Yosemite’s Next Top Idol- is on The Dirtbag Diaries- Listen to the recorded version.
Every year, hundreds enter the contest to become Yosemite’s Next Top Idol. Only a few earn the honor. Hopeful climbers gather around the cafeteria table in the Yosemite Lodge during the spring season, and again in the fall, to talk about their glorious achievements, to make outlandish exaggerations, and to flex. It’s a seasonal ritual. To move beyond just being another face at the table, to be Yosemite’s Next Top Idol-one of the great Valley climbers, one has to be a true character.
I wanted flashing lights. I wanted to live forever. I wanted real fame. I wanted a Facebook fan club page. The reality though was that I was a just a humble dirtbag rock climber. I fought to be Yosemite’s Next Top Idol. Status as an A-list celebrity, a Yosemite Idol, was way better than being a D list dirtbag.
Everyone moved seats when the heavy hitters came to the Yosemite Lodge cafeteria table. Mouths dropped when Surfer Bob pointed at his wide back and proclaim, “You don’t get a back like that by towing into the little waves. I surf the monsters.” Emaciated trad climbers watched Platinum Rob nibble certified organic high protein whey supplements. They marveled at his dedication. Platinum once brought a scale with him while free climbing El Cap to weigh out perfect proportions of food. He worked out constantly and was also known as “The Dictionary”; he had definition. Magoo, the mouth of this vicious social climbing ladder, wore horn rimmed glasses with coke bottle for lenses. He had hustled his way into a full time career as a sponsored rock climber, and voiced the path to being a Yosemite Idol. He said that to gain true recognition you needed an incredible story- escape captivity from Krygakistani rebels, climb enormous Arctic walls in single pushes, or huck laps on down canyon testpieces then swim back up to Camp 4- feet first. My climbing ability was mediocre at best. I just wasn’t cut out of granite like those guys. For years I’d had a soft spot for donuts. Now, I had a lot of soft spots because of donuts. Still, I wanted to join the elite.
I wanted to train like Surfer Bob. I wanted to Platinumize my body into an extreme fitness machine like Rob. I wanted to be a fully sponsored rock jock like Magoo. I was desperate for the glory that these men had achieved. I wanted to be Yosemite’s Next Top Idol. I wanted it bad so I transitioned from my life as a college student and into one of a dirtbag climber.
My first step was to move into a tent in the woods behind University of Califirnia Santa Cruz campus. I had to toughen up mentally so I did.
I hate the rain. I don’t melt in it- I’m not made of sugar but the whole cold and wet thing is not for me. The first season living in my tent, it rained for forty days. The Santa Cruz redwoods became lush and red, the banana slugs emerged from the forest in full force, and I -- I went crazy. I thought about how the flooding water would float my little tent out into the Pacific. I wondered how long it would take me to sail to Australia, or Europe, or somewhere warm with good rock. I festered through the rain, contemplating if suffering through storms was really part of being a rock climber.
One day I found a banana slug on my pillow. I brushed it off to living outdoors in the Monterey Bay. A few mornings later, I woke to the tickle of a tick on my testicles. Alliteration aside, it was not a pleasant sensation. I swore that if I found another critter in my “home” I would go savage. The next morning, I found a worm in my sleeping bag. I showed him no mercy; I buried the bastard alive.
The grim living conditions, the nightly wet bivies, they forced me to escape-to go climbing on the weekends, and ditch school for short trips during the week. I had little to do but climb. I didn’t go to college with high academic dreams. I majored in Economics and Business Management with the intention of getting a job where all I had to do was staple things. My motto was “C’s” get degrees. I dreamed of meeting a nice, young, rich girl and then marrying her mom. I could be a “sponsored athlete,” a rock climber supported by someone’s mom. But my constant trips to Yosemite kept the ladies away. I saw few. Plus, if I mentioned that I lived in a tent in the woods behind campus, they would think I was either an Ewok or Ted Kazynski. This was the kind of thing a true Yosemite Idol needed though- a monastic lifestyle, where there would be no fear of women ever distracting me in my goal from being Yosemite’s Next Top Idol.
Every weekend I was in Yosemite, or at the sport crag, or in the boulders. I commuted to the climbing with Platinum Rob, who gave me training goals, and reminded me to stay thin. At the top of Tuoulumne Meadow’s Private Property cliff, after a hard day of sport climbing, I watched Rob pour a handful of macadamia nuts into his hands. He counted them, plucked three out, and put them back into the bag.
“How many macadamias do you eat Rob?” I asked, stuffing Cheetos into my mouth.
“Well, James,” Rob chewed slowly, relishing his nuts. “I eat 10. But you, since you’re a little- you know” He ballooned his cheeks. “You’d only want to eat seven.”
