Warning. This post contains an extremely cute sweater in a newborn size. It is possible that this sweater may trigger embarrassing cooing or squealing in otherwise healthy, normal adults with a usually reliable degree of decorum.

This warning should be taken seriously. The sweater is very little, and has many small sheep knit into the yoke.  These two factors together can create a force of cuteness that exceeds normal levels.  Symptoms that this sweater may be more than you can handle include suddenly exclaiming "Oh! Widdle sheepies!" while you are still at your desk in front of colleagues,  or finding oneself clapping your hands a little bit, while unexpectedly saying "BAA BAA!" in a disturbingly high pitched voice.

Pattern: Welcome to the flock. Yarn: Rowan Pure Wool Dk in #19 – Avocado (2 balls) and little bits of Black (004) and Enamel (013). Needles 3/3.5mm. Buttons: Vintage from my Grandmother’s button bin.

Unfortunately, an additional high pressure system is brought to bear by this sweater when a knitter considers the name of the pattern, and imagines a little lamb cared for, clothed and loved for a lifetime by those that love them, now viewed as "Flock".  (Additionally, it should be noted that those knitters with a special affection for sheep may be more vulnerable to predicted levels of cuteness than anticipated, and should approach this pattern with extreme caution.)

If your reaction is severe, and you find yourself looking at bunnies and thinking that they aren’t cute, or wishing for a grandchild, even though your eldest child is only 14 and unprepared in any way for providing you with a sweater model  parenthood, then immediately close your browser and navigate away from the pattern purchase page on Ravelry, or direct your efforts towards the closest family shelter in your neighbourhood. 

(For public safety reasons, I have decided not to make the hat.)

 

Faster than a speeding bullet, it’s a tiny cardigan.  On and off the needles in (almost) record time, it made the trip from yarn shop to Sweaterville in less than 40 hours.
Its ends are woven in,

it has had a beautiful bath,

and now it’s drying in the back garden, pondering buttons and the future the world holds for it.  

Anybody recognize the charming pattern?

Yesterday I had a yarn emergency.  It’s the only way I know to describe the sudden and implacable need for yarn that I had.  I had a trigger event on Saturday night,  when Joe’s family gathered. Now, as a clan, this bunch tends to wander around.  When we were first together it took me forever to get the hang of it. I’d call up and ask to speak to Kelly, and be told (absolutely matter of factly) that Kelly couldn’t come to the phone right that moment, as she’d decided to go to Kuala Lumpur.  Any member of Joe’s family could be anywhere at any moment. They’ve all lived all over and travelled all over and they’re hard to find. Saturday was pretty special.  Kelly and Ben moved to Madagascar a few years ago, and we don’t get to see too much of them, but they’re here now for a while, and this night we celebrated their 22 years of marriage. 

The whole family was there (except for Megan, who had something she couldn’t move – and Joe Sr. who was out of the province.)



We ate, drank, laughed and played with Lou, and the party went on late, making music under the summer stars. 

Chris and Robyn were there… I know I’ve told you they’re expecting a baby, and Robyn let us fuss over her belly (she’s very, very patient with us, as awed and excited as we all are)

and she even let my niece Savannah (freshly graduated midwife that she is) find the baby’s heart for all of us to hear.  We gathered around her (all 15 of us) like she was the best movie we’d ever seen.

There’s someone wonderful in there, and as Joe and I rode our bikes home, all I could think was that I had to get moving on the knitting.  I’ve only made this baby two sets of booties and two sweaters and that’s not nearly enough for a wee thing being born on winter’s eve in Canada.  All of a sudden, the baby knitting had a sense of urgency. When I woke up yesterday, the feeling hadn’t passed.  I made a list of the things I’d like to make (the blanket yarn has been ordered) and I went through the stash to see if I had what I needed, and when I didn’t, I took all leave my senses and went on a city wide hunt. I ended up, after a few mishaps, at Mary Maxim, where I found the yarn I wanted, and packed up back home.  It was only as I sat there last night, knitting away on one of the ten balls that I had bought, that I started to think about why I’d felt that I needed it all then. Why not wait until this morning? Why charge all over, collecting it up and putting it in a pile.  I can’t knit it all now, why buy it all now?

