Climbing at Rogers Rock: Little Finger (5.5)

(Photo: View of Rogers Rock from Lake George.)



I have long dreamt of rock climbing in the Adirondacks.



But until recently I could never work it out to climb up there at all. It has always seemed impractical. It is too far for a day trip from NYC. And when I get the opportunity for several days of climbing in a row, I always end up picking more glamorous destinations that are further away, like Red Rocks.



This summer, however, I finally got my chance.



My wife's good friend Greg has owned a house on Lake George for the past few years, and we planned a weekend in early July when my family could visit his family there.



As we prepared for this visit, I tried to sell Greg on the idea of climbing with me up the classic 500 foot, three-pitch route Little Finger (5.5), which ascends Rogers Slide, the slabby east face of Rogers Rock. The route would be easy for us both, I told him.



I was really psyched about climbing in such a beautiful setting, on a cliff that rises straight out of the lake. Another bonus is that the route requires an approach by boat. I knew that Greg owns a small motorboat so I thought this would be easy for us to manage as well. I figured it would be a quick ride to the cliff from his house near Bolton's Landing. We could tie up the boat, run up the route, and be be back before our wives and children even noticed we were gone.



Over the months during which I've been proposing this little adventure, Greg has made supportive noises, but I wasn't sure he was entirely serious about doing the climb with me until just before our visit. I told Greg I had a harness, a helmet and a belay device for him, but that if we were going to do the climb he'd need to get some climbing shoes. I was thrilled when he actually went to Paragon and bought a pair of La Sportivas. I could hardly believe it. We were really in business.



Now as you may have gathered, Greg is not a climber, although he has worn a harness before, and has even belayed a few times in a gym setting with an ATC. Prior to our day on Rogers Rock he'd never climbed outside.



When I talked up the climb to Greg, I always emphasized how safe we'd be. I told him he'd always be on toprope, and that I'd build super-safe anchors for us. I also told him that this climb was very easy and that there was basically no way that I would call upon him to catch me falling on it.



I said these things because I wanted him to feel like doing this route with me would be a safe, reasonable thing to do. So I had a selfish interest in saying them: I wanted Greg to agree to do the climb. But I wasn't trying to sell Greg a bill of goods. I really did believe the climb would be easy for us. It is 5.5, after all.



The only hint of concern I had at the back of my mind as I reassured Greg was that Rogers Rock features slab climbing, which is not my strong suit. I have very little experience in slab and I don't feel very secure in the discipline. But the guidebook says that Little Finger is not typical of the slab routes on Rogers Slide, in that it follows a vertical crack which provides great pro and positive holds.



With that information I felt fine about our prospects.



When our weekend visit arrived, it looked like we were going to have perfect conditions. It was rainy towards the end of the week but the forecast was good for both Saturday and Sunday. I proposed that we climb on Sunday so as to have the best chance for dry rock; also we could plan out our logistics on Saturday and prepare. The day before the climb I had Greg try on my spare harness, and I gave him a quick primer on making sure the harness was doubled back. Then I gave him a refresher on belaying with the ATC and told him the few things he'd have to remember on the climb:



1. Feed me enough rope-- do not pull me off of the rock!



2. Never let go of the brake strand.



3. Do not take me off the belay until I say "off belay."



4. DO NOT DROP YOUR ATC!!



After just a little practice I felt like we were good to go.





(Photo: approaching Rogers Rock by boat in the early morning)



We got an early start on Sunday, leaving the Bolton's Landing area by 6:30 a.m. I wanted to get there early to make sure we were the first party on the wall, and to ensure we didn't take up too much of the day.



There was a slight wrinkle that arose from the fact that I know nothing about boats.



I was assuming Greg and I would just park the motorboat somehow and leave it at the base of Rogers Rock. It turns out that this is impractical. Typically people approach by canoe or rowboat and pull the boat up onto the small bit of land that sits at the base of the cliff. Greg's motorboat is too heavy for that, and apparently-- who knew??-- if there is no place to moor the boat it can't just be left unattended at the base. So Greg's wife Peggy had to get up early to drive us in the boat to the rock. (Sorry, Peggy.)



