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In an ongoing effort to lose weight, I went hiking yesterday in the Boulder Flatirons -- a series of large jagged rocks that just out from the the foothills of the Rockies in Boulder, named supposedly by Colorado's pioneer women who noticed a strong resemblance between the rocks' shapes and the irons they used to press their clothes. (Gosh, I miss those pioneer women.)
This week's painful realization: aerobic and anaerobic fitness are two wholly separate issues. Apparently, I have lungs the size of lima beans. I had to make more stops along the way than I cared to, but I eventually made it all the way up the trail. It was disconcerting to see groups of septagenarians (or greater) come stepping down the trail every ten minutes. The last old fella I saw paused alongside the trail to let me ascend beyond him. He spoke in a kindly, gentle voice saying, "You're almost there, sonny," then, smiled and added, "Not that it's worth it."
To tell another hiker that they're almost there can in fact be a thoughtful thinkg to say, especially when they look like they'd just been passed through the bowels of a rhinocerous. We all have that reserve fuel takn that can only be tapped with Hope. A promising statement, some words of encouragement is just the singular mortal act that it takes to persevere when one cannot see an end in sight. For that crusty ol' dude to add, "not that it's worth it," took a lot away from me -- more than my last short breaths, but my spirit as well. I grabbed his ankle and yanked it out from under him, laughing as he tumbled bloodily down through the trees.
Well, not really. But the gratification of thinking about it fueled me for the rest of the way up.
When I got to the summit, I was determined that the veiw before me was going to be worth it, no matter what. I'm not sure if it was, but I pretended like it was, gasping and oohing and ahhing to the point where the other hikers came to stand by me to see what I was looking at. After looking about themselves, they eventually asked me if I was in need of an albuterol inhaler, or perhaps just general medical attention.
The scenery wasn't too bad, though. There was a beautiful view of a natural formation called the Royal Arch -- a big rock doughnut that gazes over southern Boulder like a hollow eye. Passing through, one can look back northward at the Flatirons, and feel as though they could pass through this odd, stony picture frame into a great heavenly rock garden. The Third Flatiron, foremost in the painting, was being conquered by climbers with ropes. Most were wearing helmets, which I assumed weren't stuffed with silver hair as mine would be. Some poor chap fell over 100 feet this weekend off that Flatiron. Perhaps he was rapelling down and passed another climber, pausing long enough to say, "Just another few feet, man, but take your time -- the view's kinda crappy up there," right before saying, "Hey man, watch that knife -- you almost cut my-----iiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."
The trail back was oddly longer than the one up, and had a curious number of uphill portions. I found this particularly strange, since it was the same trail. On one steep ascent, I happened to catch up witht the mean old geezer that tried to crush my spirit near the Arch. He never heard me coming -- surprising, since I was wheezing like one of Bob's favorite dog squeeze toys by that point. The trail mercifully widened enought to two-man's width, or the width of one wasting old guy and one sweaty fat guy. I drew upon everything I had, even tapping into all the bottled childhood rage I could muster, reeled that old fart in and dusted past him, loosing what rocks I could above him with an insincere, "Sorry ole timer." I kept going for another ten yards around the next bend, then ducked behind a large rock for a satisfying vomit.
At least I showed him.
I hope he slipped in my Powerbar puke puddle.
I sure miss my billy goat days when I could bound up such trails with ease -- a Marlboro in one hoof and a flask of whiskey in the other. Yesterday, at the pinnacle, I did particularly miss the companionship of my old vices, and suffered a small bout of alveoli envy. Formerly, it was always a ritual for me to summit, take a shot off my flask and enjoy a smoke at the top of the world. Instead, now, I stood at the top, hands on my knees, my arced posture trying to smother the fire in my lungs, bloodshot eyes watching my sweat droplets coat the ground and some very confused ants. "Hey, Frank, I thought it wasn't supposed to rain today."
"Cripes, Jack, what's that smell?"
