Breaking Wind

Now I’m getting a little older, I have taken to walking each day. Severe walking. This means, according to those health experts that infest the Internet, that I must haul in my stomach, straighten my back, and walk, purposely, at least six or eight or ten thousand steps a day, according to whichever adviser catches me first.

I used to take the dog with me for my peregrinations, but I’ve noticed that, unlike me, he reckons that age is an excuse to stay home and chew on a book.

To measure my steps, I have an application on my mobile phone. Six or seven thousand yesterday, including the steps I took when I stupidly left the phone on the bed.

Another health expert tells me that I must walk along my route – happily, I live between the countryside and the beach – with a sense of awe as this will refresh my brain.

If you prefer to use a kayak for your exercise, then it would of course be a sense of oar.

And thus, I walk purposefully along the beach, winking gamely at the passersby, and sigh mightily each time I notice a seagull, a flowering sandwort or a naked woman going past on a pedalo.

The day before yesterday, I had to go to the townhall to get a paper. This means in our fragrant dorp, parking at the back then walking up to the village itself: through, up and over and down the narrow streets on the other side. And then back. Steps mostly, and no cheating. Then (fortifying myself en route with a cold glass of beer), I drove down to the urbanisation on the beach where there’s currently no parking because the city fathers are building a parking-lot (enjoy the irony) to see a lawyer, who promptly sent me back up to the village again for another bit of paper.  

And that day, wonder of wonders, I scored around 9,000 steps just chasing documents.

This made me think: what kind of numbers does a waiter do, or a barman – just with his daily toing and froing between the coffee machine and the icebox? Probably a hell of a lot more than nine thousand. Come to think of it, I once did 20,000 without leaving the stables. 

It’s been windy though. Wind is not kind to those who travel on their own energy. I used to particularly hate cycling into the wind. It’s worse than rain or probably (although I wouldn’t swear to it) snow. The wind makes forward motion very stressful, and the sense of awe can go and hang itself.

On this occasion – last weekend – the wind was blowing strongly. With gusts, says my phone knowledgeably, of up to 75kph carrying old bits of cardboard, leaves, some small branches and a surprised looking seagull apparently flying backwards. I started out on my enjoyable power-walk, tummy in and gamely taking notice of my surroundings (including a plastic wheelie-bin that suddenly overtook me on the straight), but decided, as the rain started, that I should probably turn around and head back to the car: leaning forward into the wind with tiny faltering steps.

Then, as I passed the supermarket, I had an idea: twice round and up and down the aisles would easily put me in the black for the day.

As for the awe, I bought a chocolate bar.  

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The figure struggling against the wind is our local totem: the Indalo.