Yarn emergency.  I don’t know how it happened.  I think I was just too happy for a regular amount of yarn.

I have knit a washcloth. 

It’s a very nice one, and it only took a little while last night, and I think it’s quite pretty and lovely and I had planned to make it for a while. I plan to make quite a few of them actually.  I ordered a cone of Sugar and Cream cotton to do it – I’m telling you that so I’m clear that this wasn’t a whim.  Yesterday I decided it was as good a time as any to start churning out a stack of them, and two things happened. First, a knitting friend of mine asked what I was making while we were on the phone.  "A washcloth" I told her, and then she didn’t say anything. "A nice one." I said, still waiting for her to answer. Finally, after what I suspect was the amount of time it took her to pick herself up off her DPNs, she said "Is it lace entrelac or something?" 

Fast forward about an hour, and my mum was here for supper. After we ate, I fetched my knitting out to the garden and she asked what I was making. "A washcloth" I answered, and spread it out for her to see.
"Oh." She said, and I watched her search for words. "Isn’t that a bit…rudimentary for you?" 

That was two people inside of an hour shocked I would be making a washcloth, and you know, that surprises me a bit.  I like a feat of knitterly-daring-do as much as the next knitter, and I’m experienced enough to pull of whatever I like (I think) but why would that mean that I left the world of simple things behind?  I dream of giving away stacks of lovely, hand knit washcloths this Christmas, tied up with pretty ribbon and paired with lovely soaps, and I can tell you exactly why.

In my mother’s bathroom (and lots of other bathrooms in our extended family) there is a small pile handknit washcloths. I made them about ten years ago, and they’ve enjoyed just about constant use since. They are totally ratty and used up, and that flatters me as a knitter. Who wouldn’t want their work appreciated almost daily? She loves them. Same goes for my Aunt Yvonne – she’d rather use a handknit one over a store bought, she thinks they’re nicer, wash better and last longer, and I think she’s right. What’s nicer than a hand-knit thing that you can pitch in with the towels on wash day?

I love surrounding myself (and other people) with useful, beautiful handmade things that are long lasting, high quality and remind people that knitted stuff isn’t just window dressing. So, why not knit a washcloth? 

(PS. Because someone will ask, and even though I swear you don’t need a pattern,   here goes. Using worsted weight cotton and 4.5mm needles, cast on some stitches. I use about 30-35, but this one is 31. Choose a stitch pattern you like. This one is Bee Stitch, but you can do ANYTHING. Whatever goes in the middle, I like garter stitch borders, because I like them nice and square and finished looking. I knit six rows, then keep the first and last three stitches in garter throughout. Knit until it’s just about a square, then knit six rows. Cast off. Glory in the useful thing you have wrought. Ignore naysayers. They don’t understand how useful your skills are going to be after the zombie apocalypse. They’ll be washing their faces with rags and leaves while begging us for a washcloth. We will be as Gods.) 

Let me tell you this. Over the last few months, as I’ve trained for the rally and finished a book, I have had one word in my mind to keep me sane and give me something to hold on to, and that word my friends, that word has been "August."

Every time I there was something I wanted to do that wasn’t writing a book or riding a bike, I just set it aside with a label on it that said "August." The dust bison, roaming freely through the great hardwood plains of the living room?  August. The garden, so overrun with weeds and plants trampled by undeterred raccoons? August.  Mount Laundry, soaring mighty and high in the bedroom, with cresting whitecaps of socks and underwear at the top threatening to topple and bury the cat… the beautiful meals I wanted to cook, the organized kitchen I love to have, the friends I long to entertain in the back garden – dining under the twinkle lights in the summer evenings… August.

