COLUMN: The joy of moving your feet

I have no idea how many times I have moved my feet in my lifetime.

Have I taken as many strides as there are stars in the sky? Grains of sand on the beach? Family Dollar stores on the map?

My parents did not embed a permanent pedometer when I started walking, so there is no way to gauge. It has not been measurable, like rings on a tree or miles on the odometer of a car.

But I do know I walked 24,697 steps on June 6, which is the equivalent of 11.77 miles. Yes, my feet hurt at the end of the day, as they also did on June 27, when I almost topped my personal record with 24,390 steps. It was a “good” tired.

According to my fitness tracker, I logged nearly a half-million (485,712) steps during the month of June. That’s 235.91 miles, almost the exact distance from my house to the pier at the end of Mallery Street on St. Simons Island.

Not every step is a planned exercise, but they all count. I have piled them up while pacing floors, running errands, cutting grass and chasing grandchildren. I had at least 1,637 steps one afternoon while looking for the hollandaise sauce in the aisles of Publix.

The majority, though, come on my 6-mile walk every morning. It takes almost two hours of pounding the pavement in what is the equivalent of a 10K race.

Although I have been a dedicated walker for nearly 20 years, I recently challenged myself like never before. Only twice in the past 55 days have I failed to walk at least 5 miles.

These are private, measurable victories. My body feels better. I have more flexibility and stamina. I have lost 11 pounds this summer, and my goal is to drop another 10 off the scales by Labor Day.

You never will find the word “triathlete’’ beside my name. I don’t rush to the gym at 5 a.m. I don’t drink protein shakes and brag about cross training. The only places I am “ripped” are on the sleeves of a few old T-shirts. The only time I do “squats” is when I bend to pick up something I dropped on the floor.

Truth be told, the bottoms of my feet are tender and sensitive. I often get dizzy and have poor balance because of an inner ear problem. I have battled gout for two years and pulled my hamstring back in February, when my foot missed a bottom step and I nearly fell. No, that is not a tattoo on my right shin. It’s a deep bruise. Lately, I have been dealing with a painful left ankle after being stung by angry yellow jackets last week.

My walking reboot – no pun intended – came in early April during the shelter-in-place restrictions. I would look out my window and watch people pushing strollers and walking dogs. (Some were doing both at the same time, the true definition of multi-tasking.) I saw families walking together in the neighborhood. I am sure it was a combination of spring fever and cabin fever, but it was inspiring.

There aren’t nearly as many folks out walking now as there were three months ago. Summer has settled in, bringing with it that brutal Middle Georgia heat and humidity. Some folks prefer not to saunter in nature’s sauna.

I purchased my third Fitbit in late April. I strapped it on my wrist, committed myself to a more rigorous walking plan and haven’t looked back. (Well, I do look back whenever I cross the street.)

The Fitbit holds my feet to the fire and makes me accountable. It calculates every step, according to my height and stride. If I am sedentary, it gently nudges me and urges me to get up and move. It rewards me with encouragement badges when I meet my fitness goals.

Our 6-year-old grandson, Brewer, has his own Fitbit, and we challenge each other with an ongoing competition. My strides are longer, so when we walk the same route in the neighborhood, he ends up registering more steps.

A few weeks ago, he FaceTimed me before bed. “Gris, how many steps did you have today?” He was grinning. He beat me.

I follow the same route most every day, although I sometimes mix it up or take detours. I stroll past manicured yards and construction sites. I chug up steep hills, glide down alleys, cautiously approach blind curves and count the cracks in the sidewalks.

It is much more than physical exercise. It is mental therapy. I believe in the Latin expression, “solitur ambulando,’’ which means “it is solved by walking.’’

Some days, I play music on my headphones. But most days, I listen to a variety of interesting podcasts. Often, I give my brain a rest and stretch my thoughts. I can pray, plan my day and stir the creative elixir. I carry a small recorder in my pocket or take notes on index cards.

I listen to the birds singing and the garbage truck making its rounds on Friday. I stop to visit with neighbors. Never underestimate the value of fresh air. It is delicious.

I have heard it said that some people can go around the world and never see a thing. I like to think of myself as someone who can walk around the block and see the whole world.

Ed Grisamore teaches journalism at Stratford Academy in Macon. His column appears on Sundays in The Telegraph.