We left our return plan tentative. Luckily there is pretty good (Verizon) cell phone coverage at Rogers Rock. We decided we'd call Peggy later and tell her whether we were going to rappel (meaning we'd need a pick-up by boat) or top out and walk around to the campground (requiring pick-up by car). Greg and Peggy had both heard from locals that people usually top out and walk off after climbing Rogers Rock. Greg preferred the idea of walking off to rappelling, but I was skeptical that topping out would be practical from Little Finger. This idea about walking off was just one of several things they had heard from neighbors about climbing on Rogers Rock, and I didn't have to climb on the rock to know some of the other things they'd heard were false. For instance, they had also been told that the whole route is protected by fixed pitons, a notion I knew to be ridiculous.



I read in the guidebook that the original Little Finger route had gone all the way up, and I saw from the topo that some other less-frequently climbed routes on Rogers Slide do actually top out. But I also knew that Little Finger as it is now typically done stops after three pitches, well short of the top. It is unmarked in the guidebook past the rap anchor atop pitch three. I told Greg that if I saw an obvious scramble to the top I was all for it, but I suspected we'd be rapping off.



The water was calm as we approached Rogers Rock and we had no trouble jumping out of the boat and onto the rocks at the base with my big backpack. I quickly got my rack and ropes out and tossed my pack back into the boat. ("You have to bring all that crap with you?" Peggy asked.) And then, after a tiny bit of engine trouble, Peggy motored away and we were alone at the base of the cliff.





(Photo: My inexperienced but totally trustworthy partner Greg. Reader, I belayed him.)



The start of Little Finger is easy to find. A little to the right of center of the huge slab, the unmistakable vertical crack of Little Finger seems to rise forever. As I stood there beneath it, the angle seemed reasonable and the crack looked very positive. I was very excited to get going. (Peggy later said that in the boat I'd seemed like "a kid in a candy store.")





(Photo: Trying to look heroic at the base of the climb. You can see the vertical crack of Little Finger rising just to my left.)



The first pitch is only 5.4. It is long, though: 180 feet. The guidebook claims, accurately, that after some early difficulties, the angle and the climbing ease as you head up to the anchor.



As I ascended the early bits, I felt a little tentative. A number of things were roaming around in my brain.



I didn't want to burden Greg with too much gear removal, so I tried to limit the amount of pro that I placed, and I avoided placing many nuts. It killed me to eschew the nuts, since the route follows a vertical crack. So I had to place a few. This climb eats nuts! But I tried my best to avoid it. And since I was placing mostly cams, I had to run it out a bit in order to conserve them, which made even easy moves seem serious.



Also, the fall I'd taken just the previous Tuesday on Ground Control (5.9) in the Gunks couldn't help but enter my mind. My confidence was a little shaken, and the two fingers I'd sprained on my right hand were still rather swollen. I tried not to use them. On such easy climbing it was usually no problem, but it still required some mental effort.



Finally, I don't think I was climbing the route terribly well. I'm sure I could have pasted one foot on the slab at all times and comfortably walked up the stupid thing. Instead, since even easy slab climbing scares the crap out of me, I basically crack-climbed it, keeping my hands and feet in the crack almost all the time. This forced my body into positions that, while secure, were likely more awkward than necessary.



Eventually, I just admitted to myself I was a little nervous, stopped and placed a cam, and rested. Then I got over it, resumed climbing, and everything was fine.





(Photo: Looking down pitch one of Little Finger (5.5).)



As I neared the first belay station, at a slightly lower-angled scoop in the rock, I began to really enjoy the climb and the beautiful surroundings. The rock was good and the view was spectacular. There was pro available in the vertical crack pretty much whenever I might want it. The day was pleasant, sunny and not too hot.



