The Plan

Twelve days...twelve days...twelve days...

The 100th running of the Bay to Breakers is happening on May 15th. I've been training for it for weeks, with a little more than one more week to go before I have to rest in preparation for race day. I'm worried, readers. Excited, but worried.

Bay to Breakers and I have a stormy past. The first year we entered, AB and I finished in just over two hours. That's an average of about 3.8 miles an hour, even with the slog of the 11.5% grade of the Hayes Hill and a "mandatory" stop at the bison paddock so that I could take pictures of them. Even at that pace, I bruised my toenails so badly that two of them fell off. We had not prepared at all for the event. My running shoes were too short, and neither AB nor I had run more than a mile or two at one time. We hadn't done any training on pavement. He could have finished faster, but he slowed to keep pace with me, and I struggled to keep pace with him.

The second year, we trained a little harder. I did more cardio at the gym, and trained with weights twice a week. AB did at least a couple of full miles on the treadmill. We still raced together for the first few miles, but I encouraged him to run ahead at mile 6, and he gratefully sprinted away from me. He finished at 1:32, and I finished a few minutes later. We felt great.

And that's when things went horribly wrong. "Let's walk back along the race route and see all the floats." I knew what AB really meant was "let's walk back along the route because I want to see the party that's going on behind us." I often think that AB thinks he missed out on a whole lot of the college experience by meeting me when he was so young. We didn't go to keggers, and we never went to Cancun. We studied, and we had jobs. We were responsible adults, which feels like a synonym for "boring" in retrospect. I feel bad for him, bad that the opportunity to experience the Spring Break culture passed him by. So, when the opportunity to be among drunken revellers presents itself, I sometimes cave in to his wistful suggestions.

So we walked back a couple of miles, and then a couple more. We ended up all the way back at the panhandle, stepping around people passed out on the grass and urinating in the street. What we'd neglected to factor into the plan was that these people had been drinking for several hours by the time made our way back down the route. Some of them had been partying for the entire weekend. It wasn't as interesting as he'd hoped it would be. It was actually kind of gross. "You wanna walk back to the buses, or catch a cab? Remember, the bus line is back at the park, so we'd be walking in the wrong direction to wait in line for an overcrowded bus full of sweating drunks." When presented like that, the obvious choice is to get a cab, right? We thought we'd walk up a few blocks to the Haight and hail one. Easy. We felt smart.

Who would have thought that it would be impossible to get a cab on race day, with fifty-thousand people jammed into the park or passed out within a mile of it? People with forethought, that's who. The cabs stayed far away from that half of the city that day. Well, we didn't know. So we kept walking, thinking eventually we'd see one. We were not carrying phones for some reason, so we couldn't call a dispatcher. Walking, walking, walking, periodically pausing at bus stops in case we'd found a line that didn't go near the park and wouldn't be full. Dozens of packed buses lumbered past us. More walking. Eventually, we came down to Van Ness and started to see cabs and half-full buses. "Well, we're so close now that we might as well keep walking, right?" We agreed on this, not realizing that we were still two miles from our car. I don't know if it would have made a difference if we had known. We were marching for the pride of marching at that point. We laughed merrily at our own stupidity as we skipped across streets and past confused tourists. "I think we took a wrong turn somewhere! Do you know which way we go to get to the race?"

We got back to our car at the Metreon, turned the heated seats on and drove home. When we got out of the car, we realized how much damage we'd done. Everything stiffened on the drive home. AB's legs would not straighten out, and my foot felt like someone was hammering a railroad spike through the right edge of it. We hobbled into the house - him hunched over like he had a hernia, me hugging the wall and hobbling - and fell on the couches, unable to get back up for the rest of the day. I had to hop up the stairs on one leg, because I couldn't put weight on my foot. Later, sitting at my computer with my leg up on another chair, I used Google Maps to plot out the hike we'd done. The race is 7.5 miles. We'd covered more than seventeen miles on foot.

Still, that was my best run yet at 1:38. "Next year, we're going to CRUSH this thing!"

For one of us, this turned out to be true. AB finished the race in 2009 in under 1:30. I took considerably longer, in part because it was hot that day, but in larger part because I didn't have him to pace me. We'd decided to run the race separately right from the starting line. I was proud of him, but very disappointed in myself. Things went awry that summer, with Daisy moving, my job ending, and the house needing so much preparation before it could be rented again. I got out of the habit of working out, and eventually stopped going to the gym altogether.

