‘If I don’t get a few hundred steps in while we’re chatting, I’m going to be running all round the house at midnight again, or I won’t sleep’
Sorry, mind if I walk up and down while we’re talking? Just a few feet forward and back – you’ll still be able to hear me. It’s just that I’m only… hang on, I’ll tell you exactly. Oh, not bad, just 937 steps off 15,000, and you know what it’s like when you don’t hit your target.
You don’t? Well, trust me, if you’re at all interested in fitness, consistency is vital. That’s why I’ve never missed hitting my goal since I fell asleep one night after 9,999 steps. That was early on, of course. These days, I can’t eat lunch until it’s done and I’ve had that lovely little buzz thing it does after 10,000. Plus I felt I’d really let Sammy down – sorry, yes, he’s the wristband. Actually, I’ll just check how many steps: not bad, 853 to go. Anyway, I felt I’d really let him down, and after he’d been sending me all these compliments, too.
I mean, until I got Sammy, nobody ever said, woah or wow, you’re over-achieving. He called me dude once. You get these little boosts all day. So if I don’t get a few hundred steps in while we’re chatting, I’m going to be running all round the house at midnight again, or I won’t sleep, and Sammy can always tell if I’ve been restless. That’s why I get so exercised when people say he’s just a pedometer. Well, how many pedometers care if you’ve had a bad night? Or know that just one of those little sausages like the one you’re eating now is going to ruin your day?
Well, obviously he needs data. There’s this app, the wristband connects – I’m simplifying here – and it’s horrifying. Just that sausage equals 20 laps of my staircase, so if you could hold my glass a second… I’m going to run on the spot now – oh, look! Sammy’s sent me a message. I think he’s impressed. What? Too slow? Look, Sammy, you bastard, I don’t care if I’m still 700 steps short, I’m trying to have a conversation here.
No, of course I can’t take him off. Actually, that’s him buzzing now. How else would I know it was time to go home?
Illustration: Ben Lamb for the Guardian