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Tuesday, June 15, 2004 · posted at 11:27 PM

To infinity and beyond. May, who introduces me to all things physical activity (see swim), took me to the rock climbing gym yesterday. Alas, this was not my first time rock climbing (I am after all the second place winner of the Women's Rock Climbing Challenge aboard a Royal Caribbean cruise vessel the weekend of May 22nd. My roommate got first and the remaining contender received third), but it was the first time I had any kind of instruction other than "Go!"

Pretty much the first thing you do as a newcomer is sign the waiver. Several pieces of paper stating, in effect, that I would not be able to sue for any damages that may be incurred. Or this is what I believed it to be. It was several pieces of paper, not an interesting read, and the instructor was droning on about his glory days as a rock climber and Cat 2 cyclist. Who knows what I signed. Maybe it said "cat piss"

The helmet waiver. To sign or not to sign. Looking around, there is not a helmet in sight. The question of, "Do I need a helmet?" is answered with a scoff. But I like my brain (even when it doesn't work so good). And they made us wear helmets on the Royal Caribbean, and surely they know what rock climbing is all about! The combination of peer pressure and fear of public humiliation (which, as you read on, happened anyways and thus should not have been a deciding factor) forced the initialing of the box and Vertical Hold (who shockingly doesn't have a website) has now been released of any and all responsibility of any casualty based on my stupidity.

Learning to belay (insert any of a multitude of dirty jokes here). A belayer is the person who stands at the bottom of the mountain (or in this case, wall trying to disguise itself as a rock) and steadies the line of the climber, taking up slack, giving slack, etc. Someone who wears 100 pounds can belay a person who weighs 300 due to the pulley system and physics... or so I’ve been told. F = ma right? I have no clue. I just hope it’s true and cross my fingers anytime anyone goes up - keeping my other fingers on the line at all times, of course.

To secure the line to your harness for a climb, you use a double Figure 8 knot (under, over and through). This was pretty simple (my experience as part of the Boatswain crew as a fourth grader aboard the ship, The Pilgrim, must have primed me for this skill) - up until the time I had to perform it for Ole Glory Days. Choke, choke, choke. And to add insult to injury, Ole Glory Days had to re-teach me to belay using a hand-over-hand method. I think his exact words were, “This is how I taught the knuckleheads in the military how to do it.” Hi, my name is Knucklehead, and you are?

Finally, the climbing. May is a monkey. She’s crazy. She scaled those walls like nobody’s business. And me? Well, my ascent was more along the lines of a three-toed sloth (whose “only real habit is indolence” says Martel).

Most of the climbs were not too bad, especially since I took them cheater-style and used any foothold while May inched me up using the forces of physics. One was labeled “Fun Climb.” Was there anything in that waiver that protected against false advertising? This so-called “Fun Climb” featured what’s called a roof, an overhang that runs parallel to the floor. Real fun. Of course May conquered that wall in a matter of seconds. The trick is to push yourself up from a squatting position and reach for the next hold. “Some people can’t do that. We’re Chinese, we can do that,” May reassured me. This is all at a 90 degree angle to the ground, mind you. Haven’t these people heard of this thing called gravity?

My cries of “I can’t do it" and "Really May, it's too hard” reverberated through Vertical Hold’s walls. Never again will I mock Sarah from Campus Crawl for not completing a mission, nor will I jog with my sister and say "one more lap" when I really intend to make her do five. In a gym full of seasoned climbers, the patrons either 1) found the patheticalness amusing or 2) found my desperate cries annoying and distracting as they attempted to climb underhangs with holds the size of a "nubbin" sans harness.

One of the many things hampering my success is that I tried to put my whole foot on the hold rather than just my toes. Who knew rock climbing was all about pointy toes? And really, when your big toe is just as long, or short rather, as your second toe... there is no point.

When I was eight, I took ballet lessons at the local community center. I did my pliés, knew first position from third position and would go home and do arabesques at the barre (read: doorknob, any doorknob). Then one class, the girl right next to me alongé-d her bright pink fiberglass casted arm right into my face. And I never returned. Ruined my career as a short, stocky ballerina with no coordination, I tell ya. Anyway, one of the advantages of quitting ballet, aside from the obvious avoidance of eating disorder-related problems (see Dying to Dance) was never having to do pointy toes again.