I reached the belay and found a fixed cordelette tied to a nut and a couple pitons. I used this station as one leg of a three-piece anchor, adding two cams of my own to make the anchor crazy-solid.



"Greg," I shouted. "I'm off belay."



I watched as Greg took the ropes out of his ATC.



Then he violated rule number 4.



"Uh oh, I dropped the ATC!"



Oh crap.



I envisioned bringing him up and having to give him my device, and then belaying him with a Munter hitch for the rest of the climb. Then I'd have to take the device back, lower him off from the top of the climb, and rap down to him...



"Can you reach it?" I asked. "Did it go in the lake?"



"It didn't go in the lake, but I can't reach it."



We had only about ten feet of rope left to play with, and it wasn't enough for him to walk down to where the ATC was sitting. I had tied Greg in; he didn't know how to tie a rewoven figure eight knot for himself. I didn't see a safe way for him to escape the system and retrieve the device. I was about to tell him to just forget about the device when he came up with the obvious solution.



"I'm going to get out of the harness for a sec and go grab it."



This was perfect. He knew how to double his harness back; he'd done it himself already before we got started. I knew I could trust him to do it right.



Once he got the device and put his harness back on, he did fine. He climbed the pitch and removed all the gear, looking for all the world like someone with much more experience. No falls or hangs.



Pitch two was shorter, 140 feet, with a 5.5 bulge not far off the anchor. Probably I was just more relaxed, but this pitch seemed easier than the first one to me, and Greg felt the same way. I even busted out a few slab moves on this pitch. The early bulge was easily surmounted and then lower-angled climbing led to a small stance below a roof, where there is no fixed gear. I built a three-piece gear anchor in a couple good cracks.





(Photo: Looking down pitch two of Little Finger (5.5).)



Again Greg had no trouble following the pitch or cleaning my gear.



As he followed pitch two I looked at the pitch three alternatives. The usual finish to the climb heads right from the second belay, continuing to follow the vertical crack, diagonally avoiding the roof, and then heading up to the finish. It is another long pitch of 5.5, 180 feet.



The original finish heads straight up over the roof instead of heading right. It is a more difficult alternative, rated 5.7+. The guidebook describes this as the best pitch on Rogers Slide, and says it is well-protected. Once over the roof the pitch heads straight up and eventually moves right to the same finishing anchor employed by the 5.5 finish.



I was aware that some leaders will place a piece at the overhang as a "French free" alternative for partners who are not up to free-climbing the overhang. The second can then pull on the gear to get through the crux. I felt sure we'd have no problem with the roof pitch, but I decided not to push Greg. He was doing very well, and seemed to be hiding any fear he was feeling, but I wanted him to finish the day with an air of accomplishment, not failure. 500 feet of 5.5 was probably a big enough test for him today.





(Photo: View of Lake George from the top of pitch two of Little Finger (5.5).)



So I told Greg I thought we should just do the 5.5 regular finish, and he seemed relieved.



It turned out that the first part of the third pitch, even when you go the easier 5.5 way, is still the crux of the whole route. There is a traverse on good but slabby feet (the mental crux) and then a couple steep steps up (the physical crux) before the angle eases again, leading to cruiser climbing to the finish.



There isn't too much gear for the traverse, but I tried to place as much as I could. I warned Greg about the swing potential. There is bomber gear before you move much sideways (I think I placed two pieces after I left the belay), and then it is a couple steps to the end of the overhang on the right before you get anything again. Before moving upwards through the physical crux moves you can get a great cam over your head. After those moves it is an enjoyable romp up the rest of the way to the bolted final anchor.



I could tell as I was doing the crux moves that this part of the climb might be tough for Greg, so I tried to talk to him about exactly what I was doing as I did it, and pointed out some of the holds I was using.



Once I reached the anchor I could no longer see Greg down below the roof, so I could only cross my fingers and wait. As he began the pitch I breathed easier with each inch of rope I pulled in. After a couple minutes he shouted up that he thought he might fall, but as I looked down I was relieved. I could see his hand, which meant he'd cleared the traverse, so even if he fell there wouldn't be any dangerous swinging. He'd fall a foot or two at most.