Last year, we registered and paid to race, then slept in. Our excuse was that we'd just taken Molly in and didn't want to leave her at home, but the truth was that we'd done absolutely nothing to prepare for it. I hadn't made any effort to stay in shape in almost a year. I was in the worst shape of my 30s. It was depressing. "We'll decide tomorrow morning..." We stayed in bed with our eyes closed until 9:30 the next day, neither of us letting on to the other that we were awake. Once it was too late to make it to the race, we got up and went to Starbucks. "NEXT year, we're totally doing it."

And that's this year.

I've been running at least twice a week for a few weeks now. I bought a treadmill when my beloved chick gym abruptly closed, and The Amazon's been giving me running goals each week. AB has also been running, and doing the Insanity DVDs. I did my six miles last night and, while it wasn't as good as I wanted it to be, I'm not feeling at all bad today. I'm running on the road tonight, so that race day won't be the first time in two years that I've tried it. It'll be good, no matter how I finish. I keep telling myself that it's just one event, and that my REAL goal is to finish and not be crippled with sore muscles or plantar fasciitis for weeks afterward, and that's true.

But still. I want to crush this thing.

Adapt

My finger is still in its round-the-clock splint, three weeks having turned into six. Last week, the hand surgeon said that it was healing up well after what was probably a mallet injury, and that the ruptured tendon was getting stronger again and...wait, what? New injury, months after Suzuki-tastrophe 2010? Ruptured tendon!? I might have taken the whole thing more seriously if the word "rupture" had come up sooner. I probably would also have freaked right the f&*k out about it and irritated everyone close to me by waving my hand around and wailing in a play for sympathy and free beer. Mostly the latter. Maybe it's a good thing he didn't bring it up before last week.


When the splint is taken off, for five seconds so that he can put on a fresh one and retape it, my finger does look better. "Look, Dr. Schilling! It straightens out after I bend it. It looks almost as good as the right one."

"No, no-no-no-no. Leave it straight the whole time." He's a mild-mannered guy. That's as close to yelling as he gets.

"O.K., but I'm not bending it now. I'm just fluffing up the knuckle wrinkles so that they'll match the other pinkie..." I do not add "...because I am a weirdo," as I'm certain that he has already realized this. He redoubles his efforts to quickly lash a fresh piece of aluminum to my hand.


I couldn't stand being idle any longer, so I figured out how to knit with the splint covering half my pinkie. All I have do do is double-wrap the yarn around the base of it, and it doesn't seem to migrate up and get caught in the tape. Work resumes on Papeline!

Shipwrecked!

"Dark days, Sword-face. We've shipwrecked here on this desolate place, no friendly flag on the horizon for many a month. Without my sextant, I cannot but guess where we've landed. I foresee no return to the glory times."

"Cap'n, yer wallowin' terrible deep in the bilge. Chin up, sir! Always keep a weather eye on the horizon. Ain't that whatcha always say to us mates?"


"Aye, Sword-face, aye. But this time I be feelin' too low to lift my gaze o'er the rail. We've seen naught but hardship. My adornments have all shriveled and dried up, and there's no hope for their return. We be among the naked savage every day, threatened by the slavering beasties, wi' no hope of rescue."

"I dunno, Cap'n. This here ain't so bad. Warm air, dry land, and the companionship ain't lackin' in looks..."

"If ye be talkin' about the wench behind us, ye've proved yerself a fool, Sword-face. She don't e'en have a head. Not too companionable, if ye ask me."

"Well, sir, if ye asked me, I'd tell ye it makes her more companionable."

Hey! Watch it with that, boys.

"Oh, so ye've finally decided to come to our aid in our time of dire need? Awfully kind of ye, lass."

You know, Pirate Skull Planter, if I didn't know better I'd say that you were being sarcastic. And what's this naked savage business? I put you in the master bathroom because it was the brightest spot in the house and I put you up on the counter to keep Molly and Winston from knocking you around. We're not going to turn you toward the backsplash every time we get into the shower, you privateering prude.

"Ye couldn't have moved us when you moved the Greek wench onto the credenza? She made out a'right in that deal."

She's in a dark corner, near a heating vent. Not a hospitable climate for you, Cap'n. I thought being in the moist air for part of the day would be good for your "adornments", but they slowly died anyway. I am sorry about that, by the way. Clearly, I don't know how to take care of the easiest plants in the world to care for. Speaking of which...

"Might I inquire as to why we're havin' this impromptu reunion on the cask lid, then, lass? If we've all made berth where ye've seen fit to strand us, what devilry is afoot now?"

Speaking of which...

"I ain't too concerned about it, Cap'n. Long as the Greek wench ain't too far out of me line o' sight."

Speaking of which...

"Πάρτε αυτούς τους δύο ανόητους μακρυά από με!"

SPEAKING OF WHICH, I brought you all down here because I have a surprise for you. Pirate Skull Planter? You are a fine and true planter once more. I have once again voyaged to faraway lands for you, my good sir.