I climb too much with my arms. I have no idea why since clearly my 8-inch ~~pythons~~ garden snakes are not going to do a whole lot for me. The thing is, opposable thumbs I understand... pointy toes and toes that grip? Yeah, not so much. “Trust your feet,” May said. Trust my feet? After years of cramming them into uncomfortable heels with steep inclines? After squeezing my W feet into B width shoes? I can only imagine my feet hate me at this point… and you want me to trust them?

To rock climb, not only do you have to put aside your fear of heights and your belief in gravity, but you have to get rid of any traces of OCD as well.

Yesterday, I crammed my feet (with socks) into rented footgear. Rented footgear. Shoes that someone else had previously worn, possibly for extended periods of time, and sweat in. And not just normal sweat, but foot sweat! I was somewhat grateful when I sprained my finger bowling because that gave me an excuse to never wear rented bowling shoes again (I’m sensing a trend here of the quitter variety). The only way I can rationalize wearing rented shoes is that they spray/disinfect the shoes and air them out – a luxury my own shoes do not have.

In addition, other essential gear includes a harness which has clenched the crotch area of countless people before you.

And let’s not forget about the climbing. What kind of bacteria is living in the rope? And the holds? Your hands and feet all go on the same holds. The only comfort is that the soles of climbing shoes should be fairly clean without much worry for a recent encounter with dog poop or chewing gum. And could bacteria possibly survive at such heights of you know, 3 stories? My freshman year, the administration told us that people on the 4th floor needn’t window screens because bugs don’t fly that high. Tell that to the guy who went into anaphylactic shock from a bee string sustained on the roof top.

All in all, while a fun experience, I was incredibly glad when FM 94.9 stopped blasting from the speakers and indicated that it was closing time and I’d no longer have to keep stretching for that next hold.

I guess I won’t need to fill out that Road Rules application after all.