And as it turned out he didn't fall. He managed to pull through the crux and finish the climb without a single fall or hang. And, even more amazing to me, we didn't leave any stuck gear. Greg was a great partner. I'd take him along again on a climb in a heartbeat.





(Photo: rapping off.)



From the bolts atop pitch three I could tell there was no easy way to the summit. Up above was a big overhang. It wasn't too far to a bushy gully on the right end of the slab, but it did not appear to me that there was a trail over there.



Once Greg joined me at the anchor, however, I thought it was worth a look, so I had him put me back on belay and I went right to the gully just to check it out. I found a lot of loose rock on the little ledges heading over to the gully. And once at the gully I saw that it is very steep with enormous exposure. It would not be at all difficult to slip and fall hundreds of feet. With no obvious trail to the summit in sight, I went back to the belay and told Greg I thought we should call the wives and tell them to pick us up by boat. We would be rapping off.



And even though rappelling wasn't Greg's first choice, I think it was the much more convenient escape, and a much sexier one besides. Three double-rope raps to the lakefront and a waiting motorboat? That is some serious James Bond action! It sure beats a slog down a long, hot trail to a parking lot.



Later that day at Greg's local beach on the lake, his neighbors seemed shocked and delighted that we'd actually climbed Rogers Rock just like we said we would. Greg too seemed to have had a positive experience. I don't think Greg's climbing shoes will be seeing too much more use, however. He repeatedly described the climb as something he's really happy to be able to say he did once, and only once.



I told him our next target should be Deer Leap, another cliff on Lake George that the guidebook authors describe as the "biggest chosspile in the Adirondacks." With an endorsement like that, how can we resist?

Stop, Look Around...

All the walking I've been doing lately on account of the weather has made me pay even closer attention to my surroundings than I do while cycling. Everything looks different in the snow - elegant and magical. The thin patch of woods near my house has turned into a majestic white forest worthy of a 19th century Scandinavian painting. It's as if the sky was squeezed straight out of a tube of cerulean blue and the austere vertical strokes of the trees were applied with a pallet knife. It's not my style, but I am certain this scene has been painted many times. It's archetypal.



Upon emerging from the pristine wonderland, I came face to face with this. Literally: It was located at face level, and in my willingness to submerge myself so fully in my daydream, I nearly walked into it.



The city is using excavators to facilitate snow removal, as the plows alone are not enough. The effect is interesting, making the neighbourhood look like an igloo construction zone. In order to clear the center of the roads, the excavator dumps more and more snow to the sides - creating monstrous, densely packed snowbanks that line the streets like the walls of some arctic city-state.



Walking on the sidewalk is a surreal experience. You are essentially in a tunnel - with buildings on one side, igloo wall on the other. Along some stretches, the snowbanks are taller than the average human height, so as a pedestrian I can only see the sidewalk in front of me and not the road to the side of me.



Those "Do Not Enter" and "Except Bicycles" signs are for a one-way side street that has a bike lane going in the direction against traffic. For most of last winter the lane looked like this. How cute that I complained about it then: This year it's been swallowed up by the snow banks entirely.



It is not uncommon to encounter bicycles "buried alive." There were actually three separate bicycles inside this snowbank.



Less common is the sight of a bicycle being ridden - but it happens, especially on the heavily salted main roads. Note how the yellow crosswalk sign, its reflection in the puddle, and the golden light of the setting sun play off the colours in the cyclist's knitted hat - all of it especially noticeable against the white, snowy backdrop. Somehow, everything seems to be reminding me of a painting these days. Certainly this person and his hat deserve to be painted.



