Fashion Friday - It's a pants off!

The last week sawprobably the most exceptional pants wearingThe Cave has ever seen.









Frey Yulepulled off a stunning hibiscus board pant in bluewith a simple lemon chalk bag by Black Diamond and a translucent green denture brush.

jjobrienclimbing votes this look: Flawless





















Matt Walpole went all out Acid with awildPsy-Macaw Board Pant,

Dippers chalk bag in Acid Fluff with a deep pink plush lining (Aussie made too, that's nice)

framed in a Wild Country Syncro (way too many gear loops for practical sport climbing, but the added colour and structure works super, don't you think?)













Remember jjobrienclimbing says:Fashion iswhat separates climbers from monkeys.

Beach Weather

Ever been to the beach on a cold, rainy day?It can be brutal. It can also, every so often, surprise you with a microcosm of serenity. Finding myself in South Boston on a wet afternoon, I stopped by Carson Beach before heading home. Some Greater Boston residents balk at the mention of South Boston beaches. Too urban. Too gritty. Too close to the airport. The water is freezing. The harbor is polluted. But when I visit the 5 mile walkable, cyclable stretch of shoreline, I see an intriguing, beautiful landscape. There are hills, fortresses, turn of the century pavilions. Views of the islands, the Atlantic Ocean and the city skyline surround. There is some difficult history in this part of town. And there are people eager to forget it, enjoying their evenings after a day of work, watching planes take off over the water. Boston-Reykjavic: 5 hours. Boston-Dublin: 6 hours. Boston-Paris: 7 hours. The rest of the world is really not that far.






But on a rainy day in March no one was watching the planes take off or sitting on the beach. The shoreline paths lay abandoned, strewn with wet sand from the latest storm.






On the boardwalk I saw an off duty policeman jogging. I saw a young woman pushing a baby carriage, adjusting the cover when the rain began coming down harder. I saw an elderly man get out of a parked car and stand in the dunes looking straight ahead, then get back in the car and drive away.








Closer to the water, it suddenly grew warmer and the wind quieted down. I stepped out onto the sand and took a few strides forward.The harbor looked still as glass.There was a breeze behind me, but not ahead of me, as if the boardwalk served as some sort of microclimate border that day.





The quality of light was different too. To my right, the sand looked beige and the water a pale gray.But to my left was a patch that almost looked sunny - warm saffron and turquoise.





The dunes looked soft and inviting,I would hardly guess theyhad been covered in snow only days earlier.






A solitary boat stood, tilted, in the shallow water. Later I learned it had spent all winter in that same spot. As I studied its curious presence, the air was still, almost stuffy. This could be a summer sunset.




But only yards behind me it was raining and some degrees colder. The shuttered up snack shack glistened in the fading light as I cycled past.





Closer to the street, the wind picked up, the tree branches groaned, the rain became insistent. I zipped up my jacket and began to make my way home, leaving South Boston - and beach weather - behind.

Buster, Rover, and Bootsie

Late summer 1949 - Becky, Dad, Shep, and Doug.
1988 - Buster and one of my nieces.
1988 - Rover and Bootsie
1988 - Bootsie on top of her doghouse.
August 1992 - Bootsie

Growing up, the only pets we ever had were dogs. For whatever reason, Mom didn't like cats, so dogs it was! We went through quite a few of them. They tended to disappear though. Some got run over by cars, others were shot by irate neighbors or hunters. So we learned to enjoy them while they were around but almost never got "attached" to them. Of course, we were saddened when they were gone but another dog was there to replace them almost immediately. The two that I remember most during my high school days are Lady and Missy. Lady was a dachshund and Missy was a mixed breed. After I left home and while in the Navy I didn't have any pets. It wasn't until much later in my life that dogs became family members.