	Tuesday, June 15, 2004 · posted at 11:27 PM To infinity and beyond. May, who introduces me to all things physical activity (see swim), took me to the rock climbing gym yesterday. Alas, this was not my first time rock climbing (I am after all the second place winner of the Women's Rock Climbing Challenge aboard a Royal Caribbean cruise vessel the weekend of May 22nd. My roommate got first and the remaining contender received third), but it was the first time I had any kind of instruction other than "Go!" Pretty much the first thing you do as a newcomer is sign the waiver. Several pieces of paper stating, in effect, that I would not be able to sue for any damages that may be incurred. Or this is what I believed it to be. It was several pieces of paper, not an interesting read, and the instructor was droning on about his glory days as a rock climber and Cat 2 cyclist. Who knows what I signed. Maybe it said "cat piss" The helmet waiver. To sign or not to sign. Looking around, there is not a helmet in sight. The question of, "Do I need a helmet?" is answered with a scoff. But I like my brain (even when it doesn't work so good). And they made us wear helmets on the Royal Caribbean, and surely they know what rock climbing is all about! The combination of peer pressure and fear of public humiliation (which, as you read on, happened anyways and thus should not have been a deciding factor) forced the initialing of the box and Vertical Hold (who shockingly doesn't have a website) has now been released of any and all responsibility of any casualty based on my stupidity. Learning to belay (insert any of a multitude of dirty jokes here). A belayer is the person who stands at the bottom of the mountain (or in this case, wall trying to disguise itself as a rock) and steadies the line of the climber, taking up slack, giving slack, etc. Someone who wears 100 pounds can belay a person who weighs 300 due to the pulley system and physics... or so I’ve been told. F = ma right? I have no clue. I just hope it’s true and cross my fingers anytime anyone goes up - keeping my other fingers on the line at all times, of course. To secure the line to your harness for a climb, you use a double Figure 8 knot (under, over and through). This was pretty simple (my experience as part of the Boatswain crew as a fourth grader aboard the ship, The Pilgrim, must have primed me for this skill) - up until the time I had to perform it for Ole Glory Days. Choke, choke, choke. And to add insult to injury, Ole Glory Days had to re-teach me to belay using a hand-over-hand method. I think his exact words were, “This is how I taught the knuckleheads in the military how to do it.” Hi, my name is Knucklehead, and you are? Finally, the climbing. May is a monkey. She’s crazy. She scaled those walls like nobody’s business. And me? Well, my ascent was more along the lines of a three-toed sloth (whose “only real habit is indolence” says Martel). Most of the climbs were not too bad, especially since I took them cheater-style and used any foothold while May inched me up using the forces of physics. One was labeled “Fun Climb.” Was there anything in that waiver that protected against false advertising? This so-called “Fun Climb” featured what’s called a roof, an overhang that runs parallel to the floor. Real fun. Of course May conquered that wall in a matter of seconds. The trick is to push yourself up from a squatting position and reach for the next hold. “Some people can’t do that. We’re Chinese, we can do that,” May reassured me. This is all at a 90 degree angle to the ground, mind you. Haven’t these people heard of this thing called gravity? My cries of “I can’t do it" and "Really May, it's too hard” reverberated through Vertical Hold’s walls. Never again will I mock Sarah from Campus Crawl for not completing a mission, nor will I jog with my sister and say "one more lap" when I really intend to make her do five. In a gym full of seasoned climbers, the patrons either 1) found the patheticalness amusing or 2) found my desperate cries annoying and distracting as they attempted to climb underhangs with holds the size of a "nubbin" sans harness. One of the many things hampering my success is that I tried to put my whole foot on the hold rather than just my toes. Who knew rock climbing was all about pointy toes? And really, when your big toe is just as long, or short rather, as your second toe... there is no point. When I was eight, I took ballet lessons at the local community center. I did my pliés, knew first position from third position and would go home and do arabesques at the barre (read: doorknob, any doorknob). Then one class, the girl right next to me alongé-d her bright pink fiberglass casted arm right into my face. And I never returned. Ruined my career as a short, stocky ballerina with no coordination, I tell ya. Anyway, one of the advantages of quitting ballet, aside from the obvious avoidance of eating disorder-related problems (see Dying to Dance) was never having to do pointy toes again. I climb too much with my arms. I have no idea why since clearly my 8-inch ~~pythons~~ garden snakes are not going to do a whole lot for me. The thing is, opposable thumbs I understand... pointy toes and toes that grip? Yeah, not so much. “Trust your feet,” May said. Trust my feet? After years of cramming them into uncomfortable heels with steep inclines? After squeezing my W feet into B width shoes? I can only imagine my feet hate me at this point… and you want me to trust them? To rock climb, not only do you have to put aside your fear of heights and your belief in gravity, but you have to get rid of any traces of OCD as well. Yesterday, I crammed my feet (with socks) into rented footgear. Rented footgear. Shoes that someone else had previously worn, possibly for extended periods of time, and sweat in. And not just normal sweat, but foot sweat! I was somewhat grateful when I sprained my finger bowling because that gave me an excuse to never wear rented bowling shoes again (I’m sensing a trend here of the quitter variety). The only way I can rationalize wearing rented shoes is that they spray/disinfect the shoes and air them out – a luxury my own shoes do not have. In addition, other essential gear includes a harness which has clenched the crotch area of countless people before you. And let’s not forget about the climbing. What kind of bacteria is living in the rope? And the holds? Your hands and feet all go on the same holds. The only comfort is that the soles of climbing shoes should be fairly clean without much worry for a recent encounter with dog poop or chewing gum. And could bacteria possibly survive at such heights of you know, 3 stories? My freshman year, the administration told us that people on the 4th floor needn’t window screens because bugs don’t fly that high. Tell that to the guy who went into anaphylactic shock from a bee string sustained on the roof top. All in all, while a fun experience, I was incredibly glad when FM 94.9 stopped blasting from the speakers and indicated that it was closing time and I’d no longer have to keep stretching for that next hold. I guess I won’t need to fill out that Road Rules application after all.	Recent Posts There's something of the mudslide about you. You ... I am a writer. I want to be a published writer. ... Disclaimer: I am not a basketball expert. The las... Swiss cheesed. 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