The Yosemite Idol contestants were all so thin they’d disappear if they turned sideways. I had become mentally tough in my woodland hovel, but if I was to be a contender, I’d need to go on a strict diet. Over the years I had contracted Dunlop disease- my stomach dun lop over my belt. Rob agreed to train me at his Santa Cruz gym. I biked down from my tent on Tuesday and Thursday mornings before school. After class, I hit the climbing gym, and then on the weekends I headed back out to the crag. The wafer thin Supermodel Kate Moss gave me a mantra. Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. My muffin top, the spare tire around my stomach, slowly started to fade. I was lean and I was mean. When I showed up at the Cafeteria table, all skinny and fit with pine needles from the Santa Cruz redwoods sticking out of my hair, I looked like the best of the contestants. I had the mental toughness, and the lean physique. But I lacked talent on the rock. I needed to step up my game.
The climbing came along slowly. I have never been adept at moving my body. My only redemption is that my tenacity makes up for my lack of talent. I shook up the most mediocre of routes. A half inch above my last placement, I would be wrought with jazz hands and Elvis leg at the same time. I was an autumn leaf about to blow off the rock. I went to the Cookie Cliff, where Surfer Bob trained. He lapped the same cracks a million times, fueling his body off a tablespoon of olive oil. He trained for the ultimate training day. I tried to do the same, running countless laps up routes that I had dialed. “It’s just like paddling into Jaws,” he said while he cruised his 139th lap up the Red Zinger, a difficult 5.11+ crack. “You got to start off strong and ride into the wave. Let the motion take you there.” I tried to follow his advice instead I thrashed. I’d never been surfing in Hawaii break and, frankly, the water scared me. I had no idea what he was talking about.
In the boulders behind Camp 4 Magoo, showed me his circuit- a series of heinous offwidths and horrendous grovel problems he had wired over the years. Every “easy” problem felt impossible. He sandbagged me at every opportunity. Magoo explained his secret to success, “You don’t really have to climb anything. Just try real hard, talk a mean game, and shamelessly self promote.” He sniffled and shoved his glasses up his face alot, “That’ll work way better than climbing harder,” he added in a conspiratorial manner. I followed his advice. When I established a first ascent, I called it the Muir Trail, telling people that I hiked it. I related half truths- I claimed to have climbed up to 5.14 on El Capitan. Which was true- I had climbed up to it and then I aided through it. I worked my mouth like Magoo suggested.
Soon, I had the big talk down. Everyone in Yosemite knew that I was kind of a big deal.
I kept working on Magoo’s impossible boulder problem circuit. But I kept flailing. I had leaned up on Platinum Rob’s diet but I was still a Man of Girth. I trained like Surfer Bob but then I would fail on anything off the circuit. That was how they earned their Yosemite titles but none of it would work for me. Each of them had sandbagged me into believing I could do it. I couldn’t keep up. I could only try and fail. So that’s what I did. I tried and I failed. I made small craters from wildly falling off the center stage routes in Joshua Tree, in Yosemite, anywhere there was a crowd. I was covered in cuts, and bruises from falling all the time. Soon I earned a moniker. Big Fall James. Long scars ran across my elbow, ankle, and back. I became a highly recognizable walking disaster. When I hobbled through Camp 4 with huge rope burns across my arms, watermelon sized ankles, and enormous bruise- people knew who I was. Big Fall James. The man who could survive the most enormous whippers around.
A few mornings ago, I sat at the table of the Yosemite Lodge. I’d been living the dirtbag climbing lifestyle for four years. I stayed skinny even in the winter months. I climbed without looking like a jackhammer on the rock. I talked an enormous game. I was as close to being Yosemite’s Next Top Idol as ever. A kid, fresh out of his mom’s house, in a collared shirt buttoned to the neck, sat next to me. He glanced at me, then cast his eyes down, and mumbled, “Big Fall James, How do you become a Yosemite Idol?” I smiled. I had fought for years for this moment- this opportunity to be acknowledged as one of the great Yosemite Climbers. My mind raced through a library of sage advice. I had sat in the same spot, listening to Surfer Bob, Platinum Rob, and Magoo. I thought about what they had told me. I looked at the kid. I thought showing him Surfer Bob’s ultimate training day schedule, about telling him Platinum’s dieting advice, or describing how he needed Magoo’s confidence. I prepared to tell him how he should follow my lead and become a walking disaster. Then I paused. He would need a lot of help. I patted him on the hand, put my arm around his shoulder, and totally sandbagged him.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
Sonora Notes
For the past month and a half I worked in Sonora. I stayed in Chinese Camp sleeping on the futon of Coiler’s porch. There were a few climbers that passed through but I augured into the little farm. When bivy time came, I always got the futon. I was the head porch monkey. The status was nice to have. I needed as much beauty sleep as I could get to go to work.
