For those of you who know me, you won’t be surprised that I picked up an unexpected obsession this week. Of all my personality traits, utter and complete devotion to something that may or may not matter in the long run is something I tend to do. In graduate school (all nine years of it) my obsession was maritime history. I was obsessed with shipwrecks, scuttlings, or basically anything written by maritime historian Nathaniel Philbrick. I wrote a few essays based on all this research (none of which were published) so I can’t say for certain that that particular obsession really did all that much for me.
Before that, there was the obsession with coloring my hair with henna (something I did for years in college) and always having henna tattoos on my hands, and the obsession with running shoes. Again, I’m not a redhead, I can’t remember the last time I’ve had henna tattoos and I’m not sure what it meant that I once owned twenty pairs of running shoes all at once, only that I found out which brands I liked and why, and which ones were really terrible (at least for feet like mine).
This week’s obsession is just as ridiculous. There’s a knitting group at work and I’ve seen the beautiful creations that the other women make—things like hats, scarves, sweaters, socks, etc. I resisted the urge to join them for a while (perhaps due to “PTOD”— Post Traumatic Obsession Disorder—because I’m still not quite over my sophomore year in college when I decided I would knit a scarf for everyone I knew as a Christmas present even though I didn’t know how to knit. Yes, it was another obsession. Between the 36 scarves I did end up knitting—that turned out to me marginally functional (but very breathable)— and the cramping in my hands that happened not only after knitting so many scarves, but the eight or so final essays I had to write for my classes, I gave up my knitting needles to those more highly skilled in making objects you don’t want to throw away. You might think I’m joking, but it’s a painful memory. Especially because my family either threw out the scarves I made (they were hideous) or burned them.
So, I was reluctant to try to the knitting group. There’s only one thing I do in this world somewhat well, and that something involves grit more than anything else (writing and endurance sports share this: you just have to keep going no matter how dismal prospects seem.) But I somehow stumbled upon an idea— no idea why or how it came to me (maybe some higher power is really looking out for me)—but it occurred to me that I could knit simple things— not scarves or anything wearable. I could knit washcloths and hand towels because:
We could really use new washcloths and hand towels for our guest bathroom. Hand-knitted ones would go along with the whole farmhouse motif that’s evolving at home.
Knitting something that is a square would enable me to learn how to read patterns and to knit new stitches. In this way, it would be like writing nonfiction: when you remove the complicated framework and focus only one what you have—words, two wooden knitting needles and some string— you have a better chance of weaving magic.
I finished my first washcloth today: a pattern with a garder stitch for a border and a seed stitch in the middle. This, for me, is huge. It’s actually useable and not embarrassing. And as I finished my final stitches, it reminded me of something else I’m learning as I train my way to the CCC.
How Knitting is Like Athletic Training
For several weeks I’ve been nursing an overuse injury. I got it looked at—and worked on—by a local specialist who gave me a pillow to bite/scream in when he reamed out my calf. But just because that happened, it didn’t mean I was “as good as new.” Our bodies aren’t cars or Christmas ornaments you fix with the glue gun; we’re a complicated mechanism with so many moving parts that coming back from an injury is no joke, and no matter how minor, it can be a very, very long process.
But, an interesting thing has started to happen now that I’m “not as fast” as I was on either my feet or the bike: I think I’m actually getting stronger by concentrating on efficiency and form rather than raw power output. I run slower, but I run smoother; my mile intervals on the bike might not have the same overall wattage output, but I feel better doing them. I’ve started training like I’m knitting squares, focusing in on the details of movement patterns rather than trying to make a tapestry in five seconds. Granted, it’s work, and sometimes tedious work, but it seems to be worth my time and effort.
For instance: I have started noticing that I can feel myself pulling with my hamstrings on the bike and that my back tire “hums” on the trainer more fluidly than before. No more rubber operatics— smooth and steady power that I can control given how long a particular effort is. So too, with running: no more aerobic-panic when I feel like I’m too breathless. I keep my stride loose and rhythmic; not as fast, perhaps, but I don’t stop, and I feel like I can go for miles (and I do.)
This is a style of training often referred to as “base.” It’s not that I don’t do intervals, but as I transition my injured muscle back to training, I am purposefully avoiding super high-intensity anything. And for now, that’s OK. I’m casting my yarn onto the needle— and when you do that, you want to make sure you’ve got the number of stitches right, so the foundation of your project isn’t immediately screwed out of the gate.
So too for the first few rounds of a knitting project: you have to pace yourself to set a foundation so that you can “read” your stitches (so if you tend to doze off like I do, you can fix your mistakes.) And that’s where I am right now in training, too: setting a solid foundation of aerobic capacity, strength and power. Nothing’s going to make a headline at this point, but that’s the whole idea: start slow so you can get faster. After a decade of competition at an elite level in my sports, I feel like I’m finally doing this correctly.
Appreciating Time
You, me and everybody wants everything yesterday. But, here’s the thing: anything meaningful whether it’s a scarf or a wicked fast time trial takes time to develop. You have to start slow. One stitch, one step, one pedal stroke at at time. Sometimes it doesn’t work out. You get sick. The dog decides to eat your yarn and one of the knitting needles. You’re not sick per se, but your body is “off” somehow. There’s a million reasons why longterm goals don’t come to fruition.
But, there’s also a million reasons why they do. You show up every day. You put your time in. You meditate and stretch. You love yourself, flaws and all. You believe in what you’re doing because it matters. The stars align.
I’m not super-fast right now, but I love riding the bike and I love that I am trying to help Carter and his family. I’m not an expert at raising funds for anything (that part of this journey really freaks me out) but I’m going to try. I show up every day on my bike or on my feet and I think: I am so grateful for what I can do. How can I write this, live this and share this experience to help out Carter?
This week, I’d tell him that the best thing you can do in life is to try. Just show up to whatever starting line there is, and to be there just for you. No matter how weird it gets— no matter how many flat tires, no matter how many distractions, no matter what other people are doing— just do your best and smile. That’s all anyone can really do. Life is too short not to.
If I can knit a washcloth, you’ve got it in the bag, Carter. Just show up every day, smile and conquer those mountains. You’ve got a forever-fan in me: I’ll always be here, clapping, cheering and doing the “wave” (I’m a child of the ‘80s—sorry!)
Follow My Journey
…here. If you’d like more info about me or Team Carter, check out my fundraising page where you can also make a donation to help Carter and other children like him.
Thank you for following me. And just for fun, tell someone you know that you love them just as they are, too.
Let’s all be fans of each other, and knit one big scarf ‘o love. :-)