Last lap

Lumpy, bumpy but every stitch made with love for a dear friend. My first ever socks.

Many years ago, as a very amateur runner, I decided it was time to run my first race. Thinking that a challenge might be A Good Thing, I entered for the Great Winter Run in Edinburgh. Before you imagine epic feats of endurance, can I point out that this is a mere 5k that takes place in the early days of January, the route circling Edinburgh’s extinct volcano aka Arthur’s Seat. There’s a bit of up, a longer flat section, a bit of down then a shortish flat sprint to the finish line. 5K isn’t very long, but it was a good effort for a newbie.

The GWR weather plays a countermelody, sometimes lashing sleet, sometimes damp drizzle or enough ice underfoot to make for a wild hurple. The track is a two lane road, so nothing too technically challenging.

Ha.

I had put in months of training on local roads, had read all the motivational stuff I could get my paws on, knew it would be challenging, psyched myself up, ate the right amount of protein and carbs in the weeks running up to the event, carb-loaded the night before etc etc and turned up in plenty of time with my race number safety-pinned to my top layer in race-approved fashion.

It was cold. Actually, it was very cold. There were hundreds of us, jiggling around, warming up, chatting, our breath pooling in front of our pink noses, all of us gathered in pursuit of a common goal. The finish line for me, PBs for most of my fellow-runners, charitable donations for several runners in outrageous costumes, including a team of three doctors, with two carrying the third, who reclined Roman Emperor fashion on a stretcher and kept up a (sorry) running commentary. As his bearers ran.

To my dismay, they easily overtook me on the longer flat section. I’d already died several times on the first uphill bit, slowing to a fast lope rather than the lung-burning run I’d attempted at first. By the time I reached the longish flat, I was already digging deep. What the hell had possessed me to think I was ready for such cardiovascular endeavours, heaven alone knows. The doctors breezed past.

But determination to see the thing through to the end drove me onwards. I was overtaken by hundreds of runners, but by then, it no longer really registered. I was in the zone. What precise zone remained to be seen. Let’s just call it the Zone of Make It Stop, shall we? We were on the downhill now, thighs protesting, the familiar Edinburgh U’s halls of residence looming on the left, Arthur’s Seat piercing the gloomy January skies on our right. We had become one mass of flailing humans, focused on the now-visible FINISH banner.

And yet…FINISH was still bloody miles away. Aeons. Galaxies. And now there were crowds of people lining the route. Bearing witness. Yelling encouragement. They called our names because our names were writ large on our race numbers pinned to our backs.

There’s nothing like having your name yelled as you dig into your empty tank, use up all the fumes therein, dig deeper only to find there’s nothing left in there at all. You keep going though, you have to keep going…

I wet myself. I hope nobody noticed. I kept going. I remembered Paula Radcliffe squatting famously mid-race. I kept going. Black spots danced in front of my eyes. I kept going. Inside my head was an abyss in the centre of which hung a giant pink inflatable question mark. Indeed. WTAF had possessed me to do this to myself? And why inflatable? I kept going…..

…….

I crossed the FINISH line. Oh. My. God. I crossed it. Damp at both ends ( I know. TMI) and two hours away from the absolute worst migraine of my entire life, but I didn’t know that then.

I’d finished.

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Last year, I finally conquered a nemesis hill on my bike. Each of my two previous attempts to make it to the summit of this beast ended in my toppling off the bike and dying in a ditch. Both times, there was a witness to my failures. Both times I spent many a wasted hour berating myself for being such a wuss. But then, one day, after much psyching myself up, screwing my courage to the sticking point etc etc, I loaded up on carbs, downed a thoroughly nasty energy gel and went for it. Got a short way up, discovered I was in entirely the wrong gear and turned round, went back to the point in the route where I’d started to gear up to acquire the requisite velocity and I went for it.

I did it. Took four attempts in total, but the moment I finished that bad boy, I felt like a goddess. Once I could breathe, that is. And then I cycled home, washed my bike, oiled it and looked at the metrics on Strava and that was it. Over.

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The socks that introduced this Substack? My first ever attempt at socks. Like the Great Winter Run, I thought that as an amateur knitter, it was probably time to learn the mysteries of heel-turning and sock creation. I chose a (to me) hideously difficult pattern from Laine’s ‘Art of the Sea’ which is a book of patterns inspired by the life and work of my favourite illustrator and writer, the legendary Tove Jansson. At one point in the making, you have to hold three different strands of yarn to achieve the designer’s vision of little houses. This, as any fule no, is a bit of a fingermangle. But I persevered, thinking of my friend, thinking of how cosy her feet will be, how she’ll open the parcel with the socks and -

and think ‘ WTAF are these? They don’t match, they’re full of mistakes, they’re lumpy and bumpy and-

and think, ‘I am beloved. My friend made these for me. Just for me because, like her, I love all things Tove Jansson, and besides, my feet get pretty damn icy in a Scottish winter.’