The nearby crag is steep and chossy and blocky. It attracts a large number of elite sport climbers (read douche bags). I was no exception. I shouted beta across the crag, used an offensive number of kneebars, and sprayed when I belayed my first 8c (5.14b). I also failed to send any new climbs. This last bit is rather depressing for me. I went to the crag feeling stronger than I had in years past and with slightly less of my normal paunch. But strong and light doesn’t get you redpoints. This is me in desperation.
I tried everything. I read in a recent study that good looking quarterbacks perform 37% better than their less attractive peers. I translated that to look good climb good. I manicured my stubble to perfect Yosemite hardman length, I wore my favorite shorts to the crag, I swam in Axe body spray Chocolate temptation. While the ladies found me irrestible, my 8a proj resisted my advances. This is me getting rock blocked.
Finally, the crag got too hot. Thank god. Fuck that place. There were a few redeeming things about climbing there. One was the sports action. I watched a gym climbing stud whip with two armfuls of slack while clipping the anchor. He flew 30+ feet and yanked his tiny belayer up into the first bolt. Whoopsie daisy!
One night in Chinese Camp, a few sport climbers and I danced on the pole in Coiler’s shop. While there, I had taken it upon myself to learn the rudimentary pole dancing moves. I could flip upside down. I could slide seductively down the pole. I could spin and gyrate my hips. I deserve a spot in Brotastic’s Male revue. I showed the sport climbers the basics and everyone got into it, even Dan Urban. Natasha Barnes vigorously ground up against the pole. Her enthusiasm unlocked a few new moves. Kim Groebner took the pole dancing to an all time extreme, going upside down then taking her hands off. Then she implemented one of Natasha’s moves. She performed a split on the pole, and then spun approximately 270 degrees. We all wished we had singles.
A week or two ago, while fighting in a Muay Thai match in Santa Clara, my doppelganger took a knee to the head. It was an illegal move. A big dent caved the left side of his face. His nose shot sideways. A broken orbital lobe and nose. Five days later he received plastic surgery. The doctors made an incision into the middle of his skull and pulled his face down. They popped the dent of his skull and realigned his nose. The twin remained blaise, and even a bit of a dick about the surgery. He told me there was a 40% chance that his face would fall off and another 30% chance that he would bleed out of the open skin around his eyeballs and die. The surgery had me pretty worried. Turned out it was fairly routine. I thought he might die though. Bastard.
I am currently bouncing back and forth between the Bay and Yosemite. My friend’s have a place in Foresta. It’s quiet. I sleep on a bed. It’s only 20 minutes from the park. There’s no wireless and the phone service is slightly grim.
The nearby crag is steep and chossy and blocky. It attracts a large number of elite sport climbers (read douche bags). I was no exception. I shouted beta across the crag, used an offensive number of kneebars, and sprayed when I belayed my first 8c (5.14b). I also failed to send any new climbs. This last bit is rather depressing for me. I went to the crag feeling stronger than I had in years past and with slightly less of my normal paunch. But strong and light doesn’t get you redpoints. This is me in desperation.
I tried everything. I read in a recent study that good looking quarterbacks perform 37% better than their less attractive peers. I translated that to look good climb good. I manicured my stubble to perfect Yosemite hardman length, I wore my favorite shorts to the crag, I swam in Axe body spray Chocolate temptation. While the ladies found me irrestible, my 8a proj resisted my advances. This is me getting rock blocked.
Finally, the crag got too hot. Thank god. Fuck that place. There were a few redeeming things about climbing there. One was the sports action. I watched a gym climbing stud whip with two armfuls of slack while clipping the anchor. He flew 30+ feet and yanked his tiny belayer up into the first bolt. Whoopsie daisy!
One night in Chinese Camp, a few sport climbers and I danced on the pole in Coiler’s shop. While there, I had taken it upon myself to learn the rudimentary pole dancing moves. I could flip upside down. I could slide seductively down the pole. I could spin and gyrate my hips. I deserve a spot in Brotastic’s Male revue. I showed the sport climbers the basics and everyone got into it, even Dan Urban. Natasha Barnes vigorously ground up against the pole. Her enthusiasm unlocked a few new moves. Kim Groebner took the pole dancing to an all time extreme, going upside down then taking her hands off. Then she implemented one of Natasha’s moves. She performed a split on the pole, and then spun approximately 270 degrees. We all wished we had singles.
