On the northernmost isle of Scotland, Shetland, is where I currently find myself. Most days start with a pre-dawn run, which I prepared for the previous night by setting out my running gear. Usually, my household remains in slumber by the time my run ends, even though my spouse reckons my exit isn’t as stealthy as I believe.
On this particular day, an even earlier start was required due to our impending morning flight. Regardless of my commitments, I’d never skip a run. This meant setting off during what my youngest child has cheekily coined “no-thank-you-o-clock”. When I’m on the move, I always keep an eye out for potential running paths. For this run, I had identified a scenic, long beach to serve as my day’s track. The assumed absence of other individuals helped cement the choice, in an effort to evade unleashed dogs which usually dot my pavement runs back at home.
The beach was every bit as spectacular as I had envisioned it; harsh winds from the Arctic mixed with periods of sunlight and rain showers. The water, sometimes reflecting a bright cerulean, other times a stony grey hue, thrashed against the pale sand. A seal hunting for its morning meal would surface occasionally just to observe my progress as I repeated my circuit.
The isolated shoreline was also inhabited by chatty ravens at one end and cautious, cliff-nesting gannets on the other. Moreover, a lone camper had set up right next to the gannet’s cliff. As my workout went on, he started dismantling his camp. With each lap, the signs of his presence slowly disappeared, with only bicycle tyre tracks left behind. This made me ponder over what circumstances could lead someone to embark on a solitary biking and camping adventure across the rainy and hilly islands of the North Atlantic, but then, perhaps I’m not too different myself.
We bumped into each other once more when he intercepted me to inquire about the route as I scurried back to the guesthouse. Good effort today, he stated, what was the distance covered? I’m unsure, I replied, roughly an hour and a half, possibly 10 miles, but the terrain of the sand slows the pace. Alright, he queried, in kilometres, what’s the distance covered? Uncertain, I retorted, I don’t measure, not very much, as part of my time was spent observing a seal. So, you managed to cover all that ground without even keeping track, he wondered, what about your wristwatch? I showed him my timepiece, equipped with actual moving hands, powered by miniature gears, which I wear as a precaution against tardiness because I don’t always have my mobile on me. He was baffled. All that distance covered, he iterated, without even monitoring your progress. As though it was pointless to jog along a beach, exchange greetings with a seal, have a chat with a few ravens, all without keeping count.
I am aware that there are those who find satisfaction in both quantification and gamification, but it detracts from my enjoyment. I’m not in competition, even more so with myself. Keeping tabs on weight and calorie intake induces a spiraling obsession which dampens my spirits. If I started to keep track of time and distance as I run, it would rapidly transmute pleasure into a punitive experience. Personal contentment has been at peak when I have put faith in my body’s innate ability to gauge hunger, fulfilment, tap into vitality and strength, as well as acknowledge fatigue, though truly recognising exhaustion is a seldom occurrence; I’ve been brought up to hold myself together and persevere. Naturally, there are instances when data can prove insightful, especially within the remits of scientific research, commerce and governance, as well as personal life. Though I politely reject doctor’s attempts to weigh me, I accept that blood work could yield useful information. Similarly, most among us would soon fall into financial strife if we weren’t vigilant about our bank balance, and as I pen this, I’m cognizant of my word limit. However, the compulsive, unwarranted tallying of every aspect of life encourages us to dismiss and disregard our instinctual response, our ability to take pleasure and remain present in our bodies and in the world at large.