It's been over a month and a half now without the car. We signed up for zipcar through the Co-Habitant's work, but have not used it yet. And ironically, the blizzards are making it easier to do without: With the roads as bad as they are, we wouldn't have been traveling to any photoshoots up North anyway, and so we don't feel as if not having our car is keeping us from accomplishing anything. We'll get the car fixed as it gets closer to Spring. But for now, it's been remarkably easy to just forget about that thing and for us both to get around entirely on foot and bike. And with so many snow days, I am rediscovering walking - which I appreciate for making me stop, look around, and see my neighborhood in a new light.

The Joslin Sisters Photograph

The photo below is of four of the daughters of Lysander and Lydia Robison Joslin. It has been retouched to remove some writing that partially identified three of the four women. From that, and comparison of other photographs that have been identified, the ladies are:

• at left, Roxie Arminta Joslin Parkison (1853-1941)
• top, Anna Eliza Joslin Klingaman (1844-1885)
• right, my 2nd Great Grandmother, Malissa Mariah Joslin Brubaker Bower (1849-1937)
• bottom, Mandella "Della" Joslin Quillen (1866-1943)

The only daughter not pictured, that would have been living at the time, was Ida Blanch Joslin Dressler Lewis (1863-1937). There is a picture of Ida and her husband at the bottom of this post. A picture of Lysander and Lydia can be found in this post.

I received the scanned image from a fourth cousin, Jane (descendant of Roxie), in April .. about six months after we made contact via the internet. She received the image file from another descendant of Roxie.

We don't know where or when the picture was taken but Anna Eliza died in July 1885. Della was married at the age of 17 in July 1884, perhaps they got together then. Malissa was living in Whitley County, Indiana at that time while Anna Eliza lived in Jefferson County, Iowa. Roxie was probably still in Barton County, Kansas as was Della.

Lake Superior Ice - Last Call

Above: "Winter sunset on Pancake Bay"

As much as I hate to admit it, the ice season on Lake Superior is already over. These were the last ice images I was able to capture along the Lake Superior shoreline this year. Only a few days after these images were made, virtually all of the ice along Lake Superior's Minnesota north shore was gone. It just got too warm too early for the ice to hang around. March is usually the best month for ice on Lake Superior, but this year that just isn't going to be the case. At any rate, this weekend was a great weekend for photographing ice. My friend Roger and I had great fun photographing the ice over the weekend. And, thanks to the above average temperatures, we were actually quite comfortable (re: NOT freezing!) when we were shooting this weekend.



Above: "Crystal Blue", arguably my favorite ice image of this past winter. The center column on my Gitzo tripod actually came in quite handy for creating this image, since I had to get the camera very low to the ground to get the perspective I wanted for the shot. It was also quite tricky to set up, as I was on the slope of a rock that was covered in ice! Below: My tripod setup for capturing the "Crystal Blue" image. (Tripod image captured using my Canon G11 camera).



The above images were made at sunset, the two images below were made at sunrise the same day. We were exploring Red Rock Beach looking for some cool ice formations to photograph at sunrise and were about to give up when I found this small hole in the ice along the shoreline. This little "ice window" was only about a foot to a foot and a half tall, and I spotted it with just enough time to scramble down to it and get a shot of the sun just as it was beginning to poke up over the horizon.



Above Left: Icy Dawn

After the best of the morning light was gone, we walked out to the end of Red Rock Point and just did some exploring. Almost all of the ice was gone from the point; only a few small patches remained. At one point while walking around on the point I looked up and saw Roger sitting on the rocks, enjoying the view of the lake. I couldn't resist making this image of him enjoying the view.

Below: "A Superior View"

Battle at Little Bighorn

Sunday, August 28th - - 135 years ago, late in the afternoon of Sunday June 25th, a battle took place here that has been mired in controversy ever since. It was in this area that 210 men in five companies of the Seventh U.S. Cavalry were killed in action by Lakota (Sioux), Cheyenne, and Arapaho warriors.





“Custer's Last Stand” took place on this hillside where 42 of those 210 men, including George Armstrong Custer, lost their lives. There was supposed to be a three-prong attack but the other two columns of soldiers were delayed. In other skirmishes in the area that day and the next, an additional 58 soldiers and Indian Scouts were killed. It was called the Battle of Little Bighorn by the United States and Battle of the Greasy Grass by the Lakota (Sioux), Northern Cheyenne and Arapaho people.