A week or two ago, while fighting in a Muay Thai match in Santa Clara, my doppelganger took a knee to the head. It was an illegal move. A big dent caved the left side of his face. His nose shot sideways. A broken orbital lobe and nose. Five days later he received plastic surgery. The doctors made an incision into the middle of his skull and pulled his face down. They popped the dent of his skull and realigned his nose. The twin remained blaise, and even a bit of a dick about the surgery. He told me there was a 40% chance that his face would fall off and another 30% chance that he would bleed out of the open skin around his eyeballs and die. The surgery had me pretty worried. Turned out it was fairly routine. I thought he might die though. Bastard.
I am currently bouncing back and forth between the Bay and Yosemite. My friend’s have a place in Foresta. It’s quiet. I sleep on a bed. It’s only 20 minutes from the park. There’s no wireless and the phone service is slightly grim.
Yosemite Notes
The water rose above the logs on the El Cap bridge. The Merced raged where normally it flows gently along. Yesterday, I stemmed above two trees, hopped onto the larger of the two, and climbed out to its farthest branches. Then I jumped. Even after a fifteen foot fall, I still did not hit the bottom. The water’s high in Yosemite right now, higher than I’ve seen it in the past decade.
The constant rain and snow of the spring kept wet most of the rock. El Capitan
was wet. Washington Column was wet. Leaning Tower was wet. And Half Dome- that was buried in snow. Sonora had the driest rock around . After a month and a half of trying then a few weekly sessions at the overhanging cliff, I managed to pull off an ascent of Alcatraz, a steep route involving extreme power endurance. In 1991, sport climbing magazine proclaimed that this route was one of the hardest in California. If I had been born in the seventies, I’d be a hardman. The same day, I ticked off four other hard routes at the crag, completing my long sought after Jailhouse 5 circuit- five hard routes at the crag in a day. I almost sent the Fugitive extension the next day. I did send Spike, a 5.12 crack climb at Public Sanitation and I polished off my Gold Wall Project- Wicked Gold. I only have a few more routes left to send at the Gold Wall before I’ve ticked the entire crag.
Hayden Kennedy runs a binary system. “Girls are either a 1 or a 0,” he said. “You do or you don’t.” The system became quite popular, especially after Hayden was taken advantage of by an attractive investment banker ten years his senior. The monkeys adopted the system in the hopes of getting attacked by a cougar like the fresh high-school graduate Hayden. Dave Turner took it to the next step, making loud proclamations about his $500 budget for condoms on his next expedition. He will be taking up the tri-nary system. He’ll try nearly anything. Hayden went on to describe how one of his fantasies is to have sex with an older African American woman with a baby. “I just want some of that Chocolate Milf.”
A new park employee, a young man working for Yosemite Assosciation, scrambled out on the ledges by Lower Brother, a small formation below and to the right of El Capitan. He fell. His shoe was found on a ledge. A blood covered depression marked where his body hit the ground. A couple of climbers, including a Bay area climber named Jay Wood, came upon his body, took photos of the corpse, and then proceeded to go climbing. While they made a long ascent of a moderate climb, three bears dragged the body away from where it had fallen and began to eat it. The climbers finished their route, descended and called YOSAR. When the Yosemite Search and Rescue team showed up the bears had already devoured most of the body. The team members carried away a mere eighty pounds of the man. The climbers neglect caused the body to be eaten. It’s a shameful representation of climbers.
Alex Honnold is rad. He’s sponsored by the North Face, La Sportiva, Black Diamnond, and the best of the climbing companies. He’s become a staple in the media with his bold solos of the Regular Route on Half Dome, Zion’s Moonlight Buttress, and Las Vegas’ Rainbow Wall. He’s famous. Sender films wanted more footage of Alex for their next movie. Uli Steck also crushes. He’s a hard European climber with a near onsight of Golden Gate on El Capitan. Uli wanted to try and set the Nose speed climbing record- the Grand Prix of the Yosemite pissing contest. Though the two hadn’t climbed together, they were optimistic. The previous contenders, Dean Potter, Timmy O’Neil, the Huber brothers, Hans Florine, Yuji Hiryama, had all put in a significant amount of time on the Nose. Alex had climbed the route a few times, and Uli had climbed it once. Announcements were made on the internet. The pairs first attempt saw them top out in 4 hours 20 minutes- a decent time for a reconnaissance. They talked to Jimmy Chin and Mikey Schaefer on the summit, interviewing for a National Geographic article about Yosemite climbers. Their second attempt saw them whittle away more time. They were still far from breaking the 2 hour 30 minute record. Alex started watching Uli climbed, and realized how balls out Uli was going. Uli jumped between handjams, untied from the rope, mismanaged the gri gri while simul climbing, and generally went for it. Alex became concerned. He’d been leading the entire route to that point and decided to let Uli lead. While simulclimbing the stronger climber should be on the bottom. While Alex lowered off of Dolt, Uli lead up a 5.9 crack. He fell, lobbing seventy feet through the air and pulling Alex up. The two abandoned the mission. I wonder if media pressure encouraged Alex to pick a slightly asinine project and go for it more than was reasonable.