Canoeing.  Hanging with Lou, Getting ready for a new niece or nephew, now just two months away. Cycling around the Island with Joe, and I just got this book and I’m going to make some cool stuff like dilly beans. (How did I not know about dilly beans until I was 45? Where the hell have I been living?)   More than anything else though, I have been looking forward to knitting.  I am so excited that I have to work hard to remember that I’m not on vacation and still have a job. (This is very hard when you’re self-employed. It would be easier to apply myself to work if there was someone in the office who didn’t want to knit all day and wasn’t totally willing to take me to a yarn store.)  Now that August is here, I want to do nothing but knit, and there are so many choices that I’m overwhelmed.  This morning I almost lost my cool and cast on like… nineteen things before I got anything resembling a grip. (I did not, however, get a grip before ordering a rather shocking amount of yarn online, but that’s a story for another day.)  I decided that since I have lots of stuff on the go, that the way I’m going to do this is to cast on one thing every time I cast one thing off.  

(For the record, I am not opposed to multiple WIPs in any way, shape or form and believe right down to my little toes that there is no moral virtue in having lots on the needles, or very little. Monogamy is right the heck optional in my knitting and the only reason I’m making any effort to limit projects at all is because I would like to finish a few things sometime before I die, and that’s not going to happen if I let my horrendously short attention span be in charge of yarn.)

(Yarn: Regia Nation – Colourway 5399, sadly discontinued. Pattern: My plain one from Knitting Rules, needles 2.25mm. Model: Sam, who would have been less annoyed about modelling if these were for her. They’re not.)

Finishing these socks (totally a cheat, they only needed one toe) means that now I can cast on something else. I’m thinking baby sweater. No – wait. Shawl. Or socks. Maybe it should be socks because I finished socks. Hold the phone – a hat. I should totally knit a hat, and by hat I mean cowl. Crap, already knitting a cowl. I’ll do mittens. 
Or something.
Anything.
Oh. Man.

No pressure August, but don’t let me down.

I started writing this days ago, once I could get through an hour without falling asleep at my desk,  trying to figure out how to tell you the story of the Rally, to tell you all the hard things and wonderful things and I realized that there was so much I couldn’t tell where to start.  I decided to begin with the pictures, and see what I could show you.  I thought the pictures might reveal the words.

Almost as soon as I did that, I realized that these images are only the tiniest piece of what happened, the smallest hint about what it was like. The pictures don’t show you what I really wish I could show you.  My sister Erin took a picture of us leaving. It’s moments after the horns and bells and whistles blew and the whole rally (326 riders this year) rolled out of the starting gate.  Jen and I are smiling and laughing, but that picture isn’t the whole feeling. It doesn’t tell you how scary it is to ride with that many people at once – how afraid both of us were of making a mistake that toppled hundreds of riders and bikes like dominos. It doesn’t show you how my heart had leapt up into my throat with fear and excitement,  or how two seconds after that was taken, someone in the crowd yelled "Thank you!" and Jen and I both burst into tears. It says nothing about the feeling of sweeping along in a force bigger than yourself, of realizing an idea to do something big and crazy, and it doesn’t show you how it’s only at that moment, as you push off on your bike for six solid days of riding, that you realize that it is an absolutely insane thing to do, and that you’re doing it anyway.

I wish when you look at these pictures, you could see what the bike part of the rally feels like. I’m a woman who falls up stairs and can’t catch a ball and I have always, always been the person picked last for teams, and there’s an excellent reason for that. I’m clumsy, I’m not graceful. I’m not good at physical things and I have actual scars from learning how to ride a road bike clipped in last year.  I know that’s who I am.

This year on day five,  it rained hard.  My vision is very poor and  my glasses got covered in rain.  The path was winding and covered in gravel, and I couldn’t see where I was going, and I got afraid.  I struggled and  panic welled up in me, and finally I had to ask my little group to stop.  I stood there, telling my friends they could leave without me, watching them freezing and dripping in the pouring rain, and knew I was making it worse for them, and I was so embarrassed and humiliated.  They didn’t leave me, and I love them for it, but it was a low moment for me.  Eventually, the rain let up and we kept going and I slapped a smile on my face but inside I was feeling like a fraud. I felt like my frailty had been revealed, like Jen and company could have kept going, and I couldn’t, and the disappointment was a hard feeling to shake. 