Custer vastly underestimated the size of the Indian encampment in the valley below; it numbered in the thousands though not all were warriors, there were many women and children as well as older men. (Figures I've seen at various websites put the number anywhere between 6,000 and 12,000 Native Americans camped in the valley.) Thinking that his troops had been discovered, Custer felt that the element of surprise had been lost and that the Indians would quickly leave their camps. So he attacked, splitting his troops in an attempt to surround the encampment. Obviously, that didn't work!





In about a five mile stretch, along the ridges and in the gulleys, the spots where soldiers and some of the Indian Warriors were killed are identified with markers, although in most cases, not with specific names.





Many of the soldiers and the Indian Scouts were mutilated and scalped. However, Custer was not. Some say it was because he was dressed in buckskins rather than a uniform; he had been shot in the temple and in the left chest.





At the top of the hill where Custer made his “last stand” is the memorial to the soldiers and Indian Scouts who lost their lives during the two days of fighting. Their names are inscribed on the sides of the monument.





It is estimated that about 60 Indian Warriors were killed in the fighting. The spots where 14 of them were killed have been identified with reddish-brown markers. These two are for Cheyenne Warriors “Hahpehe'Onahe” aka Closed Hand and “A'Kavehe'Onahe” aka Limber Bones who “fell here on June 25, 1876 while defending the Cheyenne way of life”.





The Battlefield is dotted with interpretive signs that help in understanding what took place and when. This sign is across the road from the memorial to the fallen soldiers. The visitor center also has a 17-minute video and park Rangers give a 20-minute talk every half hour or so. The video and talks are quite interesting.





Across the road and a short distance from the memorial to the soldiers, is the Indian memorial, which was authorized in 1991 along with a law that changed the name from Custer Battlefield National Monument to Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument. A large circular area contains the above sculpture as well as a wall of displays embedded in black granite. It was quite impressive and very informative, presenting just a little bit of the battle from the perspective of the Native Americans.





A detail of the sculpture.



Some of the Indian Scouts in the employ of the U.S. Army and with the 7th Cavalry were members of the Crow nation. The Crow considered the Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho people to be their enemies because, among other things, the Sioux tribes were encroaching on what had traditionally been Crow territory.





The panel above depicts the scene of the Battle of The Greasy Grass as drawn by White Bird of the Northern Cheyenne.





On August 10, 1983 a prairie fire swept over the battlefield, burning nearly 600 acres of dense, thick vegetation. For five weeks in May and June of 1984 the National Park Service conducted a systematic archeological survey of the battlefield. They recovered 1,159 artifacts including arrow heads, bullets, cartridges, buttons, coins, soldier skeletal remains, boots, military and horse equipment, and personal items of soldiers and warriors. Archeological evidence, used in conjunction with accounts of the battle participants and placement of soldier bodies help in reconstructing the battle. Additional archeological surveys were conducted in later years and will continue in the future.





A four mile drive along the ridges of the battlefield provides some idea of the extent of the battle and the challenges wrought by the terrain.





The markers for an Interpreter Guide “Neesirapat” aka Bloody Knife and two Indian Scouts “Hukos-ta-rikus” aka Sgt Bobtail Bull and “Naahukoos Ciripaslt” aka Little Brave who fell here “while defending the Arikara way of life”.



Much has been written about the Battle of Little Bighorn with various interpretations of the events leading up to the battle and of what actually occurred during the battle – just do a search for it and I'm sure you'll come up with quite a variety of websites! It seems that History is always open to new interpretations, so regardless of your own feelings and ideas of what happened here I'm also sure you will learn something new - I know I did!

The Emptiness of Those Lives...

Over the weekend I read The Riderby TimKrabbé.



