A Year of 10,000 Steps

Ouch! Crack! I hear the crisp snap of my left baby toe catching on the leg of the locker room bench. I know, even before I glance at the digit splayed away from its brother toes, before it even begins to blossom and purple, that my toe is broken. I’ve broken several across the years. Broken toes are ridiculous injuries, bothersome rather than incapacitating. I hobble home, sanitize one of my housemate’s used popsicle sticks (he has a frozen sweet tooth), cut a doll-size splint, and Siamese-twin my pinky and ring toes with adhesive tape.

Three days later I’m ready to return to the gym. But in the interim — March of 2020 — the world has changed. Quarantine has gone into effect. My gym is closed. Pretty much everything else as well. All that remain is contradictory information which, like most Americans, I interpret to my benefit. Social distance: piece of cake. Frequent hand washing: not a fan. Stay indoors: no way. I cover my face and venture out into the empty world. Ditto the next day, and the next. I am simply too antsy not to move.

My world shrinks so tiny, I scarcely ride my bike. Everything essential is within walking distance, and goodness knows I have plenty of time to get places. My toe heals. I kept walking. I explore neighborhoods I’ve never visited; it’s nice to discover something fresh. My pedometer logs 10,000 steps or more a day. Every day.