Off-Season Sport Climbing at Jack's

More fun.

Another weekend at Jack's.

This time we had a new moon, flanked by off set planets on either side (which could have been Venus, Jupiter or Mars)--then as the sun set completely, a few hundred million stars.

In contrast to our previous weekend, there were other climbers--from Alaska, Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, and, of course, Arizona.

Dierdre Burton was there, one of the original route setters in the mid-90's.

We took it easy, yet pushed our limits.

On the second day, we actually got up early to make the most of our second day--and were the first one's into the canyon. VERY uncharacteristic of us.

We're regaining some of our former climbing ability.

This weekend included the following grades: 8(2), 9(1), 10a(3), 10+(4), and two 12a's for Mr T.
The climbs were steeper, edgier, with smaller crimps, more balance, smears, and power.

In comparison, our first weekend had softer grades: 6(1), 9(3), 10a(4), 10+(1), and a 10a, and 11c for T.

The highlight of my weekend was Dealers Choice, a thin 10c with a tips only layback at the bottom and which was my first 10+ clean in years.

The low lights included hanging on Genesis under the high roof and not getting the sequence for the second time, despite kibitzing from T, as well as the gusty high winds on the second day that blew dried seared leaves and dust in swirls around my eyes. (The canyon was very dry this year, and the vegetation looked like it had been crisped in an oven...)

T's highlight was working the 12's, especially Genocide (next to Genesis), his first 12's outside of the gym in years.

There were no lowlights for T.

Route Roll Call:

Second Weekend (November 1-2):
Fistful of Dollars 10a
Dealers Choice 10c--(clean for me)
Slots Full of Fun 10a
Edge Your Bets 9a
Genesis 10c/d (1 hang)
(Genocide 12a--T on TR, fun)
Last Episode 10d

Jackpot 5.8
Jack--5.8
Unnamed 10a
Total Lack of Jack 10c
(Jacking for Change 12a--T clipstick lead, then TR; sharp, steep with reachy bulge)

First weekend (October 16-17)
Progressive Slots 5.6
Unnamed 5.9
Fistful of Dollars 10a
Sports Book 10a
Genesis 10c/d (2 hangs)
Blackened 10a
(One Armed Bandit 10a--T rapped due to worn anchors)

Edge Your Bets 9
Slots Full of Fun 10a
You Don't Know Jack-- 9
(Jack the Gripper 11c--T clipstick lead)

The Bisbee 1000

Imagine...
Running up 1034 steps.
Against the clock.
Just for the fun of it.

That's what T and I did last Saturday.

It all started with our annual 4-day Fall Break rock climbing trip......

Many years ago, T and I started out as climbing partners--T at the "rock royalty" level, myself at the "I'm just trying to figure out which end of the rope I'm supposed to use--it's the 'sharp' end, right?"

When I wasn't too busy studying for an exam, and when T was in-between climbing with all manner of cute girls from the gym--we would hold the rope for each other, and go on weekend trips around NM, AZ, CO, NV, and TX.

Since those days, we've migrated into the world of triathlon, but rock climbing has always been there, a simmering desire on the back burner playing second fiddle to our triathlon training. In fact, we haven't really been rock climbing in 3 years, except for a few sporadic climbing sessions and at least one annual trip. Climbing, like triathlon, takes consistent focus and training. We've missed our weekend trips, but haven't pursued the skill it takes, or taken the time, to really be good again.

This year we tried, once again, to tap into fall season rock climbing.
And for some reason, this year, it stuck.

Reveling in the freedom of the off season, we finished our last big tri-effort (Longhorn 70.3), took 3 days to recover (GI issues, sore muscles and all), and then Thursday, less than a week after the Longhorn race, went on our first rock climbing foray to the climbing gym in almost a year.

We had to get re-acquainted with the gym environment (now much more crowded than it was several years ago), our equipment, new people, finding different muscles, and using our bodies in an unaccustomed way.

We saw several old friends and familiar faces.

We had a great time.
And were pretty sore the next day.