About 1981, my sister got Buster. I think he was a mix of poodle and some kind of terrier. Not tiny, but he was a small dog. He was also a fierce protector of my nieces. When my sister moved to Florida in the fall of 1988 she left Buster with one of her neighbors. Due to unforeseen circumstances my nieces came to live with my mother and me. They immediately asked if they could get Buster back. We checked with the neighbor and she agreed to let us have Buster and that is how he came to live with us. By the time he passed away five years later, he was blind and could hardly walk. We came home one day and found him dead.

In the previous year, 1987, my mother and I had purchased a vacant, old, run-down farmhouse. It was a fixer-upper but the price was right and it came with two acres of land. Almost immediately, we got dogs. They were drifters, just passing through, or dropped off by motorists. They didn't stay long though. We decided to get our own dog hoping it would stay around for a while and keep the strays away. Thus, Rover, a German Shepherd was given to us by a co-worker. He was only a couple of months old and kind of a klutz. He never did grow out of the awkwardness. About this time we also took in my brother's dog, Bootsie. She was about two years old and was a mix of Springer Spaniel and black Labrador. Though older than Rover, Bootsie was still kind of a klutz too. She had spent much of her day-time life in a cage. So she really didn't like to be confined.

So now we had three dogs! And wonder of wonders, they all got along pretty well together. Buster stayed inside most of the time while Bootsie and Rover were outside dogs. We kept Bootsie and Rover on chains most of the time. We'd let one of them loose at a time so they could run but if they were both loose at the same time, they'd sometimes be gone for days. They loved to run. Rover was the plodder and Bootsie was the graceful dame. She loved to sit on top of her doghouse. She could jump on top of it with the greatest of ease. All Rover could do was get his front paws on top.

One summer Bootsie was diagnosed with heartworm and we had to keep her and Rover separated while she underwent the treatment. Bootsie was moved down to the barn and Rover was kept up by the house. It was just awful, like a couple of kids crying constantly. Night time was the worst though, they sounded like wolves howling. It was funny and sad all at once.

We decided to put in a fenced area so the dogs wouldn't have to be chained. Great idea, right? A five-foot high fence was installed around a large area, 30x60 feet and their dog houses moved inside. We should have known it wouldn't work. We kept seeing Bootsie outside the fence when no one had let her out. One day I happened to see how she did it. Amazing really. She'd get a running start and jump, getting her front paws just over the top of the fence, then using her back paws and the wire fence push and claw her way over the top to freedom. So we sometimes just let her go but when we needed to keep her in the dog run with Rover we'd chain her up inside. If she wanted to get away from him all she had to do was jump on top of the dog house!

Rover made it through about three years. He liked to chase vehicles and one day got too close to a tractor pulling a plow. He made his way back to the house where we found him, still breathing but not long for this world. I stayed by his side until he passed away. Bootsie came up a couple times, sniffed and walked away. It was like she knew. We buried him out back behind the barn, where a few years later Buster joined him.

After Rover died, Bootsie pretty much stayed around the property so we took down the fence and just let her run loose. She also started spending the nights in the house. Bootsie had done a great job of killing the ground hogs and other vermin and liked to bring "trophies" home to us. One time I saw her across the field dragging something along. It was almost as big as she was and she was having one heck of a time pulling it across the field. She finally gets it up to the back steps and just plops down, exhausted. Really gross. The head and part of the carcass of a calf. We contacted our farmer-neighbor not quite knowing what to think. He laughed when we told him what Bootsie had done and then told us not to worry. For whatever reason the calf had been killed and the carcass had been dumped on the field along with manure for fertilizer. The remains of the calf were buried after Bootsie finished wallowing in it. The smell was horrific. And Bootsie got a bath.

For a while we thought we were going to have to have Bootsie put to sleep. She was having trouble walking and climbing the stairs. She slept upstairs in my room at night. In a visit to the vet we found out she had hip problems. He thought he could fix her up without surgery, which was a relief. I don't remember how many shots she had but he gave her something that was normally only used on horses, but it fixed her up and she was better than ever after the treatments.