The constant rain and snow of the spring kept wet most of the rock. El Capitan
was wet. Washington Column was wet. Leaning Tower was wet. And Half Dome- that was buried in snow. Sonora had the driest rock around . After a month and a half of trying then a few weekly sessions at the overhanging cliff, I managed to pull off an ascent of Alcatraz, a steep route involving extreme power endurance. In 1991, sport climbing magazine proclaimed that this route was one of the hardest in California. If I had been born in the seventies, I’d be a hardman. The same day, I ticked off four other hard routes at the crag, completing my long sought after Jailhouse 5 circuit- five hard routes at the crag in a day. I almost sent the Fugitive extension the next day. I did send Spike, a 5.12 crack climb at Public Sanitation and I polished off my Gold Wall Project- Wicked Gold. I only have a few more routes left to send at the Gold Wall before I’ve ticked the entire crag.
Hayden Kennedy runs a binary system. “Girls are either a 1 or a 0,” he said. “You do or you don’t.” The system became quite popular, especially after Hayden was taken advantage of by an attractive investment banker ten years his senior. The monkeys adopted the system in the hopes of getting attacked by a cougar like the fresh high-school graduate Hayden. Dave Turner took it to the next step, making loud proclamations about his $500 budget for condoms on his next expedition. He will be taking up the tri-nary system. He’ll try nearly anything. Hayden went on to describe how one of his fantasies is to have sex with an older African American woman with a baby. “I just want some of that Chocolate Milf.”
A new park employee, a young man working for Yosemite Assosciation, scrambled out on the ledges by Lower Brother, a small formation below and to the right of El Capitan. He fell. His shoe was found on a ledge. A blood covered depression marked where his body hit the ground. A couple of climbers, including a Bay area climber named Jay Wood, came upon his body, took photos of the corpse, and then proceeded to go climbing. While they made a long ascent of a moderate climb, three bears dragged the body away from where it had fallen and began to eat it. The climbers finished their route, descended and called YOSAR. When the Yosemite Search and Rescue team showed up the bears had already devoured most of the body. The team members carried away a mere eighty pounds of the man. The climbers neglect caused the body to be eaten. It’s a shameful representation of climbers.
Alex Honnold is rad. He’s sponsored by the North Face, La Sportiva, Black Diamnond, and the best of the climbing companies. He’s become a staple in the media with his bold solos of the Regular Route on Half Dome, Zion’s Moonlight Buttress, and Las Vegas’ Rainbow Wall. He’s famous. Sender films wanted more footage of Alex for their next movie. Uli Steck also crushes. He’s a hard European climber with a near onsight of Golden Gate on El Capitan. Uli wanted to try and set the Nose speed climbing record- the Grand Prix of the Yosemite pissing contest. Though the two hadn’t climbed together, they were optimistic. The previous contenders, Dean Potter, Timmy O’Neil, the Huber brothers, Hans Florine, Yuji Hiryama, had all put in a significant amount of time on the Nose. Alex had climbed the route a few times, and Uli had climbed it once. Announcements were made on the internet. The pairs first attempt saw them top out in 4 hours 20 minutes- a decent time for a reconnaissance. They talked to Jimmy Chin and Mikey Schaefer on the summit, interviewing for a National Geographic article about Yosemite climbers. Their second attempt saw them whittle away more time. They were still far from breaking the 2 hour 30 minute record. Alex started watching Uli climbed, and realized how balls out Uli was going. Uli jumped between handjams, untied from the rope, mismanaged the gri gri while simul climbing, and generally went for it. Alex became concerned. He’d been leading the entire route to that point and decided to let Uli lead. While simulclimbing the stronger climber should be on the bottom. While Alex lowered off of Dolt, Uli lead up a 5.9 crack. He fell, lobbing seventy feet through the air and pulling Alex up. The two abandoned the mission. I wonder if media pressure encouraged Alex to pick a slightly asinine project and go for it more than was reasonable.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Job Hunt
My resume doesn't look so hot these days. For the past year, I've mostly worked for Touchstone writing their blog. I painted a house in Yosemite West, I wrote a few articles for climbing magazines, and I did some other odd jobs. Nowhere on my list of previous employment is anything using my Economics and Business Management degree. There's a significant lack of solid long-term employment. So I decided I need to pad out my resume to get my next job.
"So, James I see you a UC Santa Cruz alumni," the accounting manager of Deloitte's auditing department and my prospective employer will say to me. "Banana Slugs right?"
"No known predator, sir," I'll smile and wink, trying my best to be charming.
"Right right, let's see. Worked doing some freelance writing, a number of publications, oh and what's this? really!? No? Well, James. I don't know what to say....," he'll put my resume down and look at me. "Did you really walk on the moon while working for NASA?"