I was standing in line for supper that night and talking to another rider, a stranger to me. We were chatting in line about the rain, and this guy looked at me and said "well, I’m sure you were fine. You’re a strong rider."
I blinked, and tried to figure out what was happening, but it didn’t seem that he was  trying to flatter me, and it really sounded like a simple statement of fact as far as he was concerned. I stood there trying to imagine myself in those terms. Mostly, I think I get the rally done because I am persistent and stubborn, not physically strong, but when he said those words, I liked the idea a lot, and you know what else?   That bad moment was just a moment, because this year  for whole minutes at a time, I felt good on that bike.  I was better at it, and I think that maybe this is something I could get good at.  Maybe, if I keep trying and working on it, I could be someone that doesn’t hold a group back, someone who doesn’t have to apologize for how slow I am.  Maybe I could be someone who flies on a bike.

(Jen seen here, loving that we are obstructed by a train. It whirled by us so fast, so big and real that it made us feel the same way.)

I wish I had a picture of how it feels to meet a challenge.  Not just the riding part, but so many things that I’m not usually good at. Things like getting up at 5:30 in the morning, or being dirty and exhausted all the time, or being around so many people all day… or putting on clothes with sparkles.  I am, despite my ability to fake the opposite, a painfully shy person, and it is like the Rally was invented to remind me that leaving my house and taking a chance on other people and practicing being outgoing almost always results in something wonderful, and that the wonderful isn’t always what I was expecting.

I wish I had a picture of the feeling in my chest on the fourth day, when everyone who is a top fundraiser wears a yellow jersey, and our little team looked like a ray of sunshine.  The overwhelming feeling of pride I had, not just in me or Jen or Ken or Pato, but in everyone who sponsored us.  You all did what you did because you believe the world is a wonderful place where if we all help each other, things will be  better.   It’s such a simple idea, and I almost laugh out loud with sheer happiness when I think of how many of you believe in it.  What you all did for the rally matters, and I know you believe that, or you wouldn’t have sponsored us the way you did, but I feel like I have to say it over and over and over again.  You are amazing, good people, creating change and helping others with your choices and we were all so grateful.

If I had another picture, it would show you how I felt about the people I love who did this ride with me.  I’m so proud of Ken, for being the inspiration to do this at all.  It was him who took the first step and dragged the whole family down this road, and it was him who convinced all of us it was possible. He’s amazing.  (He also did Jen and me a huge favour and put up our tent every day he was at camp before us, and that was every day.)    Then there’s Pato.  When he wandered into our family at 15, I liked him instantly, but with every passing year I love him more, and he’s grown into a remarkable young man.  At only 21, he’s just used his vacation time to raise money for charity, and was good natured, cheerful, helpful, funny and kind about it – again.   I adore him, and I couldn’t count the number of times I heard someone say "Pato’s a great guy, isn’t he?"

I wish I had a picture that would show you how proud I am of Jen too.  The rally is hard. The rally asks a lot of the people who do it, but the extra effort that you have to put in when you’re a mum of little kids? Ridiculous.  It was Jen’s first r
ally (see what I did there?) and she was bloody fierce.  Not once did she cry (on the outside, at least) not once did she complain (except for the morning there was no coffee, but my God. She’s only human) and not once did she waver in her commitment to the cause. Also, she took the spiders out of the tent and I’m really super grateful for that.  She was more than fabulous, and tough as nails on a bike. 

If I could have taken any picture, it would have been of the way it is when a lot of people do the same thing at once.  There’s a way it feels when you’re all committed to one big idea,  saying "this matters, and look what I’m willing to do to show you." If you had that picture, you would carry it around in your pocket all the time, that’s how much you would love it.  That unity is amazing, but who is united matters even more.  I meet the best people on the rally. The kindest and sweetest and most decent of all people, and I know that shouldn’t be a surprise, because not a lot of total jerks are going to give up days of their summer to training and a week of their vacation time to sweat for a charity, but still – every person from Road Safety to Rider was amazing.   There should be pictures of the thousand million little kindnesses I witnessed. The encouraging words, the help, the people going out on a limb for each other, making a point of trying to be their best selves.  I saw people taking big risks and doing scary things and being met with nothing but love and laughter and acceptance.  The best of people were with us, and over the course of a week, I think I came to love a number of them.

