Theodore Roosevelt has received an Apple Watch.
This is a catastrophic error.
He has been wearing it for four hours.
He has already walked eleven miles.
His resting heart rate is excellent.
His battery is at 63 percent.
And Theodore Roosevelt has declared war on three colored rings.
“I understand the arrangement.”
You really don't.
“The objective is to close them.”
Yes.
“Every day?”
Yes.
Roosevelt smiles.
The rings have no idea what they've done.
The Strenuous Life
Few human beings have ever required less encouragement to move than Theodore Roosevelt.
As a sickly child suffering from asthma, Roosevelt famously embraced physical exertion as a means of transforming himself.
His father told him:
“Theodore, you have the mind but you have not the body.”
So Roosevelt built the body.
Gymnastics.
Hiking.
Boxing.
Horseback riding.
Rowing.
Hunting.
Tennis.
Jujitsu.
Later, as president, he dragged diplomats, military officers, and unfortunate friends through what became known as point-to-point walks.
The rules were simple.
Pick a destination.
Proceed toward it in a straight line.
If there is a wall, climb it.
If there is a river, cross it.
If there is mud, congratulations.
This was recreation.
Then in 1899 Roosevelt delivered his famous speech praising “the strenuous life.”
“I wish to preach,” he declared, “not the doctrine of ignoble ease, but the doctrine of the strenuous life.”
Apple has placed this philosophy on his wrist.
We are doomed.
Close Your Rings
The watch explains:
MOVE
Calories burned.
EXERCISE
Minutes of activity.
STAND
Hours in which you've stood and moved.
Roosevelt is offended by the last one.
“You receive credit for standing?”
Yes.
“For one minute?”
Yes.
“Once per hour?”
Correct.
Roosevelt looks disgusted.
“This is the standard?”
It's meant to encourage people to move throughout the day.
“By congratulating them for rising from a chair?”
The watch vibrates.
You've earned 200% of your Move goal!
Roosevelt looks down.
“Only two hundred?”
Here we go.
The Competition
Then someone tells Roosevelt that he can compete with friends.
No.
Absolutely not.
Too late.
He has invited everyone.
William Howard Taft.
Gifford Pinchot.
Henry Cabot Lodge.
His children.
Several Rough Riders.
An account he believes belongs to Kaiser Wilhelm.
The watch assigns points based on activity.
Roosevelt becomes quiet.
Dangerously quiet.
“What does the winner receive?”
Nothing.
He stares at us.
“Then why keep score?”
For fun.
Roosevelt has heard enough.
The competition begins Monday.
At 12:01 a.m. Monday, Roosevelt is outside doing jumping jacks.
Edith opens the window.
“Theodore.”
“I require an early advantage.”
“It is midnight.”
“Taft may already be moving.”
Taft is asleep.
“THAT IS WHAT HE WANTS US TO THINK.”
The Notification
At 10:00 a.m., Roosevelt's watch vibrates.
Time to stand!
Roosevelt is on horseback.
He looks at the watch.
“I am riding.”
Apparently that doesn't count.
“I have been outdoors for three hours.”
The watch would still like him to stand.
Roosevelt dismounts.
He stands.
The ring advances.
Roosevelt has obeyed a machine.
He is furious.
Heart Rate
Then he discovers heart-rate tracking.
This is fascinating.
He runs upstairs.
Heart rate rises.
He rests.
It falls.
He boxes.
It rises dramatically.
He begins experimenting.
“How high should it go?”
Depends.
“What is the maximum?”
That's not really something to pursue.
“Why display a number if it is not a challenge?”
Theodore.
He is already sprinting.
The Perfect Month
For several weeks, things go well.
Roosevelt closes every ring.
Every day.
Then the watch shows him something new.
Perfect Week.
He beams.
Then:
Perfect Month.
Roosevelt freezes.
A perfect month.
Thirty consecutive days.
No failures.
No excuses.
Theodore Roosevelt has found his religion.
Rain?
Walk.
Snow?