Feeling like Newbies, we decided to go to Jack's canyon for a long weekend of relatively easy, fun Arizona rock. We returned to the gym 2 more times, climbing progressively higher grades, then, one week after our first foray to the gym and 10 days after Longhorn, we left Wednesday night for Arizona.

Serendipity.
Two days before the trip, I happened to glance at a magazine and saw a brief description of a running event in Bisbee, Arizona. The description went like this:

"Climb a Thousand Steps.
Put your quads to the test by entering the Bisbee 1000 stair climb. The race honors the heritage of the small Old West mining town east of Tucson--the stairs, built during the Depression by the WPA, follow old mule paths that once connected Bisbee's copper mines. The run is 5K and climbs 1034 steps and a few steep roads."

Since we were planning on being in Arizona, we didn't think twice.
"Looks like fun."
"We aren't strong enough to climb more than 2 days in a row anyways."
"Look, it says "historic" and it's about a WPA project."
"Lets bring our running gear, and see how we feel..."

And so we brought our run gear...

Jack's was absolutely beautiful and eerily deserted.
We were the only ones there--first time that has ever happened.
The full moon was gorgeous.
We picked a site, camped, and climbed for two days
Mostly 5.10, which was a grade or two higher than I had been practicing in the gym.
Two days was enough.




















1. T at the top of a 5.11c ......... 2. Abseiling the climb (on rappel)





On the second day, as we headed out of the canyon, we ran into one other party who had just arrived. Turned out to be climbing friend "D" from NM, from days long past. Small world.



We then drove to Bisbee, about 5 hours across the state, near the southern border of Arizona.



Bisbee is a cute, historic copper mining town built into the side of Mule Mountain. Population: ~ 6000; Elevation: ~ 5530'
In the early 1900's Bisbee was the largest city in the Southwest between St. Louis and San Francisco with about 20,000 people.

We camped overnight, then arrived early for 7 am race day registration at the courthouse. By the end of registration there were almost 1500 people signed up; last year there were less than 800.

Town business was still pretty much closed so we hiked up the street for a Circle K coffee and egg muffin breakfast.

The run start was to the right (downhill) of the Ironman statue. T and I started up front, in the first wave, to avoid getting caught behind the walkers. Last year, there had been waits of up to five minutes at the bottom of the stairs due to the bottle necking of so many participants. Since everyone wanted to get to the stairs first, and the run started on a downhill going into a turn, the start was a bit of a wild free-for-all. You had to have your wits about you, and watch for flailing feet and arms. One person tripped and went down hard less than 50' from the start. T was elbowed hard enough to cause a charlie-horse for several days by "a large, chubby woman who looked like she shouldn't have been in the front anyway..."

By the time we got to the first set of stairs, T had disappeared off the front, and I was bordering on anaerobic due to the fast start and being swept downhill by the get-to-the-stairs-first fervor. T says he ran up the first steps without feeling a thing. I, on the other hand, attempted to run, but quickly backed off due to the feeling that I was pushing my max, and was probably going to kill myself. This feeling persisted throughout the entire event. I don't think my heart and lungs have ever worked so hard. After I got to the top of the first set of steps, I thought, "I can't believe there are still 8 more to go. I am never going to make it." The thought of running 5K up these stairs made the distance seem like an eternity. In fact, I was breathing so hard, I could do no more than walk up the remaining 8 flights, gulping oxygen and with occasional thoughts of what if my heart can't take this?
The course took us all around Bisbee, up steps, and down curvy roads, along main street, and through some kind of factory. After the 7th flight, we had a longish road run to the back of a valley, which should have allowed recovery and a resumption of pace, but which neither T nor I were able to take advantage of. My finish was characterized by passing two women who could have been in my age group, than pouring on the 'speed', as best I could up the last 2 flights of steps, to keep them behind me. T's finish was notable for being passed by a 13 year old boy just as he was flying downhill into the finish. The boy came up to about T's rib cage and he was being coached by a paternal figure who kept yelling "Get him! Get him!"