I'll nod. "Of course. It's part of the training for all the janitorial engineers that they go into space."
"Well, with an experience like that you could be doing space shuttle repair or building new rockets, or just about anything...what makes you want to work here?" the prospective employer will say.
"NASA wanted me to go on a dangerous mission to a remote aesteroid that was plummeting towards the Earth. I had to drill an enormous hole in it and then blow it up. It'd be me and Bruce Willis on the team. I decided I didn't want to go and figured if the world was gonna end in 3 weeks I might as well get a stable job working 50 hours a week."
And then he'll give me the job.
"So, James I see you a UC Santa Cruz alumni," the accounting manager of Deloitte's auditing department and my prospective employer will say to me. "Banana Slugs right?"
"No known predator, sir," I'll smile and wink, trying my best to be charming.
"Right right, let's see. Worked doing some freelance writing, a number of publications, oh and what's this? really!? No? Well, James. I don't know what to say....," he'll put my resume down and look at me. "Did you really walk on the moon while working for NASA?"
I'll nod. "Of course. It's part of the training for all the janitorial engineers that they go into space."
"Well, with an experience like that you could be doing space shuttle repair or building new rockets, or just about anything...what makes you want to work here?" the prospective employer will say.
"NASA wanted me to go on a dangerous mission to a remote aesteroid that was plummeting towards the Earth. I had to drill an enormous hole in it and then blow it up. It'd be me and Bruce Willis on the team. I decided I didn't want to go and figured if the world was gonna end in 3 weeks I might as well get a stable job working 50 hours a week."
And then he'll give me the job.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Nothing Tastes as Good as Sending Feels
"If you lost ten pounds," Cedar fidgeted on his basalt throne at the Gold Wall, "and did some yoga, you could climb 5.14 this year."
I try not to listen to Cedar often but he had a point. Rob told me the same thing a few times, so has Honnold, and Drew Rollins, and a number of other climbers. There's a pretty solid correlation between grip and weight ratio. Be strong, be light, and you will crush- being a Man of Girth won't get you up the cliff.
After my screws in my foot were removed, I sat around on the coach. Some would say that I was just a little big, some might say I just had broad shoulders. My mom would have said that I was, "Husky." I went to Indian Creek with a lot of weight above my belt, I weighed more than I ever have before.
The wafer thin super model Kate Moss gave me my mantra, "Nothing Tastes as good as skinny feels." I realized that I had been eating a lot. I decided that I needed to adjust my weight, and tighten my belt. Before I fell in Joshua Tree, I weighed about 157 pounds. I was thin, lean and mean. I ran around 14 miles a week, not much but combined with cycling up and down from UC Santa Cruz campus a couple times a day, I was fit. After I fell, I couldn't run anymore because of the fusion in my ankle. So, I started to get fat.
After punting from the top of most of the routes in Indian Creek, I decided I need to return to the lean mean climbing machine that James Lucas once was. I looked at myself in the mirror and screamed, "Get it together tubby! Stop day dreaming about pie and apple fritters. Start flexing and do some god damn rock climbing."
I tried to enlist some group support. Shannon Moore and I stepped on scales, weighed ourselves, and said we'd lose 10 pounds by June 15. That'd be like 160 for me. So far, I'm not sure how close I actually am to that goal. I don't have a scale and suspect that I haven't lost any actual weight. My diet has gotten significantly better- less pie and candy bars more apples and grapes. I've actually been climbing really well lately. Every week, I'm doing a little better than the week before.
The plan is send the sport project- at least one, maybe both. I managed to eek out a redpoint of my Gold Wall project yesterday. I sent it my fourth try of the day, after four previous attempts. I hoped it was 5.13- but after watching Stanley send it second try, Nik Berry and Hayden Kennedy flash it, the route was quickly down rated to 12d. Balls. Wicked Gold is still hard. Then after sending the sport proj, head back to a dry Yosemite and head up on the Leaning Tower. The Westie Face seeps through most of the spring and this has been a particularly wet year. Still, I think I can do it. I'm bouldering fairly well, and definitely stronger.
I'm not sure how it started, but I must have gotten poison oak on my clothes or my hands. It looks like I virtually swam in it. The Oak covers my forearms and torso, onto my upper thighs, and across my armpits. I have to swim in calamine lotion right now. It is making me slightly neurotic. When I say slightly, I mean totally insanely neurotic. If I could lose all my poison oak, I'd ditch a solid five pounds in water and oil retention. Might be times to put on more calamine.
I try not to listen to Cedar often but he had a point. Rob told me the same thing a few times, so has Honnold, and Drew Rollins, and a number of other climbers. There's a pretty solid correlation between grip and weight ratio. Be strong, be light, and you will crush- being a Man of Girth won't get you up the cliff.