When the mezzotint of oxygen deprivation left my vision, I paused and thought, "Now what?"
Now you go back down. Wasn't that fun, Sysiphus?
This week's painful realization: aerobic and anaerobic fitness are two wholly separate issues. Apparently, I have lungs the size of lima beans. I had to make more stops along the way than I cared to, but I eventually made it all the way up the trail. It was disconcerting to see groups of septagenarians (or greater) come stepping down the trail every ten minutes. The last old fella I saw paused alongside the trail to let me ascend beyond him. He spoke in a kindly, gentle voice saying, "You're almost there, sonny," then, smiled and added, "Not that it's worth it."
To tell another hiker that they're almost there can in fact be a thoughtful thinkg to say, especially when they look like they'd just been passed through the bowels of a rhinocerous. We all have that reserve fuel takn that can only be tapped with Hope. A promising statement, some words of encouragement is just the singular mortal act that it takes to persevere when one cannot see an end in sight. For that crusty ol' dude to add, "not that it's worth it," took a lot away from me -- more than my last short breaths, but my spirit as well. I grabbed his ankle and yanked it out from under him, laughing as he tumbled bloodily down through the trees.
Well, not really. But the gratification of thinking about it fueled me for the rest of the way up.
When I got to the summit, I was determined that the veiw before me was going to be worth it, no matter what. I'm not sure if it was, but I pretended like it was, gasping and oohing and ahhing to the point where the other hikers came to stand by me to see what I was looking at. After looking about themselves, they eventually asked me if I was in need of an albuterol inhaler, or perhaps just general medical attention.
The scenery wasn't too bad, though. There was a beautiful view of a natural formation called the Royal Arch -- a big rock doughnut that gazes over southern Boulder like a hollow eye. Passing through, one can look back northward at the Flatirons, and feel as though they could pass through this odd, stony picture frame into a great heavenly rock garden. The Third Flatiron, foremost in the painting, was being conquered by climbers with ropes. Most were wearing helmets, which I assumed weren't stuffed with silver hair as mine would be. Some poor chap fell over 100 feet this weekend off that Flatiron. Perhaps he was rapelling down and passed another climber, pausing long enough to say, "Just another few feet, man, but take your time -- the view's kinda crappy up there," right before saying, "Hey man, watch that knife -- you almost cut my-----iiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."
The trail back was oddly longer than the one up, and had a curious number of uphill portions. I found this particularly strange, since it was the same trail. On one steep ascent, I happened to catch up witht the mean old geezer that tried to crush my spirit near the Arch. He never heard me coming -- surprising, since I was wheezing like one of Bob's favorite dog squeeze toys by that point. The trail mercifully widened enought to two-man's width, or the width of one wasting old guy and one sweaty fat guy. I drew upon everything I had, even tapping into all the bottled childhood rage I could muster, reeled that old fart in and dusted past him, loosing what rocks I could above him with an insincere, "Sorry ole timer." I kept going for another ten yards around the next bend, then ducked behind a large rock for a satisfying vomit.
At least I showed him.
I hope he slipped in my Powerbar puke puddle.
I sure miss my billy goat days when I could bound up such trails with ease -- a Marlboro in one hoof and a flask of whiskey in the other. Yesterday, at the pinnacle, I did particularly miss the companionship of my old vices, and suffered a small bout of alveoli envy. Formerly, it was always a ritual for me to summit, take a shot off my flask and enjoy a smoke at the top of the world. Instead, now, I stood at the top, hands on my knees, my arced posture trying to smother the fire in my lungs, bloodshot eyes watching my sweat droplets coat the ground and some very confused ants. "Hey, Frank, I thought it wasn't supposed to rain today."
"Cripes, Jack, what's that smell?"
When the mezzotint of oxygen deprivation left my vision, I paused and thought, "Now what?"
Now you go back down. Wasn't that fun, Sysiphus?