We had thought of the run as a fun way to see Bisbee, but neither T nor I remember much except for looking at the steps right in front of us. There was live music situated in drive ways and decks along the steps and lots of people cheering us on, just by stepping outside of their houses. The finish was a whole lot of fun, free samples of Xood, energy drinks, wine tasting, and cheese, crackers, bread, and meat tasting. While waiting for the awards, we stopped into the Made in Bisbee Marketplace for shredded beef burritos and tamales, and watched the Ice Man competition, which honors the history of the men who delivered ice before there was refrigeration, by having competitors climb 155 steps while carrying a 10 pound block of ice using antique metal tongs.



Despite how difficult the race felt, T finished 2nd out of 43 in his AG, in 37:40, earning himself some hardware and a spot on the podium with Smokey the Bear.

I finished 7th out of 69 AG in 48:44.

To give you an idea of how hard this 5K is, the fastest time was 29:48.
To give you an idea of the versatility this race attracts, the youngest competitor was 6 and the oldest 83.
As for talent? I was awed by Bobby Widhalm, who at 69 years young, completed the course in 40:08, and Don Branaman, at 70, winning his age group in 44:56

All in all, we had a great weekend, driving 1100 miles in 3 days, climbing, camping, and racing. The run was a huge effort, but a whole lot of fun, and we're thinking of going back.

In closing, here is an image of T perusing a rock wall....

Longhorn 70.3--after the race....

T and I got back to the normal routine of things on the day after the race--stumping around at work on a level of soreness that T called "Worse than moderate," and that I defined as "Moderate?! I can't @#k&* move!"

I spent the day in a way that no one who has that kind of muscle pain should have to do, crawling around on my knees, stooping, kneeling, smiling and swallowing my "ooufs"--jealous of a fellow co-worker who had done the Xterra Championship race in Nevada the same day, and who had wisely taken Monday off...

Monday afternoon my tummy felt a little off and by that evening I was sure I had picked up some kind of food poisoning from workplace cafeteria food. A miserable night followed.

Then a miserable day.

Another miserable night.

And another miserable day.

Epidermal hypersensitivity.

Almost no food intake--a little broth, instant mashed potatoes, half a banana.

No one else at work had a miserable tummy, so on the second day it dawned on me that I might be ill from the water I had swallowed in the lake during my pre-race practice swim on Saturday.

It did cross my mind that I might have gotten ill from Austin tap water--which tasted like dirt and algae--just not quite as strong as the lake water, but nearly so--then realized that T wasn't sick. Only I.

I was sick through Wednesday. Fortunately, my tummy cleared on Thursday--the same day my legs finally felt good enough to allow T and I to truly start our "off" season with our first rock climbing session in almost a year.

After that, T and I were pretty much recovered--just continuing to allow ourselves to completely lose all muscle fatigue and regain our desire. 8 days after the race, the following Monday, I went for my first run, a brisk, at-tempo 5 miler, that felt fresh in a way I hadn't felt for some time. Triathlon training doesn't leave much time for "fresh, fully recovered legs" running, but this run felt just like that. It brought back the fun and made me look forward to more.

The bad part of this recovery was the several nights without sleep (unhappy tummy nights) combined with the poor nutritonal intake for several days after a big race effort for a definite double whammy to my system.

The good part is that I took off a few pounds--allowing me to feel confidant about fitting into my costume (built around a $3 find at the Kaimuki Goodwill a few years ago) for the upcoming Halloween bash in 2 weeks.

The moral of the story is be cautious when it comes to drinking Austin water--whether from a lake or the tap (it really did taste bad).

Walter E. Long Lake aka Decker Lake, Austin, TX

Literary License

In August of this year, I wrote a brief essay - summation - thought about the death, and life, of Michael Reardon. It was a piece of writing that came from the heart and poured out as a single piece of celebration and anguish. It was one of those pieces of writing that form themselves, with a minimum of contrivance, adjustment, or editing. It was a piece that started with a great introduction (kind of my signature), went a bit downhill from there, but still included a facile use of words, with attention to the juxtaposition of this with that to add poetry and prose to what was a painful wrench of a subject.