And I finished them, after ripping back too many times to count and finally conceding defeat in the two-perfect-matchy-matchy socks department. Just to underline my point, I made one sock with the sea washing up the toes, and the other with the original designer’s flowery meadow.

And, dear friend, if you’re reading this, it turns out that there’s only so much of a miracle that blocking can accomplish. These, your new socks, are very non-miraculous but as ever, made with much love.

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Every single week for the last 65 weeks, each and every time I put my newest Substack newsletter to bed (AKA finish it), I am triumphant. And then I start thinking about the next one.

But - conversely. When I am close to the end of a really good book? A book I’ve been reading, not writing? That’s a very different relationship. I’m anticipating the ending, the loss of all those characters, the final wrapping-up and putting to bed of a story I’ve been totally immersed in? I’m devastated. I don’t want it ever to finish. May the FINISH banner be forever into the future. May it read UNFINISH.

And also - the same rules apply when I embark on a mahoosive knitting project. What utter immersive bliss to plan, choose the yarn, lay it all out, cast on and spend many, many hours in the happy anticipation of wearing whatever it is that I’m making. How soft, how gorgeous, how proud I’ll be that I managed to overcome the difficulties of new techniques, opaque instructions, wrong instructions, my own changes, hacks, tweaks to the pattern, and as I come close to the final few rows, I’m racing ahead, envisaging how great it’ll be and…

OMG. I’m nearly at the end of the second leg of the Pants KAL. Knitted trousers! For January. And probably February and bits of March. Anyhoo - I’m on the final (sorry) leg. I can hear the roars of the crowd. Well, the sighs of impatience really. Get. On. With.It.

I finish.

I cast off, weave in the ends, try it on again ( I try my stuff on as I go along as much as possible) promise myself that it’ll look better when it’s blocked ( soaked in a little water bath, gently towelled dry and pinned out on blocking mats to air-dry for as long as it takes in the pursuit of evening out lumpy stitches, letting the yarn bloom and generally performing the magic that only a good block can do) and when I take it off the mats and try it on again… well. Oh, dear.

It’s finished. I’m no longer invested in it. I’ve spent so long staring at it, making it, dreaming it into being that I can no longer see it. It means nothing any more.

So. What am I saying?

Not all endings are created equal. Some are devastating, some are ho-hum, and some are absolutely necessary so that new beginnings can be begun. Which leads me to…

As you may recall if you’ve been with me for the past three and a half months, I’m coming to the end of a deadline for a picture book which has necessitated working every single day including all weekends since the start of October. With one week off for Christmas. I’m beyond tired. I’m punch-drunk. I’m an illustration zombie, digging deep to find happy colour combinations, skilful washes, intricate details and hang onto the absolute joy of painting under the pressure of time and - let’s not beat about the bush here - money.

I’m nearly finished. This final lap week has included one tooth extraction, one day working with no heat in the studio because finally I’m having a decent door installed to replace the door I needed pliers to unlock, the door that let in whole puddles worth of rain, the door the wasps ate shredded every summer, the door that was actually an internal door not an external door but I couldn’t face another fight with my ex-husband over his questionable build quality for my, his ex-wife’s, studio. Which I paid him for. Don’t get me started down that road. We’d never finish. Hell, they haven’t even woven the cloth for that particular FINISH banner yet.

Old door/ new door. Spot the difference.

The new door closes like the farm gate closed in Babe. Remember? Whoooshhhhhhh, click. The handle is kind to my hands. The acoustics inside my studio are quieter, denser. It feels like a refuge from the world outside.

The week is young. I’m sure there will be other hurdles to overcome, but from here I can see the FINISH line. I sincerely hope I don’t wet myself, but at 66, having birthed four children and helped raise a fifth, well - who knows what surprises my body has in store? Don’t answer that. For all my love of tarot and astrology, there are some things I’m better off not knowing.

Here, right now, with my beautiful new door keeping the weather out of my studio, with a drawing board in happy chromatic chaos, here is the run-up to the finish line. Join the imaginary cheering crowds. Witness the newly-acquired grey hair, the laughter lines, and the Purr-Picture-Progression, with most images representing one whole day in the studio. And bear in mind, I’m not done yet. Gasp. Digging deep.

L-R, inked, stretched, first mask on

I keep going…

L-R first background wash, remove mask, second mask on table

And going…

L-R paint tablecloth and shadows, remove second mask, begin final details

And going…

nearly-finished artwork in watercolour and ink for Dr Purr, TBP Bloomsbury 2017

and soon, very soon, the bunting will fly in full colour, Dr Purr and the Gingerbread Man with the mended head will take their seats at the table and we can laissez les bontemps roulez. Huzzah, she croaked, weakly.

Is that a plate of chocolate dipped langue de chats? Delicious. And are those Empire Biscuits our little Doctor is carrying? They definitely need renamed. All suggestions welcome.

For now, I’m off to soak my eyeballs in a vat of industrial strength optrex, and start thinking about next week’s newsletter. In which, I can confidently predict without the use of almanacs or tarot cards that several FINISH lines will be crossed.