I GREW UP CARLESS IN WALES. My father never owned one; he never even learned to drive. My mother finally took lessons in her 40s, proudly failing her driving test seven times. We lived in obscure, remote places where public transport was at best unpredictable and at worst nonexistent. If we needed anything, we walked, often for miles. Perhaps this explains why my first car—a cramped Fiat—brought me so much pleasure.
My driving life coincided with a desk job. Both eventually coincided with curious changes to my body (rounder, softer, achier, stiffer, stooped) and my mind (anxious, unsettled, discontented). Around the same time, I came across a fact that flabbergasted me: The average American takes between 3,000 and 5,000 steps per day, well below the gold standard of 10,000. In…
