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Some of My Best Friends are Poodles |
Reaching my left hand out from under the blanket I fumbled for the alarm clock on the night stand, hoping that my fist, pounding indiscriminately across the wood's surface, would eventually connect with the snooze button. It was 8 a.m. on a 20 degree Sunday morning. Like a malnourished Rotweiler distracted from a pittance of kibble by an unwary and wholly unsuspecting child, I snarled at my wife attempting to wake me, yet remained for the most part still and focused on the task at hand: sleeping. Bolting upright from her normal coma-like slumber at the first electronic beep, she pounced on me excitedly, ready to don her running shoes and windbreaker and escape into the brisk New England air for a long weekend run. Of course in the process of climbing over me to get out of the bed, she accidentally drove her knee directly into my back. At the least, I was awake now, and lucid enough to begin speculating about the mental imbalance unique to the long distance runner. "What the hell is wrong with these people?" I thought to myself staring out the front window of my apartment along Commonwealth Avenue, with each runner who passed looking cold and tired, yet distinctly chic in their brightly colored running apparel. One woman appeared to be dragging an invisible fifty pound sled behind her, her gait characteristic of a beleaguered and weather-beaten alpinist. I couldn't help picturing a defeated climber coming down off of Denali and simultaneously hearing Chris Tucker's voice in my head issue a long and shocked "DAAAAAMN." Who can say where these things come from? As I gathered up my sneakers, my thoughts turned to my local bouldering area, Hammond Pond, a scattering of conglomerate outcrops and boulders in a fairly affluent and uptight neighborhood, which lay just a few blocks south amongst a suburban tangle of streets that make up my jogging route. A few days before, I had trudged up the hill to the boulders along a path of footprints in the light covering of snow along the trail to one of my favorite areas, the Alcove, a set of slightly overhung walls overlooking a shi-shi shopping mall, a Bloomingdales, and a parking lot that would make the Joneses proud. As I unfolded my crashpad and sat down to tape an injured finger, I watched the air as I exhaled. I wiggled my toes and felt the cold on my skin as I changed into my climbing shoes, and rubbed chalk lightly into my hands. It was a quiet afternoon, the rush of passing cars on the parkway just down the hill a faint yet constant and comforting white noise, tree branches creaking up above. I tossed my pad beneath a tricky section of wall and stepped gingerly onto small frictionless pebbles, and was immediately glad that I wouldn't spend the next two days clearing chalk filled snot from my sinuses, or waste time getting pissed off driving home because I paid twelve dollars to wait in line at the climbing gym. Sure, I'd lost feeling in my big toe and my fingers felt as though tiny ice crystals were starting to form just below the surface of the skin, but didn't this beat the Yojimbos off pulling on plastic in an old warehouse packed with people? You know, indoors with heat and plumbing and three dollar juices for sale? So, having sliced neatly into the pulp of my palm after missing a dyno, I decided to retreat. As I stumbled down the hill to the parking lot, and encountered a middle-aged couple exiting their Mercedes along with a large, freshly groomed and shorn Black Poodle, I'm sure I gave them pause. But the poodle¾ that regal beast ¾ having caught sight of me, took one inquisitive look back to his owners, pawed his way up to me, sniffed my shoes, and dropped a load at my feet before taking off into the trees, his tongue wagging with a canine disregard for etiquette. "Good grief," I thought smiling and waved good morning to the couple, raising my taped and bloody hand. The woman offered a polite smile, and looked past me for her energetic and scatological pedigree; the man stood with his car door ajar and nodded with apprehension from beneath a Stetson. Aside from the red spotted tape covering my hand, I realized that my green sweatpants were ripped on one side and not particularly as fashionable as say, an ensemble charged at Bloomies. But at least the bright patches on my down jacket drew one's attention away from its dirty gray shell (which had once been blue). And come to think of it, maybe the neon purple laces in my sneakers didn't help foster a feeling of ease and familiarity either. As I start huffing it down the block, my lungs ache from suddenly meeting the icy air. I'm not quite sure how I'm going to make it the nine miles it'll take to get back home, and the only damn thing that pops into my head is the guy in the Stetson and his poodle. Well, what can I say, some people just don't make any sense at all. |
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Disclaimer Bouldering is dangerous. You could be seriously injured or killed. Do not attempt any of the problems described in this web page unless you have the expertise to do so. NewEnglandBouldering.com does not assume any liability for your safety or well being. |