What I Talk About When I Talk About Walking
I love walking. Drop me anywhere on this round ball of Earth, point me in any direction, and I’ll set off. From A to B, crisscrossing, straight ahead or in circles. The main thing is to keep going, always further. And when I talk about running, I don’t mean jogging, racing, or sprinting—good God, no—but the most relaxed form of human locomotion: walking.
Over the past few years I’ve gradually increased my walking volume. Not long ago my daily step count was still in the single- or double-digit range, but I kept pushing my limit higher and higher. Three digits soon became four. Four digits eventually became five. And five digits might one day even become six. If that’s humanly possible at all.
The number of ten thousand steps a day—randomly pulled out of thin air by a Japanese company for advertising purposes and scientifically completely irrelevant—I can now easily manage. At the moment I’m hovering around an average of twenty thousand steps, like some kind of elite athlete.
My success—so inspiring to every single human on this planet—rests on three significant pillars of individual achievement: boredom, routine, and distraction. I simply have nothing better to do. I only do things if I’m used to doing them. And I only stick with something if my thoughts are occupied with something else while I’m doing it.
With alternative sporting activities, like jogging for example, I spend every second of the agonizing and seemingly never-ending process hoping that some confused hunter will mistake me for a graceful deer—or at least a somewhat stocky wild boar—and shoot me in the forest so it will finally be over. When I’m walking, on the other hand, I’m often surprised to realize I’ve already been doing it for two, three, sometimes four hours without actively noticing.
During the time when I’m more or less abusing my two still-functioning legs, I prefer listening to some kind of alternative-culture podcasts. For example 8-4 Play. Or Retrograde Amnesia. Or Axe of the Blood God. Anything where a few hardcore nerds passionately talk for hours about a topic that has narrowly missed mainstream mass consumption. The geekier, more multi-voiced, and more lively it is, the better.
Then, armed with my noise-canceling headphones, I stride rapidly through cities, across fields, along the lake. Past cars, people, and nice-smelling cafés, boutiques, and döner stands. Always with just one goal in mind: keep walking, always keep going, until I’m so exhausted I almost have to puke.
In Augsburg, where I’m currently studying as you may know, I have a regular route that has been carefully optimized but still leaves room for experimentation. I like the city a lot because it’s neither too big nor too small, and because you can disappear either into deserted alleyways or into the bustling chaos of the crowds—depending on what you feel like at the moment.
On a day completely at my disposal, I get off two stops before the main station, walk to the university library, treat myself to a coffee and a bit of laptop time, and then take a big loop through the Textile District, one or two parks, and the old town before buying something to eat at Rewe and heading home again.
And I do exactly that every day, over and over again, like a broken robot with no life. But it works. Because it’s routine. Because I like the varied route. Because I know exactly where, along my seemingly random path, I can rest, where I can get online, and where I can go to the bathroom. And that kind of certainty is exactly what mentally disadvantaged autists like me need.
This calculated knowledge drastically reduces the chances of unpleasant surprises while still leaving enough room for new ideas, secrets, and discoveries. And occasionally you even meet people you already know—or haven’t met yet—and can chat with them for a bit. At least that way you don’t feel quite so lonely while stubbornly walking in circles.
But Marcel, if you walk twelve-bazillion kilometers every day, why are you still such a fat pig?
To that cheeky and completely unexpected question I have three perfectly thought-out and formulated answers. First: shut up. Second: no idea—how should I know? Third: I’m working on it, okay?! More information will be available in my upcoming self-help book, soon to appear at your trusted bookstore: Boss Transformation: From Battle Colossus to a Line in the Landscape.
While I’m preaching to you here about walking, what I actually want to make clear is that if you, for whatever reason, need more movement in your life, all you have to do is find something that doesn’t completely piss you off while you’re doing it. That can be literally anything. Except maybe sitting on the couch eating chips—unless you’re losing weight while doing it. If you are, then you’ve basically won at life.
The only rule you need to follow is that you must keep trying the different activities available to you until you finally find something where, while doing it, you don’t secretly wish for sudden cardiac arrest as an excuse to stop. Some people get lucky and find it on the first try, others only on the hundredth. That risk is something you just have to accept—but it’s worth it.
And if for me that means walking along paths in spring, summer, autumn, and winter—whether in sunshine, rain, or snow—and hopefully not getting run over by a bus, then for you it might be… who knows… football. Or tennis. Or climbing skyscrapers without safety gear or clothing. If the standard-issue stuff isn’t for you, then you should look beyond the obvious. Life is full of possibilities—you just have to use them.
Alright, enough guru talk for today. I’m going to put on my smelly sports shoes that are already almost crying out loudly for mercy, pick a five-hour podcast about the best Super Nintendo games of the early nineties, and head out into the wide world like little Hans. And if I do end up getting run over by a bus, at least I’ll have died doing something I truly love with all my heart. And not everyone can say that.