(This picture was taken as Jen and I crossed the border into the Province of Quebec. We have about 90km to go before we’re in Montreal, but that’s not why I look so happy. I look happy because this year, before I proudly hoisted my bike aloft, I remembered to take my water bottles out so that they didn’t fall on my head in front of everyone like they did last year.)

I cried this year when I crossed the finish line. There’s no picture of that either, but I think everyone does. It’s part relief, and part exhaustion, and part pride and part joy.  It was the culmination of months of work, and it felt good. (If by good, you understand that I am not speaking in the physical, but rather spiritual sense. My arse has asked me for a trial separation.)  We crossed from the world of the rally, back into the arms of the people who love us (after a shower) and that was it. It was over.

These are the pictures I have, but they aren’t really pictures of what happened.
From these pictures, you would think I went for a very long bike ride, but it wasn’t just that. It was a record breaking fundraiser, it is real money to help real people and real families with real problems, and it was another kind of journey for me. One where I got to think of myself as another kind of person for a little while, and got to see the best in some people I love a lot. It was so, so hard, and it was worth it.

Thank you for helping me make it possible. You’re all fantastic. 
I need another nap.

We’re halfway to Montreal. Today’s the day we rode into Kingston, and it’s our shortest day, which is super crazy awesome because yesterday was the longest day and it was really, really long.

Two things are great about today. First, it’s red dress day.

And it’s the day that when we arrive, my mum and Auntie Yvonne feed us, and we get an afternoon of rest.

Me? I’ll be napping in a minute.

I’ve been sleeping in a tent and bathing in a lake for a few days.
So far so good, though we are very, very tired and sore, and yesterday the generator broke and there was no coffee and it was a very near thing to the abyss. We rode 80 km BEFORE we had coffee, and I don’t want to talk about how unbelievable that was. We rode another 50 after a cup, and it was like being reborn.

Tonight we have team dinners, and sleep in real beds at the dormitories at Queens University, and in the morning, Montreal or bust. Three more days!

Thanks for your amazing support. We check often, and it keeps us going. Well, that and coffee.

It’s early in the morning.  About 5:30, when I started typing this.  I’m sitting at my desk drinking coffee, and in a few minutes I’ll go and put on my official bike rally jersey, and my ridiculous spandex shorts, and fill them full of the cream that’s supposed to prevent soreness, and I’ll strap on my cycling shoes, and I’ll head out the door and ride to Queen’s Park. That’s where the rally starts. 

I think I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do. I feel like I trained a lot, I feel like I know my bike better – and I think that’s obvious because I’m not a walking scab like I was last year. Overall, I feel more prepared and more ready and that’s why I’m surprised to feel the knot of fear at the bottom of my tummy.  I thought that knowing what it was like would make me less nervous, not more, but here you have it.

Jen and I were talking the other night about how the thing with the rally is that it’s expensive. Not just expensive financially – although it really is that. The bike, the shoes, the shorts… there’s a ton of stuff you have to pay for. Then there’s the time. If you work for someone else, the bike rally is a week of vacation time that you’re giving up, and if you’re self-employed it’s a week you have to save for, and that doesn’t even count all those mornings that Jen and I went riding for hours before work, and it doesn’t count all the weekends where one, or even both of the days went to riding.  It doesn’t count the meetings, and it doesn’t count the time spent fundraising, and it doesn’t count the time soaking in an epsom salt bath because you’re 45 and this is crazy.

Then there’s how it’s expensive in terms of family.  This is all time away from our families, away from our responsibilities, away from our children and spouses,  and those job and relationships don’t just disappear. My Joe and Jen’s Jason have stepped up to the plate in amazing ways, supporting us, covering for us and doing some of our jobs (and for the next week – all of them) so that Jen and I can do this. We’ve done our best to make it up to them, but… well. It’s expensive. 