Sometime later, I received a copy of ROCK and ICE, a rock climbing magazine "built by climbers", which 1) addressed the death of Michael Reardon, and 2) offered a pair of climbing shoes to a letter selected as the lead-off for their letters section.

So, I sent them a copy of what I had written.

I was already a bit incensed that they had not featured a photo of Michael on the cover of this particular issue, and wanted to give them a lay persons perspective on this larger than life man.

As well as the fact that a free pair of rock shoes is nothing to sneeze at--especially for this household.

Then I forgot about it.

Until the January '08 issue arrived.

Today.

In my mailbox.

I turned to the letters section first, because it's one I like to read for the various input and feedback from the community.

A letter caught my eye.

Gee, this one sounds familiar.

Could it be that essay that I sent in? Naw--can't be--reads like just about some of the worst writing I've ever read--but still--Nope--I would never have said that--plus some of it doesn't pertain at all--Wait--WHAT?--that's my name printed at the end of it--OMG!!! --who the heck changed around what I wrote then attached my name to it?--It's so awful, they should have put their own name to it--better yet, they should have just burned their creation in some eternal fire somewhere--plus whoever added in all that awful English, also added some things that I didn't write and are strictly UNTRUE--

Does writing a letter to the editor allow for literary license? Falsehood? Extremely BAD writing (or extremely bad editing)??

After making a considerable amount of noise around the house,
disturbing my bear of a patient man,
re-reading the worst parts at the top of my lungs,
and re-living the embarrassment of having my name attached to the "thing,"
I am considering asking for a retraction.

Finally, distrust worms its way through my vocal outburst, and I wonder --what else is being changed by this magazine (in the interest of bad editing or self promotion)?

Living My Life As Beautiful

I went for a swim today, and left feeling pretty darn good about myself.

• I had gone swimming despite trying to talk myself out of it over the entire course of driving from work to the pool
• I had gone to the weight gym and was happy to note that I had progressed from spindly I-can’t-lift-this arms to doing 15 pound dumb bell bicep curls (yes, the miniature Hulkette in the re-making—ask Mr. T what he thought when he first saw me in a sleeveless feminine dress, during my rock climbing years, eight years ago)
• I had stretched really well—probably the first time this whole season, so I was patting myself on the back
• I performed my mitzvah of the day, an unasked for kindness to another individual—who was grateful enough to thank me several times.
• I had stepped out of my trying-to-hide-behind-the-scenery self, and was wearing a cute outfit—and I felt it, too
• Some guy named “Biff” thought it was cute, too, and actually tried to pursue me in what was an initially flattering, but became annoying, kind of way (OK—he only looked like he was named Biff. I think his real name was Ben).
• Due to the fact that I was not in the competition/training mode, I didn’t have that feeling of short-changing a workout (by not going hard enough, or long enough, or skipping an interval)—and that hadn’t happened for a long time (like the whole training season).

All these factors combined to form this inner feeling that just seemed to radiate all the way through to the outside.

I was feeling so good, that I probably let my guard down.
Because, suddenly, it popped into my head how sad it was that I would never know myself as beautiful.

Now, that’s an interesting thought.
Because, in many ways, it’s very true. Not just for me, but for many, if not most, of the female gender. At least in this country, which is the only country/culture I am at least somewhat familiar with.

When I was young, in my pre-teen and teenage years, I had an inner, almost unknown longing to be blonde and willowy (note “miniature Hulkette” reference above”). I went to a primarily Caucasian high school. Fashion advertising in the 1970s mostly used Caucasian models. Those were the days before “ethnic” models. Sometimes, I find it hard to believe that there was a time, when my look, a mixed Eurasian blend, was undesirable in the public arena—and that this undesirability was generally accepted. Blonde and thin was in—and I was imprinted with this model of beauty, and found myself lacking, without being aware of it.

