Late Summer on Tuxedo

I went for a solo ride the other evening and was treated to a sprinkling of ruby-colored blueberry leaves among the usual proliferation of green. I was so happy and amped that fall is around the corner; beautiful long rides in crisp air, trail runs in a riot of color, dramatic weather with a tinge of melancholy. Pumping up the singletrack, I was starting to get that delighted, almost smug feeling about fall here on the East Coast. There are definitely times when I want to throw in the towel, pack up the '93 Camry, and head to the real mountains out west. This usually happens in the winter when I get letters forwarded to me from Delaney. But fall is the absolute best, almost painfully sweet time to live here. And it's coming soon. I know this because my smug east coast self was surprised by the increasingly early sunset and enjoyed a long pedal home in the dark.

Climbing is hard

After a voluntary and nearly total two-year break from climbing, Scott and I were coerced into a weekend Gunks trip with our supremely motivated friend Doug. Doug is a good climber. And he has an amazing attitude so it's difficult to be all huffy about the fact that he's so freaking good.

As I was saying, climbing is hard. Harder than mountain biking. Harder than running. Definitely harder than skiing. This weekend I was morbidly scared on the sharp end, and, sometime during the last two years when I wasn't paying attention, somebody replaced all my core muscles with Little Debbie snack cakes.

I miss climbing. I miss the weird folks inhabiting the fringes of the sport, the seedy overcrowded free camping, the stoically psyched and reliably hardcore Germans that always seem to be around just in case I start feeling like I'm climbing really well. I miss plugging in cams. Lots and lots of cams, in my case. I think I'm going to keep climbing. Noncommittally. At first.

Scott, thanks for reading this.