"Beyond the map? Ye don't mean...ye couldn't mean...the Straits of Martinez Home Depot?!"


Yes. After braving the Narrows of Self-Checkout and crossing the vast Sea of Asphalt Parking Lot, I have returned from this magical place with treasures. And I bought special air-plant adhesive and fertilizer, so that your finery will remain a source of pride for many a fortnight to come. I'm going to keep at this until I get it right, Cap'n.

"Lass, ye've made my black, miserable heart a little less dark. My apologies for th' insults and such."

"I ain't makin' no apologies. Seems to Sword-face that everyone's gettin' a good deal exceptin' for Sword-face."


Sword-face, you're not being left out of the dividing of the share. How would you like some adorning of your own? You've been a faithful mate to ol' Pirate Skull Planter for so long, and you've probably seen more travel than he has, since you came from the untamed lands of Treasure Island. You've earned it.

"Much obliged, ma'am! Aye, this ain't a bad day at all for Sword-face! I got this fancy headdress, I got to look up that pretty wench's dress, and the cap'n ain't in such a bleak mood no more. Ain't a bad day in any accounting."

"Μπορώ να πάω πίσω στο credenza, τώρα; Είχα αρκετών αυτών των δύο ηλιθίων."


I can't get you guys back to your home port, because the facilities manager...uh...harbor master says that we can't have plants in the office because their soil harbors pests, and I won't risk your safety by smuggling you in. It'd break my heart if he threw you out while I was away from my desk.

"Aye, but we be unsoiled, lass..."

He be a hard man, Pirate Skull Planter. There's no reasoning with him. Can you make go of it in this new place?

"Aye...but could ye perhaps turn us around some of the time when ye're indecently exposed to the elements?"

It's a deal, Cap'n. It's a deal.

Sunday Morning Talk Shows

Molly: ...sigh...

Winston: ...

Molly: SIGH!

Winston: Uh, Molly? I'm kinda, you know, trying to sleep, and...

Molly: I know, and it's REALLY hard, huh? How can any of us sleep when we're worrying about my luscious paella?

Winston: Your what? 'Cause I was only thinking about how much I like sleeping, but...

Molly: That's what I'm SAYING, though. It's really hard to sleep when you have a LUXURIANT PATINA!

Winston: It's really hard to sleep when you're sighing on my face. I don't have a levitating pancetta or whatever.

Accountant Boy: Luxating patella, guys. It's called a luxating patella. But you seem fine, Molly, since you spent last night kicking me in the back.

Molly: Yay for Molly! Physical therapy resistance training! YAAAAAYYY!

* * *

Meanwhile, my hand surgeon told me that my finger isn't straightening out as well as it did last year, and recommended that I keep it splinted for three weeks. It's not going to help it hurt less, or make it less stiff, but it might make it less gnarled, so I'm going to give it a shot. There goes my tensioning finger, so no knitting. If it works, at least it'll look more like the other one. I'll take my victories where I can get them.

Reclamation

Way back in January, I mentioned that I had a new knitting goal for this year. You might think that it’d be the same as the knitting goals I come up with every year, which are to knit more, knit faster, and not buy yarn to replace the yarn I’ve used. Yes, I still have those goals, but I’ve added another one, one which I think is going to complement the first three. My main goal this year is to wear what I’ve made, and do something with it if I think that it isn’t currently wearable.

This was prompted by a big closet clean-out that I did right after Christmas. I took everything out and threw it on the bed, then tried it on before putting it back in the closet. If it didn’t fit, it didn’t go back. If I didn’t like how it hung on me, it didn’t go back. If I never wore it, even though there was nothing obviously wrong with it, which meant that there was something about it that just wasn’t right for me, and it didn’t go back. What I was left with was a much less crowded closet containing only clothes that fit and flatter me right now, a dozen skirts and pairs of trousers folded into a pile on my bed, and several sweaters that I never wore wadded up next to them. I boxed up the too-small clothes and stored them, because there’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to wear them in a few months. Then, I dealt with the sweater collection.

Some of the sweaters were store-bought and just faded enough that they didn’t look sharp enough for work. If they looked decent enough to donate, they went into a bag and went to Goodwill. Some of them were just slightly too small, which is more an issue with me than with the garment. Those got folded up and stored in the cedar drawer under my bed. My beloved chick-gym went out of business a few weeks ago, and I bought one of the treadmills from the liquidator. Freed from the “I can’t drive to the gym in the dark” problem, I’ve been running three times a week. It’s only a matter of time before the smaller clothes rejoin the rotation.