When we sold the farmhouse in the fall of 1997 and moved to a subdivision near Columbia City we took Bootsie with us. She was fine with the move but because we were living in a more settled area, dogs were not supposed to run loose. She had to be kept on a leash or chained up while outside. And, of course, she didn't like that. She also didn't like loud noises, like thunderstorms and fireworks. The week of the Fourth of July the following year about did her in. She'd climb up on my lap, mind you she was a fairly large dog, and just lay there and shake. There really wasn't anything I could do to help her. Mom suggested giving her a sleeping pill thinking it might relax her. I called the vet and he said half a pill wouldn't hurt her, so with half a sleeping pill every night that week she endured that Fourth of July.

Another year went by and it was getting harder and harder to get Bootsie to go outside. She'd go on the leash if we told her we were going for a walk but she barked constantly when chained up. During the day, while I was at work, she spent most of her time in the garage. She wasn't eating much either and she started snapping at passersby. So it was in June of 1999 that I took Bootsie to the vet one last time. I couldn't bear to see her put under so just left her with the vet. As she was walking away she stopped and turned and looked at me with those soulful eyes. She knew. I was fine until then. And then the tears came, as they are now, while writing this, nine years later. I was supposed to go in to work that day, but didn't. I just drove around, crying. All day long.

Every once in a while Mom and I would talk about getting another dog, but we never did. The house has been sold, and now, living in an apartment just isn't conducive to pet ownership. I was never into birds or cats or fish. Someday, maybe I'll have another dog...

This post was written for the 50th Carnival of Genealogy whose topic is "Family Pets!"