After my screws in my foot were removed, I sat around on the coach. Some would say that I was just a little big, some might say I just had broad shoulders. My mom would have said that I was, "Husky." I went to Indian Creek with a lot of weight above my belt, I weighed more than I ever have before.
The wafer thin super model Kate Moss gave me my mantra, "Nothing Tastes as good as skinny feels." I realized that I had been eating a lot. I decided that I needed to adjust my weight, and tighten my belt. Before I fell in Joshua Tree, I weighed about 157 pounds. I was thin, lean and mean. I ran around 14 miles a week, not much but combined with cycling up and down from UC Santa Cruz campus a couple times a day, I was fit. After I fell, I couldn't run anymore because of the fusion in my ankle. So, I started to get fat.
After punting from the top of most of the routes in Indian Creek, I decided I need to return to the lean mean climbing machine that James Lucas once was. I looked at myself in the mirror and screamed, "Get it together tubby! Stop day dreaming about pie and apple fritters. Start flexing and do some god damn rock climbing."
I tried to enlist some group support. Shannon Moore and I stepped on scales, weighed ourselves, and said we'd lose 10 pounds by June 15. That'd be like 160 for me. So far, I'm not sure how close I actually am to that goal. I don't have a scale and suspect that I haven't lost any actual weight. My diet has gotten significantly better- less pie and candy bars more apples and grapes. I've actually been climbing really well lately. Every week, I'm doing a little better than the week before.
The plan is send the sport project- at least one, maybe both. I managed to eek out a redpoint of my Gold Wall project yesterday. I sent it my fourth try of the day, after four previous attempts. I hoped it was 5.13- but after watching Stanley send it second try, Nik Berry and Hayden Kennedy flash it, the route was quickly down rated to 12d. Balls. Wicked Gold is still hard. Then after sending the sport proj, head back to a dry Yosemite and head up on the Leaning Tower. The Westie Face seeps through most of the spring and this has been a particularly wet year. Still, I think I can do it. I'm bouldering fairly well, and definitely stronger.
I'm not sure how it started, but I must have gotten poison oak on my clothes or my hands. It looks like I virtually swam in it. The Oak covers my forearms and torso, onto my upper thighs, and across my armpits. I have to swim in calamine lotion right now. It is making me slightly neurotic. When I say slightly, I mean totally insanely neurotic. If I could lose all my poison oak, I'd ditch a solid five pounds in water and oil retention. Might be times to put on more calamine.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Fight!
Everyone loves to stand on a soap box. Mounting a six by 3 by 4 inch cardboard box makes a man feel like a real man. It happens a fair amount in climbing. Recently, there was a bunch of hub bub about some Swedish dude trying to send Chris Sharma's First Round First Minute project. Unfortunately, all that happened were a bunch of passive aggressive emails. What happened to climbers fighting?
Georgia Ice runs his mouth. He's not an altogether bad guy, some might say he's even okay. He climbs by himself- mostly making incredibly sketchy ascents of routes like the Steck Salathe (Grade IV 5.9) and Leanie Meanie (5.11b) at Arch Rock. He's probably gonna die jackhammering, cordless on the rock someday- but hey, to each their own. He does enjoy a good slander session, like every other Yosemite climber. He was engaging in such worthless spray one night in Chinese Camp. He picked a rather surly target though, who became quite angry. The wall pirate kept his cool down until the free-soloist fell asleep. That's when the pirate, and his brother, made a munter mule, and hauled Georgia Ice into the tree. He dangled by his ankles til somewhere around sunrise, when another hungover monkey cut him down.
That's the story. A pretty good one I think. Georgia Ice and the Pirate never came to fisticuffs, but at least something happened. I don't like violence. I love it. I personally think that more people should be fighting over climbing disputes. Back in the day, Mr. Way used to get bitch-slapped for stating his over arrogant positions. People got punched in the neck in the Camp 4 lot for chopping bolts. That sort of thing went down all the time. Now there's just people posting on their blogs about how someone should or shouldn't be trying someone else's proj. Snooze.
Give me blood, give me action, give me a fight! Why don't people stand by their climbing convictions anymore? I want to see someone punch a fool in the neck. KYEAH!
First Round First Minute- Climbing Narc Blog post
Mick Ryan spray
Deadpoint Spray
Georgia Ice runs his mouth. He's not an altogether bad guy, some might say he's even okay. He climbs by himself- mostly making incredibly sketchy ascents of routes like the Steck Salathe (Grade IV 5.9) and Leanie Meanie (5.11b) at Arch Rock. He's probably gonna die jackhammering, cordless on the rock someday- but hey, to each their own. He does enjoy a good slander session, like every other Yosemite climber. He was engaging in such worthless spray one night in Chinese Camp. He picked a rather surly target though, who became quite angry. The wall pirate kept his cool down until the free-soloist fell asleep. That's when the pirate, and his brother, made a munter mule, and hauled Georgia Ice into the tree. He dangled by his ankles til somewhere around sunrise, when another hungover monkey cut him down.