Walk faster.
Travel?
Find stairs.
Illness?
Absolutely not.
At 11:38 p.m. one evening, Roosevelt notices his Exercise ring.
Twenty-seven minutes.
Goal:
Thirty.
He is wearing pajamas.
Edith is reading.
Roosevelt gets out of bed.
“No.”
“I require three minutes.”
“Theodore.”
“The month is at stake.”
“There is no stake.”
Roosevelt begins jogging beside the bed.
Edith continues reading.
She has survived many things.
The presidency.
Assassination attempts.
Six children.
The Amazon expedition.
This may be the worst.
The Streak
Then Roosevelt misses a day.
Not intentionally.
His watch dies.
The battery runs out at 8:14 p.m.
He had completed everything.
But the data didn't record properly.
The next morning:
Your 47-day streak has ended.
Silence.
Roosevelt stares at the screen.
He presses buttons.
Nothing.
“The activity occurred.”
Yes.
“The watch failed.”
Apparently.
“Then correct the record.”
We can't.
Roosevelt demands an appeal.
There is no appeal.
He wants to speak to Apple.
We strongly advise against this.
The Fitness Tracker Has Become the Fitness
This is where something unexpected happens.
Roosevelt begins exercising differently.
Not because he enjoys it.
Because it counts.
A long hike?
Good.
But certain workouts fill the ring faster.
Swimming?
Excellent.
Unless the watch fails to detect the stroke.
Horseback riding?
Complicated.
Roosevelt starts choosing activities according to what the watch recognizes.
That's when even he realizes something has gone wrong.
Theodore Roosevelt believed physical exertion built character.
The point wasn't the exercise itself.
It was what the exercise demanded.
Courage.
Persistence.
Discomfort.
Effort.
Engagement with the world.
He praised the person “who is actually in the arena.”
Not the person whose wrist reported 723 calories.
Roosevelt looks at the rings.
For the first time, he seems suspicious.
The Man in the Arena
In 1910, Roosevelt delivered one of his most famous speeches.
“It is not the critic who counts,” he said.
The credit belongs to the person “who is actually in the arena,” whose face is “marred by dust and sweat and blood.”
Roosevelt looks at the watch.
You crushed your Move goal yesterday!
No dust.
No blood.
Just a notification.
He removes the watch.
Maybe the machine has been measuring the wrong thing.
A number can record movement.
It cannot measure courage.
A streak can record consistency.
It cannot tell you why you persisted.
A heart-rate monitor can tell you how fast your heart beats.
It cannot tell you whether you possess heart.
Roosevelt likes that.
He's going to use it in a speech.
We tell him it sounds corny.
He uses it anyway.
Theodore Goes Offline
The next morning Roosevelt leaves the watch behind.
He hikes.
No route recorded.
He climbs.
No elevation logged.
He swims.
No calories counted.
He returns exhausted, filthy, scratched, and delighted.
“How far did you go?”
“I do not know.”
Calories?
“No idea.”
Exercise minutes?
He laughs.
For the first time in months, Theodore Roosevelt has exercised without receiving credit.
It feels wonderful.
He showers.
Eats dinner.
Reads.
Goes to bed.
Then he notices the watch on the dresser.
The rings are open.
All three.
Roosevelt stares.
No.
Walk away.
He gets into bed.
Good.
Edith turns out the light.
Silence.
Five minutes pass.
Then ten.
At 11:46, Edith hears movement.
“Theodore.”
Nothing.
“Theodore.”
She turns on the lamp.
The bed is empty.
From downstairs comes the unmistakable sound of someone running in place.
She closes her eyes.
Theodore Roosevelt is wearing the watch.
He has fourteen minutes.
The Move ring is almost closed.
Theodore Roosevelt once said that it was better to dare mighty things than to live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.
At 11:58 p.m., there will be no gray twilight.
There will be victory.
The watch vibrates.
You did it!
Roosevelt raises both arms.
“BULLY!”
Edith throws a pillow at him.
The Exercise ring closes.