A Little Taste of Eldo

(Photo: a view of the 300-foot Bastille taken from the descent path down from the top of the Wind Tower. In the foreground the climbers are atop the first pitch of the Wind Ridge, a point from which we traversed off the Wind Tower early in the day.)
I recently fell in love with Eldorado Canyon. I barely got to experience it, but I loved it nonetheless.
I was in Colorado for a week in August with my wife and kids, and two other families. It was my first time in the state. We were vacationing in Summit County, at least an hour and a half from Denver, but I made my friend G promise that for at least one day we'd make it to one of the world-class climbing areas near Boulder. G introduced me to rock climbing in 2006, and for this I will be forever grateful, but climbing hasn't really been his thing lately. The lucky bastard moved to Denver in July, yet by the time of our visit in late August he had yet to set foot in Boulder Canyon, Eldorado Canyon, the Flatirons.... or any other Colorado climbing area. I saw it as my duty to drag him back from our vacation house to the suburbs of his new home city so we could both be introduced to the glories of at least one of the local climbing meccas.
Out of the wealth of Colorado choices I picked Eldorado Canyon because I wanted multipitch trad routes. A friend let me borrow his copy of the old Falcon guide written by Richard Rossiter, and I'm sure it would have served me well enough if I'd used it. But because I'm a sucker for guidebooks I went ahead and purchased Steve Levin's glossy new Eldo guide, and boy is it a beautiful book, an obvious labor of love filled with helpful, comprehensive information along with many entertaining historical pieces written by the great climbers of Eldo's past.
After poring over Levin's masterpiece, I had my heart set on doing either one of two classic moderates I felt I could lead comfortably: The Bastille Crack (5.7) or Rewritten (5.7, but via the 5.8 first pitch of The Great Zot). I was confident I'd be fine on either one of these routes. But as our Eldo day approached I started to feel I shouldn't push too hard to do them. I wanted G to enjoy the day, and I knew he wouldn't want to lead anything as hard as 5.7; he might not even be comfortable following climbs at that grade. I also worried that even if he was enthusiastic he'd struggle with the cruxes and we'd end up bailing. And let's face it, I had doubts about myself as well. A climber on The Bastille Crack had decked off the low crux the week before, falling from 20 feet up at the extremely polished step left to the namesake crack. His protective gear, in the flexy flake to the right, had popped right out. I didn't want that to be me. And as for Rewritten, while I wasn't worried about decking, I knew the approach would take a while, the route would be long, the crux difficult to bail from, the traverse nerve-wracking for G, and the descent complicated. Having never been in the canyon before, I didn't want to wind up in an epic.
So at some point before we actually drove over to the canyon, I decided to shelve these ambitions, and just do something easy. I proposed to G that we do The Wind Ridge, a three-pitch 5.6 that goes to the top of the Wind Tower, one of the smaller formations in the canyon.
But nature had other plans.
We arrived in good time. As we drove in I was immediately enthralled with the canyon. The rock was gorgeous. The possibilities seemed endless. It was a weekday and we were only the third car in the lot. I couldn't resist looking at The Bastille Crack-- it is just a few steps from the parking lot-- and I thought to myself that we might get on it later if things went really fast and well. Then I forced myself to walk away from it, cross the bridge, and head to the Wind Tower.
We found our route quickly, sorted the gear, and started up. I loved the texture of the rock. The sandstone was so easy to grip; chalk seemed totally superfluous. I had been worrying about how comfortable I'd feel climbing in Eldo, about whether I'd need to adjust to the rock or the ratings, but this first pitch put my mind at ease. The climbing felt just like a 5.6 in the Gunks, and just as fun. As I finished the first pitch, I thought things were going quite well.
Then G came up and spoiled my reverie by pointing out that it was about to rain. I hadn't even noticed. Suddenly it was cloudy in every direction. Then I felt the drops begin to fall, and I became infuriated. This wasn't supposed to happen. The forecast was for temperatures in the seventies with a zero percent chance of rain. ZERO. I looked around the canyon. Just over yonder a party had started up the Bastille Crack, but we could see they were now bailing. I looked to our left and could see what seemed like an easy traverse off the Wind Tower. This seemed like a better option than continuing upward into a storm. So, reluctantly, I agreed to abandon the climb.
Back on the ground we decided to sit a while and see how the weather developed. The storm, which had seemed to be beginning, never actually got started. After those first few drops it stopped again and never really got to actually raining. The rock was still dry and other parties were going at it, climbing all around. Still, the sky was completely overcast and it appeared it could pour at any moment. So after sitting for a bit I proposed that if we could find an easy climb that we could be certain would be uncomplicated to escape from at the end of the first few pitches, we should just start climbing again. I opened the guidebook to check and immediately found a route called The Bomb, which is only 5.4 but which Levin gives three stars. It appeared easy to rap off after pitches one and two. And it was the original route up the Wind Tower, going all the way to the top. I was sold and we climbed it.
The route turned out to be very good. I'd recommend it to anyone, but as Levin warns, you should be very careful of the rotten rock near the top of the Wind Tower. It is an unavoidable band of rock, really more of a pile of sandstone shingles, that is quite easy to climb but 100% loose. There is no acceptable pro through this section, and every piece of rock that you grab could be easily pulled out.
And while the rock was totally solid lower down the tower, I did begin to have some doubts about Steve Levin's guidebook and his notion of a "PG" protection rating. One pitch ascended a trench-like feature up the wall for 90 feet. I kept searching and searching for pro, but eventually found only two chockstones to sling and two cam placements for the entire pitch. I found the climbing extremely easy, and I tried to position myself such that a fall would take me into the trench rather than down the wall, but nevertheless four placements in 90 feet was not my idea of "PG." I think this pitch would make a new leader piss his or her pants. But since the climbing felt so secure it didn't worry me very much; in fact it led me to a tiny epiphany about what it means to be "solid" in a grade.
There have come moments in the last couple years in which I've decided that I was solid in trad 5.6, then 5.7, then 5.8, and for a month or so I thought I might actually be a 5.9 trad climber. Most of these moments came when I did a climb of whatever grade and things went well. Even if I found the climb difficult, I made the moves, I placed good gear, I didn't freak out, and it seemed like the best day ever at the cliff. Then I broke my ankle last October on a 5.9+ and after recovering and gaining a little weight I found myself uncertain of everything. This whole year turned into a one step forward/two steps back sort of situation, played out over and over again. Nothing at 5.8 or above seemed to come without complications, and I could never decide if my physical or mental condition was the handicap.
Climbing The Bomb on the Wind Tower, I realized that I might have discovered a way to measure my own solid-ness in a grade, at least when it comes to my mental state. I decided I can say I'm solid in the grade if I can calmly go about my business, even when no pro appears, and not be falling apart inside. This is pretty easy to accomplish on a 5.4. But what's the highest grade at which I can perform like this?
I certainly wouldn't set out to purposely test my performance with no pro at higher grades, but I do recall one pitch earlier this year where I stumbled into the same sort of situation at a higher grade than 5.4. I was with V in the Gunks, climbing Airy Aria. V led the 5.8 first pitch. It was one of my first 5.8 leads last year, but we hadn't completed it then and we were both excited to come back this year and finish the climb. V led pitch one well and I followed it with no issues, feeling good. I then took off from the bolts atop pitch one, planning to go all the way to the GT ledge in one pitch. I made the traverse out from the anchor with no problems, and may have deliberately passed up a gear placement just above the one at the end of the traverse, thinking I'd soon find another placement and that I should conserve gear. I then entered the steep 5.7 crux portion of the pitch, and I couldn't find any pro until it was over. I kept stepping up, looking for pro, and finding none. At one point I looked back to my last piece and I was extremely unhappy; a fall would have been ugly, a long swing. But as I couldn't see any gear options I had no choice but to carry on, telling myself not to worry, I am totally solid in this grade. Eventually I made it to the little belay stance above the crux, slammed in two cams, and could exhale.
At the time this experience reminded me of the maxim that you shouldn't pass up gear placement opportunities if you don't know where your next piece will be. But looking back on it now, I think it gives me some clarity as to where I stand with regards to 5.7. I've led a ton of 5.7s this year, refused to lead one or two, and backed off a couple that I didn't like the looks of after a couple moves. But when push comes to shove, when there's no pro and no choice but to carry on, I think I'm fine at the grade. 5.8? 5.9? I have no idea. So as much as I hate to admit it I don't think I can say today that I'm solid in either grade. I haven't yet passed the test.
Back to Eldo: as we topped out on the Wind Tower, the clouds finally disappeared and we enjoyed brilliant sunshine for the rest of the afternoon. After we descended we did a couple more easy pitches, then walked around the canyon just a little before heading back to Summit County. I got a look at the Whale's Tail and the giant Redgarden Wall, and felt hungry to return. Some day soon I have to make it happen. I trust the sandstone will wait for me.