That's the story. A pretty good one I think. Georgia Ice and the Pirate never came to fisticuffs, but at least something happened. I don't like violence. I love it. I personally think that more people should be fighting over climbing disputes. Back in the day, Mr. Way used to get bitch-slapped for stating his over arrogant positions. People got punched in the neck in the Camp 4 lot for chopping bolts. That sort of thing went down all the time. Now there's just people posting on their blogs about how someone should or shouldn't be trying someone else's proj. Snooze.
Give me blood, give me action, give me a fight! Why don't people stand by their climbing convictions anymore? I want to see someone punch a fool in the neck. KYEAH!
First Round First Minute- Climbing Narc Blog post
Mick Ryan spray
Deadpoint Spray
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Unscrewed
I pulled my shoe onto my foot and stopped to examine a bump along the stitches of my foot. My fingers ran along the protusion. I felt a screw head. I iced my foot. The swelling did not go down. It was definitely a screw, sticking out of my foot.
Two days later, I dropped my sock next to the table at Dr. McKinley's office. "My foot was fused five years ago. I think I've got a screw sticking out." The Berkeley orthopedist examined my foot, took three X-Rays, charged me $300 and said, "I think you're right."
This morning, Lucho drove me across the bridge from his house in the Mission to Dr. McKinley's office. The good doctor swabbed my ankle in iodine, then opened a big metal case. The nurse looked inside and exclaimed, "You could do a lot of damage with that stuff!" I winced and pulled my hat over my eyes. He stuck a long needle inside my ankle, pushed anesthetic around my ankle, and then made an incision. Using a star drive screw driver, he pulled two screws out of my ankle. I could feel them being tugged out of my bone.
You probably don't think much about your body. What's your left big toe feel like right now? I imagine it's warm, and pressing against a piece of cotton- a sock picture of Obama on it. Maybe it's bare, sliding along the wood floor. Or maybe it's wiggling inside of your shoe. Regardless, you probably weren't thinking about how your big toe felt until I mentioned it. Well, just like your awareness of your big toe is incomplete, so was my feeling about my bones. Until the doctor pulled the metal out. I could feel my ankle. The bones, the hollow, the marrow. It hurt.
He placed a couple stitches in my ankle, handed me two screws- the kind that come out of the 99 cent bucket at home depot, and charged me another three hundred bucks. Thank you very much.
Hopefully, my ankle will heal quickly. Getting surgery, doing anything with the doctor- kind of sends me over the edge. I go a little nuts. I've done a lot of it in the past. I slip into a deep vortex of despair. I'm not gonna let my mind wander into the abyss though. It only hinders my healing. Which I need to do quickly, cause I want to send!
Two days later, I dropped my sock next to the table at Dr. McKinley's office. "My foot was fused five years ago. I think I've got a screw sticking out." The Berkeley orthopedist examined my foot, took three X-Rays, charged me $300 and said, "I think you're right."
This morning, Lucho drove me across the bridge from his house in the Mission to Dr. McKinley's office. The good doctor swabbed my ankle in iodine, then opened a big metal case. The nurse looked inside and exclaimed, "You could do a lot of damage with that stuff!" I winced and pulled my hat over my eyes. He stuck a long needle inside my ankle, pushed anesthetic around my ankle, and then made an incision. Using a star drive screw driver, he pulled two screws out of my ankle. I could feel them being tugged out of my bone.
You probably don't think much about your body. What's your left big toe feel like right now? I imagine it's warm, and pressing against a piece of cotton- a sock picture of Obama on it. Maybe it's bare, sliding along the wood floor. Or maybe it's wiggling inside of your shoe. Regardless, you probably weren't thinking about how your big toe felt until I mentioned it. Well, just like your awareness of your big toe is incomplete, so was my feeling about my bones. Until the doctor pulled the metal out. I could feel my ankle. The bones, the hollow, the marrow. It hurt.
He placed a couple stitches in my ankle, handed me two screws- the kind that come out of the 99 cent bucket at home depot, and charged me another three hundred bucks. Thank you very much.
Hopefully, my ankle will heal quickly. Getting surgery, doing anything with the doctor- kind of sends me over the edge. I go a little nuts. I've done a lot of it in the past. I slip into a deep vortex of despair. I'm not gonna let my mind wander into the abyss though. It only hinders my healing. Which I need to do quickly, cause I want to send!
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