I’m not even ready to talk about how expensive it is physically and emotionally and spiritually, because on no level is this much riding comfortable. Let’s leave it there. Last year I remember crying in my tent at night a few times, and once or twice on my bike, and when it was over last year I collapsed for two days and wasn’t right for a week. 

At some point, while a woman is sitting at her desk, drinking coffee and getting ready to wrestle herself into a sports bra and spandex to ride 660km – all while pondering how expensive its been and is going to be, you have to wonder why she’s doing it.

That part is easy, I think.  I’m doing it because I believe in the cause, because I believe in real, decent help for people with AIDS that’s delivered with respect, and I think that PWA does that better than anyone else. I can tell you that I think that it’s good for my daughters to see their mum engaged in a big thing, and putting her effort (and money) where her mouth is. I’m doing it because I’ve seen what can happen when we engage the most powerful community that anyone has ever seen, and that’s you, and I’m so grateful, and I’m so amazed every time I see what you all can accomplish, and I’m just so unbelievably proud of our community of knitters. Every time knitters come through this way, I love how it shocks people, forces them to break down their stereotypes and think of us in another way, and really… is there anything more appropriate for a ride like this?

I can admit, too, that I do this because I am a sucker for an epic. There is something amazing, wondrous and stunning about watching a lot of people come together to make something happen, and tomorrow I’ll leave Toronto with more than 400 other people, and we’ll all sweat and strain our way to Montreal, and we’ll be so dirty, and so tired and so proud of each other, but it will be something not many people get to accomplish, and that’s worth it in a way all its own. 

I am 45 years old. I am not an athlete, I am not remarkable in very many ways that my friends, family and peers are not.  I am a writer, and a mother, and a knitter, and tomorrow, I am going to start doing something amazing, and the only reason that it counts for anything is because you guys got behind me.  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Me riding my bike to Montreal does nothing to get money to PWA. Nothing. You guys are the heroes here, and I’m so impressed that I can’t tell you.
Right now,  my fundraiser tally comes in as the 2nd highest of all time.  The only person who has ever beaten me, was me – last year, and today I explained to about seventy people that it’s not me.  It’s you.

It’s not my fundraising. It’s ours, and you guys are amazing. Knitters are amazing, and what we do when we pull together is something people can’t ignore, and it changes the world.  Thank you for everything.  I’m going go try and earn the faith you’ve put in me.

A little housekeeping.

– I haven’t forgotten about prizes, there are still a ton to give away, but I can’t do it until I come back.  I’m sorry. I ran out of time when I tried to do 30 hours of things in only 24.  I won’t forget.

– I know one of you will ask – last year my tally by the end was $60 000.  I started riding with $50 000 in the can, and you guys blew me away all week. My goal for this year was $50k, and we’re there. Everything from here is gravy, although gravy for a good cause, and wouldn’t it be nice to beat last years? Just saying – although I’m grateful, fulfilled and thrilled.  My goal is totally met.  None of that stops you from sending the link to your friends though, and besides, it’s just so much fun to watch the bike rally leaders try to figure it all out.
Donate here.

– Yup. Yarn on my bike. Yarn on Jen’s bike too.

– A few of you have asked about our route. Details are here and YES PLEASE, to coming out to cheer us on.  Be aware that we can’t often stop, but the signs by the side of the road and random knitter sightings last year blew me away and one particularly difficult afternoon, was just about all that kept me on my bike. 

– I’ve set up my phone so that I can blog from the road, if I can. I’m on Instagram too and twitter,  if you want to follow me there.  Sometimes that’s the easiest way for me to  update quickly.

– I love all of you. I mean that, and I’m not just saying it because I’m scared.

This is another test of a different remote blogging system. If this has worked, you’ll see me, Jen, Ken and Pato at packing day.

If you don’t see it, I’ll keep trying.

This is a test of the remote blogging system. If it has worked, you will see a cute selfie of me, Jen, Ken and Pato.