Happy Father's Day

After playing pickleball, we went to the Water Park in Williamsburg. That was what Nathan picked to do for his special day and considering it was so hot, it was a great pick as far as the rest of us were concerned. Our travel buddies joined us, so we had twice the fun. Joshua went on all of the big rides that the adults did! We had a great day.



I hope you had a wonderful Father's Day honey and I hope you get lots of use out of your gift.

I Pledge Allegiance

Another beautiful sculpture from Brookgreen Gardnes. And the nature shot:

Celeste e Bianca: Nice Day for a Ride!

Having finally nursed my celestial beauty back to health, I was ready to take her on a proper test ride... And the snow decided to pick this day of all days to arrive? It felt like the final act of an Italian tragicomic operetta. But since the forecast did not predict snow until late morning, I set off early in hopes of beating the odds. After all the drama with this bicycle, I was not willing to forgo a test ride!



For the past few monthsI had beenpatiently hunting forone of these, but having no luck finding anything in my size and budget. Finally, an online bike-friend found something that seemed perfect and I pounced on it immediately. When the bicycle arrived, it initially seemed that my worst fears about sight-unseen deals were realised and the purchase was a disaster: Not only did every single component seem to require work, but the frame was a larger size than advertised - possiblytoo large for me. I considered just re-selling the bike as-is to save myself the heartbreak. But after much debate and some outside mechanical help, things began to look up and I decided to keep it. Once the wheels were in ridable condition and we put the tires on, the moment of truth came: I did clear the top-tube sufficiently, and so continuing the renovations was deemed worth the risk.



