation and my stepping nemesis Stephanie (her name even taunts me).
Our race to the 100 day mark coincided with coronavirus — the disease that was practically designed to make walkers of us all. COVID-19 meant that, like dogs tied to a pole, we were tethered to our houses via an invisible 2km lead. Gyms were closed and walking was suddenly in vogue.
Soon, there was a plethora of people that I knew only through walking. There is the tall elegant lady who’s always smiling. There is the Polish man who blesses himself every single time he passes the church. He draws a cross on his lips with his finger before kissing it and pointing upwards. He acts like an Argentinian soccer player who’s just chipped the keeper from 35 yards. There is the big-lipped woman with the fun-sized dog who wore those long coats rugby subs wear. There is the American woman with the nice face and remarkably strong legs who might possibly be a 30,000-a-day stepper. There is, and this is not a lie, the thirty-something-year-old guy who wears scuba goggles and a raincoat at all times.
I started to salute some of these strangers but dreaded ever bumping into them in any other setting. I’m not sure how to even begin that conversation. “I walk past you all the time” comes across very serial-killer-y.
Before lockdown, our walking habit brought us to some great places. We went on pretty much every nice walk within a €15 petrol radius. I saw a kingfisher while walking along the bank of the River Lee and quickly became an avid fan. It’s not unlike seeing a small bottle of blue Powerade flying through the air. I saw people exchange drugs on no less than seven occasions. At one point I was stumbling upon these interactions so effortlessly, and so frequently, I considered swapping careers to private investigator.
I saw a person on an electric scooter crash into a wall. And then walk away as I imagine I would, pretending all is well, whistling and smiling, internally screaming every possible variation of the f word. I saw kids on leads and dogs in sweaters. I saw lads play soccer matches while trying to keep socially distant. They didn’t succeed in doing so, bless ’em. I’ve people practice slack-lining, fire juggling and aerial silk. A drunk homeless man told me I had a massive arse.
It eventually came to a stage where walking is now one of my main hobbies. This is yet another unfortunate piece of evidence that I’m becoming the world’s most boring man. I promised myself that this wouldn’t happen but all the telltale signs are there. I no longer think that getting drunk is the height of human existence. I get a genuine thrill out of reading books and listening to weekend radio. Going to bed at nine wouldn’t be a rarity. I’ve used sentences such as “Will I tell you what type of bird that is?”, “Let’s go mad and buy both newspapers” and “I hate when people say there’s a grand stretch in the evenings but there actually is, isn’t there?”.
My suspicions were all but confirmed when I heard myself asking Stef, “Did I tell you about that sandwich I had a few weeks ago?”. It was like an out of body boring experience, like I’d been possessed by a 55-year-old accountant. The response was more damning, “Yeah you did. Twice.”
I would have thought that 10,000 steps was something that, as a fit person, you’d simply do without thinking. But it turned out that, without the encouragement of my master, I was somewhat of a furniture-vegetable hybrid. Not quite a couch potato but maybe the office desk equivalent.
Because of this, I was forced to pepper my day with short walks that were 10% for my well being and 90% to appease my ringed master. This equated to several purposeless walks every day. That’s when I started noticing rubbish everywhere and decided that while clocking steps, I may as well be useful.
Without puffing myself up too much, there are some things that simply make me better than other people. The fact that I listen to audio-books while jogging. The fact that I jog full stop. I know the difference between hypothesis and theory, so would never say something as gauche as “I have this theory”. I know that “it’s” never means belonging to it and that Limerick Junction is in Tipperary. These are little things that allow me to look at people and think, “I’m better than you”. But my new occasional hobby of litter-picking is something that, to paraphrase John Lennon, sort of makes me bigger than God’s young fella.
My first morning out litter-picking was at the edge of Cork City on a road where drivers take in the city skyline, the river and can look across at the newly refurbished €100 million football stadium. If they look closer they can also spot generous helpings of beer cans, cigarette butts, crisp packets, and other bits of modern art dotting the landscape. I’d passed this area many times and knew it was something of a goldmine for litter enthusiasts.
As a hobby, litter-picking has it all. You feel altruistic with every step. There’s instant gratification in seeing the immediate impact of your work and there’s the lasting benefit of feeling smug for the day. Being a rather mindless activity it also gives your brain the space to run and play.
As I pick, I imagine the backstories of the litterers. It doesn’t take long before I’ve created a criminal profile. It seems like the types of people that run on caffeine, energy drinks and other artificial stimulants are also the types to use that energy to hurl rubbish out their car windows. There are coffee cups, Lucozade bottles and cans of Red Bull and Monster everywhere. These are probably the same types that troll Greta Thunberg on Twitter, call their inner circle “the squad” and listen to Love Island podcasts. I’ve no real evidence of those last parts but it’s my natural private investigator instinct.
It turns out that when litter-picking, people don’t think of you as holier than thou, more...weird. On my first morning a man stopped for about five minutes, watching me whilst pretending to take in the view. As he smoked, I could sense the cogs turning in his head. I looked up at him several times, each time he seemed on the cusp of asking if I’m doing community service, and who I’d knocked down to get here. Eventually I gave him a wave and he waved back. Before moving on he flicked his cigarette butt in my direction, effortlessly adding to the litter. It wasn’t done in a malicious way. I don’t think he connected the two. He walked away with a light smile, completely oblivious to the fact that he may as well have dropped his pants and defecated at my feet.
On one of my first days an older lady stopped me, “It’s great, what you’re doing”, she said. I thanked her meekly and went about my business, acting as if the comment hadn’t just made my life. We went off in different directions. I was left to bask in the compliment while giving the outward appearance of timid humility. She was probably thinking that she had the younger generation all wrong. Those hoody-wearing youths have big hearts and good intentions. They aren’t trying to harm anyone, they’re just saving the world in their own little way.
I let her have that thought. Little did she know that without my master strapped to my left wrist, I wouldn’t be picking up shit.