This is not a review of the book, but I will summarise it as a stream of consciousness account of what goes through a middle aged cyclist's mind as he takes part in an amateur bicycle race in southern France in 1978.I did not know very much about The Rider before reading it, which is probably why I was caught off guard by its apparently famous opening:



"Hot and overcast. I take my gear out of the car and put my bike together. Tourists and locals are watching from sidewalk cafes. Non-racers. The emptiness of those lives shocks me."



After reading these lines, I shut the book and put it away. Needing something to do, I immediately busied myself with making tea. Was I annoyed? offended? angry? and by whom or what - the writer himself or by the feeling he managed to communicate so successfully?



I review the scene in my mind's eye. So here are the racers, getting ready. And here are some spectators who came to support them. I imagine that one is a school teacher, another an emergency room doctor, another a firefighter, another a war veteran, and so on and so forth. And then I replay it: "The emptiness of those lives shocks me."



In the course of my own life, I've been fortunate enough to live and work in the midst of various "important" people - researchers dedicated to finding treatments for diseases, rescue workers in war-torn countries, politicians who have the power to effect change with a single signature, and fine artists whose work is exhibited in the worlds' greatest museums. Not once have I heard any of them refer to others' lives as empty. If anything, they often question their own choices and complain that their work is not as fulfilling in reality as they had imagined it would be. I've also known serious athletes, who, while passionate about their sport, were not consumed by it to the exclusion of all else. But I do know roadcyclists whose thoughts reflect that famous sentence in The Rider. In fact I've met quite a few.




Amateur bicycle racers and racing aspirants have a reputation for arrogance, for "taking themselves too seriously" and truly believing that cycling is the most important and fulfilling thing in the world. For some time now this has fascinated me. Is it posturing? Are those drawn to roadcyling seeking to construct a life narrative of hardship and heroism in the absence of true hardship in their lives (poverty, illness, war, rape, ethnic persecution)? or, in some cases to distract from that hardship? Or is it the other way around - that something about cycling (what? a chemical it releases?) has such a powerful effect on the body and mind that it eclipses all else and turns perfectly sane people into crazed Ahabs on two wheels?




My curiosity about this is mingled with fear, and ultimately that is probably what made me put downThe Riderafter the opening passage. Sometimes, when I spend too much time on my roadbike I can feel myself lose perspective in a way I've never lost it before. Not in terms of arrogance per se - for someone with my abilities there is nothing to be arrogant about. But, I don't know, it's as if I can sense the existence of another dimension that I am not sure I want to cross into. Some cyclists I know, they are already there and they are "different." The narrator of The Rider(which I've since read to completion) is certainly there, and he describes that state in devastating detail.

All Legs

Well, I finally watched the Triplets of Belleville. For those who have not seen it, this is a French animated film about cycling, music hall singers and sinister men in black - surreal and somewhat disturbing (in a good way). No subtitles required even if you do not understand French.



There are many fascinating details in this film, but I don't want to spoil it for those who haven't watched it. Instead I just want to note one hilarious element: the caricatured cyclist's body.



Ah, the gaunt, emaciated cyclist. Sunken eyes, protruding cheekbones. Head bobbing up and down as if the straining tendons of the neck can barely support it. Hunched back and shoulders. Spaghetti arms. Non-existent waist, narrow hips...And then, suddenly - bang! An explosion of thigh muscle, bulge upon bulge, tapering at the knees before exploding again into freakishly well defined calves. I have seen such exaggerated renderings before, but none as expressively done as in this film. The half-soulful, half-dead look on Champion's face completes the archetype.



I have now met a few real-life cyclists with similar body types. They disguise it surprisingly well when wearing regular clothing, but once in lycra the leg explosion is revealed.Seeing such marvelously distorted proportions in person,I try not to stare. But it's kind of awesome, and awe-inspiring. Gives "all legs" a new meaning.



PS: You can tell it's winter, because I'm falling prey tocycling movies. Any recommendations besides the usual suspects? For now, I'll just have to live with "Belleville Rendez-Vous" stuck in my head...