There are other reasons that I’ve never found myself beautiful. Growing up without much in an overly abundant world has certainly contributed. Being called “fat” and “ugly” during my growing years didn’t help. “Frog eyes” was another one—which reflected my “not normal” eye shape, and made me acutely aware of those Japanese women who had surgery (blepharoplasty) to make their eyes look more “Western”.

But, I think there’s another part to this that is shared by a large number of women in America. And, that is, we are immersed in a cultural standard that doesn’t accept women (and, possibly, men, now) for their real, natural, honest-to-goodness beauty, and instead models an almost impossible perfection, that reflects weight, height, proportion, and color standards.

I have somewhat outgrown those currents of my youth, but I still don’t think I am beautiful.

Can you imagine going through your whole life, not living up to SOMEONE ELSE'S standard of beauty? I think that’s how most of us live our lives. It certainly is how I have lived mine. It really is sad, not to know oneself as beautiful—especially, when all of us really are. If I can live my life, with the feeling that I had as I left the pool / gym, then I will be living my life as beautiful. As for knowing myself as beautiful, well, that will still be some time coming.

Michael Reardon

Sometimes, I am struck by the munificence of humanity, moved to tears by unremitting or undeserved compassion, struck by those who are larger than life, who give of themselves with an expansiveness of the soul, whole-hearted enthusiasm that comes from a place I admire but rarely emulate.

Sometimes, I am struck by the end of a life that shouldn’t have ended. A news story about a 77-year-old cyclist killed while riding his bike on a city street. A young soldier with PTSD who commits suicide. A man and a mountain, repeated so many times, with the mountain the victor.

Michael Reardon was both larger than life, and a life that shouldn’t have ended. I was introduced to him through controversy, a round of letters questioning the veracity of his accomplishments, published several years ago in a climbing magazine. Struck and influenced by the vehemence of the letter content, I, too, thought he must be the poser that was alluded to over and over again. For a brief while, I had the armchair enthusiasts lip curl of cynicism whenever I saw his name in print. For a brief while only, thankfully, because the force of his personality, bursting from the written page, was enough to make me dubiously doubt the naysayers, and then to do a complete turn around in admirance of this cocky, beautiful, elemental, rebellious life-force.

Michael Reardon was a climber who performed his craft no holds barred, passionate and heart felt. And, from what I’ve read, he lived his life the same way. I haven’t climbed much recently, due to an almost absurd concentration on the sport of triathlon (Christmas ‘06 futzing up slabby granite in Texas hill country. Prior to that, summer ’05, watching my climbing buddy and forever partner, cartwheel flip off of greasy volcanic rock in a muddy, humid tropical jungle, feeling the pop of a piece pulled, yarding in rope faster than my brain could keep up, and the thankful catch), but I keep up with the sport in a loose, armchair fashion. Michael was somebody who could make my heart beat a little faster, not in the way that I used to feel when I devoured teen idol magazines in the early 70’s, but his enthusiasm for life just seemed to jump off the page and right into my being. He reminded me of Kenny Souza, who raced 1980’s biathlons with the same rock star mien and the same lion’s mane of hair.

If I am any indication, Michael gave to the common man.
His life wasn’t defined by what I or anyone else thought of it. He lived uncensored and unfettered. There are other people like him, who have touched my life merely by living their life to the fullest, but they don’t happen everyday. That individualist can drive you a little nuts, but it may just be that person who gives you something that you’ll never forget. A munificent force of character. A munificent force of life.

Michael Reardon was a free soloist climber, a professional, one of the few in the world. He would climb up rock walls without a rope, without protection, without any way to stop a fall, if a fall should happen. He solo’d crazy hard, and lived just as crazy hard. He believed in himself one hundred percent.

Michael Reardon was born in 1974. He was educated in philosophy, political science, and law. He worked in Hollywood and was passionate about filmmaking (Casper, Richie Rich, Cabin Fever are ones that have name recognition).

Michael Reardon was married to his best friend, and was a devoted husband and father.

On July 13th, 2007, he was hit by a rogue wave and swept out to sea while on the coast in Ireland. He is missing and presumed dead.