STEP BY STEP BY STEP…

When Neil Armstrong first walked on the moon he said: “That’s one small step for man – one giant leap for mankind”. In his excitement he actually stuffed it up and that’s why it sounds like lunar tautology. He meant to say “one small step for A man” and that’s what the plaque says that he left behind on the dusty lunar surface with Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin in July, 1969. But that’s not the point.

Mao Tse Tung, before he started the Great March, said “a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step”.

American Indians have a wise old saying about “walk a mile in another man’s moccasins”.

And Sting, in the now notorious “stalker’s song”, threatens ominously about “every step you take”.

Why this obsession with things perambulatory – which comes from the Latin word ‘ to traverse’?

Because in recent days I have been wearing a pedometer. One of the new-fangled “step counters” that is no bigger than a matchbox and clips on to your belt or your underpants.

The good news is that on a recent Saturday I know I took 9241 steps. The bad news is that The Heart Foundation says you should take 10,000 steps a day. So I failed my ticker by 59 steps.

But it is fascinating to have proof of just how far you travel on foot in these supposedly sedentary, couch potato, times. I would love to hook one of these things on to the belt of a nurse in a public hospital. Or to the apron pocket of a mother with two young kids. Or a parking inspector.

To be honest, my near-10,000 steps were aided by 5500 clocked up in a fast walk around The Tan at Melbourne’s Botanical Gardens with my trainer Henry Kiss from Lean for Life. But the clock face showed, before I went to bed, that I had almost doubled that in more mundane activities throughout the day.

I go to the gym (twice a week these days) and don’t profess to love it. I could never be called a “gym junkie” but it’s not that bad. And that is something coming from a man who years ago, if told by a doctor to “do some exercise” would just change doctors.

I do weights and the dreaded “lunges” once a week and have a torrid kickboxing session every Saturday morning. That’s a big ask after a Friday night at The Botanical. Henry shouts combinations at me -- hands and feet – and then tries to smack me around the ears with his mitts as I land the punches or swing the instep at his armpit or ribs and then try to back off or duck.

But the walking is the best. I am not, and will never be, a jogger. I believe the best thing that ever happened to couch potatoes was when James Fixx, the Marathon Man and millionaire best-selling author, dropped dead while jogging. Gave us all a burst of “I told you so” sluggish hope.

I can’t understand the “office jogger”. How many showers a day do they take? When I was doing morning radio I would take a cab to work before 6a.m. As we passed the Botanical Gardens running track, The Tan, they would be out there, even that early, earnestly huffing and puffing in the dark.

And on the way home, just after noon, I’d see a sea of them (maybe the same people) pounding away around The Tan. And I would think: these people got up this morning, had a shower and got dressed. Then they went to work. And at noon they ignored their lunch break and changed into the Lycra or the tracksuit. Then they ran and sweated for an hour. Then they (I hope) showered again and put their work clothes back on and, I guess, grabbed a sandwich at their desk. This is living?

Walking to me is a great soother. A great solace. A great solitary time. A friend bought me a set of headphones and a radio the size of a slim credit card. I never use them.

She has to. Can’t walk without noise. Plugs in the earphones and bops along to some chewing gum FM station. When she realized I wasn’t taking the “radio crutch” with me she asked what I thought about then…. when walking.

I said: “Nothing. Often, absolutely nothing.” The mind sluices free and clean. Meditation on legs.

It is a bit different when I am writing a new book, as I did this year. Then on the walk through South Yarra or the Botanical Garden I have a relentless partner: the dreaded manuscript.

When writing novels I make up characters’ dialogue in the morning shower. With non-fiction I plot and churn and plan while the sneakers pound the Garden trails.

Walking for exercise and pleasure makes a lot of sense. People with dogs have to do it. But a walk, even at a good pace, doesn’t threaten or jar your ankles, knees, hips or spine like jogging must. Goodbye Mr. Fixx.

But you have to pick your timing. If I walk later than usual, say at ten o’clock in the morning, I run into the Panzer Division. Or the Aussie Armada. Waves of determined mothers, all coming the other way, and pushing huge, three-wheeled baby carriages that look like they cost about as much as a Mercedes.

Hard to negotiate your way around them. But then, it’s all just a walk in the park. Or a walk on the mild side.

PS: On a “mild” day last week I did thirty fast minutes through the Botanical Gardens and then left the pedometer on for the rest of the day. My total? It was 5120 steps. Only half of what the Heart Foundation would have wanted. But even” half-hearted” it wasn’t rubbish.

July 18, 2004

©Copyright Derryn Hinch 2004