A few of the sweaters were simply bad designs for me. Even at my very fittest, I don’t look good with garments that cover my bust and end at mid-ribcage. This style of cardigan makes me look like a post-op augmentation patient, and I ought to know that look, because I was once a data entry clerk at an implant manufacturer. Fun fact. I also gain weight around the middle and don’t have a strongly defined waist. I look good in things with empire waists, or that tuck in at that point and then flow back out to mid-hip, but not things where either the color or the entire garment abruptly stops right there.

So what was I thinking making cropped sweaters? The only one that doesn’t make me cringe when I come across it is the (not)Two-Tone Shrug, which avoids all of the worst shape offenses by not having much of a front profile. It also creates the illusion of a more slender back, because it curves in where my waist should narrow. (not)Two-Tone is safe, then, just waiting for me to tone up and wear it. The others, though, need some help.


I’ve had Cobweb shifting around on the shelf for almost four years. I wore it to Kitten’s wedding but, although I love the color and the feel of it, and I said that I could see myself wearing it all the time, I’ve never worn it again. Not once. I love how soft it is. I love the lace. I love the beading. It’s a great shade on me, especially when my hair is darker, like it is now. It’s a shame that it has been demoted to “nice thing to brush my hand against while I’m hanging up my shirts”. I feel sad when I see it in there, and when I occasionally pull it out so that I can lovingly refold it.

My plan for it is simple. I’m going to make it a full-length cardigan. I’m going to pick up along the bottom and knit down in the lace pattern. I haven’t decided if I want to pull out the crochet scallops. I might have it tie at one side. I still have a bunch of the beads, so there are all sorts of possibilities for beaded closures and ties.


Anthropologie-Inspired Capelet is another story entirely. I didn’t like it as I was knitting it, I didn’t like it when I finished it and laid it flat to photograph it, and I’ve never worn it. It’s too stripy for my taste, and there’s nothing that can save the style of it for me. I’d thought about pulling out the bind-off and continuing down to hip length with a coordinating solid yarn, but then I’ve still got all of that busy variegation up at my widest point. I can’t add a solid border around it to make an additional yarn color look intentional, because the seed border at the neckline is part of the body. When I come across this one, I get angry. I do not stare at it lovingly as I hold it up in front of me. My most common response is to grunt, “Ugh! Stupid f&%king mistake!” and shove it roughly to the back of the closet. This yarn made me much happier in the skein than it does knit up.

So there’s no hope for it in its current state. I haven’t decided if I want to reuse it for socks, or as an accent stripe or faux-Fair Isle in a solid sweater. I have decided that it’s not going to sit in my closet anymore, so that’s a start.

My final two reworks-in-progress are Pas de Valse, which desperately needs me to work a crochet border around its edges, and a lacy tie-front sweater from Banana Republic that I’ve been meaning to recreate and improve upon for several years.


PdV should take all of about two hours to finish once I commit to it. I had a lot of problems with that pattern and it shows, especially up around the collar. I need the crochet edge to flatten everything out and cover the evidence of my crimes. It’s the main reason I haven’t done an FO write-up about it yet. Even though I’ve been wearing it since January – with decreasing frequency and increasing displeasure – I don’t consider it done.


The Banana sweater is still in my closet simply because I keep thinking that I can use it as a template and whip up a better one. I mean, look at it. It’s three rectangles of great big lace knitting, with ties in awkward places. I got it off of the clearance rack, probably because it didn’t look good on anybody, even the models. Here’s how I think the photo shoot must have gone down. “It’s meant to hang straight, tie directly over the crotch, but not very tightly, and slip off your shoulders if you turn your head more than a centimeter in either direction. I need you to lean forward and slouch your shoulders. Annabella! SLOUCH, damn you! You are having a good time on your beach vacation, and so much fun that you are unconcerned that your flimsy cover-up is neither flattering nor conforming to the shape or your body as you listen to your sandy-haired boyfriend in the cargo capris play the ukulele by the campfire. Slouch and laugh whimsically!”


I have to guess that’s how it went, because I never saw a photo of it, which means that it slipped into the stores under the radar, and slipped back out without being featured in any catalog. Nevertheless, there’s something about it that appeals to me, because I’ve had it for six years and I keep trying to wear it, even though the ties are too long and the shape is so weird. I have cotton in my stash that would work for it. In fact, that’s probably a good use for cotton yarn, because it’d be lacy enough to remain lightweight.


This, then, is my main goal for this year. If something isn’t working, don’t let it sit around and continue to not work. If I have a dozen skirts and pairs of trousers that don’t fit, they shouldn’t confront me and make me feel ashamed of myself every time I open the closet door. If I took the time to knit something, that time was wasted if the thing sits in my closet for five years. I should wrest back control of these things. Gotta get with the moving forward.