And now here she is: a 54cm Bianchi"Nuovo Racing", circa 1983. Made in Italy,Columbus tubing, some Campagnolo components. When I got the bicycle, everything was original - right down to the water bottle, which I promptly removed.



We replaced the handlebars and brake levers with modern Nitto Noodle bars and Tektro short reach levers. (The original bars and levers were damaged. But even if they hadn't been, I have trouble using vintage ones and am only really comfortable with the Noodle + Tektro combination.)



The original Ofmega stem was 11.5cm long - which felt scary, since the bicycle was already larger than what I was used to. We replaced it with a 7mm stem.



The original 23mm tires were torn to shreds and we replaced them with 28mm gumwall Panaracer Pasela Tourguards. I might eventually switch them with the cream tires on one of my other bikes, but maybe not. The original Modolo Flash brakes on the bike were damaged, and for now we've fitted it with a set of modern Tektro brakes - but they are not an ideal fit, and I am waiting to get a set of vintage Campagnolo brakes from a bike friend which I hope to replace the modern ones with. That should look much better, so I am hoping they work out.



Otherwise, the bicycle is original, including - for now - the foam racing saddle, the shape of which feels surprisingly comfortable. The handlebars are wrapped with white cloth tape and covered in two layers of clear (not amber) shellac - which gives them a nice vintage-cream appearance. The end result is not "period-correct" by any means, but I don't think the modern parts look offensive either. It is subdued and evokes a sense of the early '80s, at least to me.



When you romanticise a particular bicycle and look forward to it too much, there is bound to be disappointment. For me, the disappointment was with the aesthetic aspects. I don't know what I was expecting, because I had poured over catalog pictures of this model before, so nothing should have been a surprise. But I guess, appearance-wise, the bike was more bland than I had anticipated.



I think that I hoped to see "Italian flare", and there simply isn't any. It's a very ordinary-looking early 80s lugged bike, painted turquoise, with a bunch of blue Bianchi decals. Well, that's okay, I thought: Now I know that there is nothing magical about these bicycles. I will either enjoy riding it, or not; either way, it will be a learning experience.



It was not until I rode the bicycle that I began to get attached to it. And make no mistake, get attached to it I did! - How could I have taken these snowy, romantic photos otherwise? I first tried the bike a couple of days ago - with the long stem and faulty original brakes - for just long enough to determine that the stem was too long and the brakes were too faulty, but the ride quality was lovely. After having replaced the stem and brakes, I finally test rode the bicycle properly, just hours before the snow storm arrived. The Co-Habitant was worried about the bike's performance and about the weather, and so he extracted a promise from me to stay close to our neighborhood. And I did - riding for 45 minutes in loops until my hands went numb from the cold (winter glove recommendations for a road bike, please?) and the snowflakes started to fall.



First impressions: The ride quality is nicer than I had expected. There was no harshness at all, and the bicycle was surprisingly stable at low speeds for a racing-style roadbike. The 54cm frame feels large, but I like it - I hope that I will be able to go back to 52cm bikes after this! The lean, even with the shorter stem, is more extreme than what I am used to. But I think I am okay with expanding my comfort zone in this respect. I was able to use the drops and the downtube shifters without feeling too unstable. And most importantly, this bicycle has the same "smooth and comfy" feel that I love so much about myMoser.



Because I have now shown a preference for several bicycles with Columbus tubing, while not being as crazy about my Reynolds 531 vintage Trek, it has been suggested that I might be a "Columbus person and not a Reynolds person". I don't know about that - or at least, I don't think that I have enough experience yet to determine such a thing. But I do know that I will be keeping this Bianchi and that I will be selling the Trek in the Spring. I won't make sweeping generalisations, such as that "I like Italian bikes" - but I do very much like the ride on theBianchi, so far. And as beautiful as the snow is, I do hope it clears up and gives us a chance to ride together again this winter.