ivan

asian toilets

one-size fits all santa hats

if only i were that kewl - sadly, this sodden time of year, like our cetacean cousins i must choose to wade deep into the water to waddle aimlessly about until spring is sprung

11/23 - day 68 - an el cap day takes me through laps 155-161 (plus an incredible 55 CBIs to make 62 runs for the day, records all, plus the single-lap total of 19, including bashful dave who abhorred the unholy crowd that clearly lay ahead on that veritable vertical sidewalk) - alas we do not end on a prime (7 X 23 - primes are poison to one another, as are far too many friends ) - mates, this day makes me sad, for how can it possibly be improved upon? late fall yet no wind and no damp, a perfect day for binging and purging and salvaging from the turd-mine of the last month all that is great in life - this is why we nibble at the shit-sandwich, to find the cherry center tucked away inside, no? - awoke before dawn to convey the daughter-child to her weigh-in n' insanely early wrestling practice, so beacon by sunup, equipped w/ pillow and sleeping bag and stove n' breakfast things in case they proved necessary - #155 a frosty one in the frozen dawn, alone before the august conditions ahead - wraiths by the waters edge on the second, my fears a forgotten thing, heading west with everything else - #157 the proud n' mighty Columbia made mild as a mill-pond - a change of outfit as my first clothes were wringing with sweat despite the sweet coolness of the air - #159 coffee and crude discourse with common-born Beatards - the glorious reverse platinum sombrero achievement unlocked, the day comes into crystal focus - noon past, we tuck into the knotty blond ales n' try not to let our eyes settle too long on the lovely lady who adornes the cans - #160 a farmer's daughter on a glorious fall day - it ain't fair life can be this easy, is it? by the proud light all about me a pride of sealions splash below my sunkist toes - #161 kincaid murray crawls up into the sky as i sit in shade, astounded by the 19 mother-fuckers i'd just passed through to achieve my little perch - dave goes bounding by the wrong way, but we rally atop the norseman n' natter n' drink small beer as the breeze builds up and the chill makes its presence known - this might well be the last Big Day of the season and if so i'll come before my Creator cruel-certain i gave it what i had and squeezed that sweet sponge of life damn near desert-dry - "leaving las vegas" the theme of the drive home, the lyrics frame it right: "such a muddy line between the things you want and the things you have to do" - baby, i'm leaving beatardia, and by-jove that's cool by me

11/22 - day 67, lap 154 - streaming sun and not a hint of breeze dogged me through the day, drooling out the classroom windows - didn't feel like friday but it sure as hell was and so hair-on-fire i flung myself eastwards with the sun a handsbreadth above the horizon at the welcome bell - in the lot with the sun near dead, dave's ride was there already and so with a double-barrel of beers i beat my way down the dark trail to make his acquaintance up high in the sky - perfect conditions unlike what i've seen in weeks, i bounded up under thick shade on dry, windless stone - together at last we beat a bit further up then supped on cervezas n' regarded the long-set sunless sky over long tales and feckless fulminations - the lot achieved in the true-dark, we saw with glee a newsome couple rapping down stone soup by headlamp after the first couple pitches and nattered enthusiastic at them for awhile before wandering away to dither over elegies n' wax large at the coming of the one-last-weekend - 35 degrees by home, i scratched my head how best to salvage a 630 drop of for the girl-child at wrestling practice just a few hours away...

11/21 - day 66, lap 153 - november near done, thanksgiving grows great in the windscreen, all thoughts turn to turkey and the scent of the sea - how a sunny forecast forecludes rationality in my tortured mind - the promise of dry stone and something like the half-light of late evening enough to keep my motor running throughout the curious grind of my quotidian querulous cycle - the ass-end of an indian summer for sure, a sighing, gusty wind pushing mid-40s air around, drying the rock as much as could be hoped for, but the deep wet still set in, fat drops of run-off going plop-plop as i gasp and perspire under the great overhang n' stow my 3/4 gloves and gauge the breeze for the best moment to burst around the corner, 200 feet up in the sky and all alone in the coming darkness - my first jaunt up the final ridge since scaring myself silly a week ago, my head so covered in hats and hoods i couldn't look up and settled for just going slow - the car at late dusk and no need to leave for near an hour to fetch a child, still i couldn't summon the chutzpah for a second lap by headlamp and settled for reading n' noodling n' staring into the dark doom of the near-distance...

11/20 - day 65, laps 151-152 - sunday solid rain n' monday too, but tuesday was chilly-cloud fog all day and nothing more, slightly stirred by a light n' limp breeze - it all amounted to that awesome annual wormageddon, a holocaust of writhing nematodes all played out upon the hardtop of the morning parking lot, where every foolish footstep portends an unending stay in buddha hell - word came from the beacon-wand though that wednesday might support an assault, and so after a sun as strong as this time of year can afford and a piercing chill breeze to boot, i got all hot n' giddy n' bolted from work early enough to get a 2-spot before the sun went down - laps alone in the cool n' damp n' a sighing, surging wind - strangers emerged from messing around with iron maiden after dark n' dave stopped by for a chat as well - the dream don't die if'n you won't let it?

11/16 - day 64, laps 148-150 (250% of last year's distinguished take by dog n' a nice round milestone too if the season is to once and finally go south on us with 6 weeks left yet to go in this foul year of our lord, two-thousand-nineteen) - 8 CBI's - woke up with no expectations, the chances of climbing anything seemed sad and so i was satisfied with that, ready for a swim if it came to it - but fog yielded to cloud and sun and with the wulf-man desiring drop-off in camas come noon i figured why not natter off in an eastern direction and suss out the situation - puddles along the proud highway to be sure, but that's not a threat to most and come beacon it was pretty promising - the trail down to the base nice n' slickery yes, and a couple folks on the route too but none of the alarm bells of yesterweek went off and so it was simple enough to don shoes n' get going up, the dread of days gone by gaunt and grey, their perilous powers over me weak n' frail today thank kee-rist - three in total, the sun scampering off the face after two, the third done in the same style as the first of the season, just a man n' a mustache n' all alone - bill coe n' ryan n' a dog n' the olde yuck-yuck before #150, which was a pride n' joy - time enough for a golden sombrero, i set it aside instead for a quick trip to adam n' claire's for a cool blue fire n' a collective calling out of the crimes of guilty man - native american memorabilia fingered n' figured on - indian heaven sheenagins for the heathen summer to come contemplated upon by candle-light - booze and wetsuits seem to be key, but its a comfort to leave a healthy measure of juicy mystery upon the table and so we'll return to this come july - dave arrived just short of departure, diminished by his duties and somewhat dim - the long orbit back, but a delightful gut-full of grilled cheese n' ham n' pickles n' burgundy afterwards to perk us brightly back up n' set our face towards that sullen n' fell-tomorrow which must come shortly...

11/13 - day 63, lap 147 - after-work laps are on the knife's edge of no longer being a thing, the sun just a degree or two above the road once arrived - the drive a conundrum of trying not to get kilt whilst simultaneously going from work to climbing kit at sixty miles per hour, set to burst from the car within twenty seconds of arrival and claim the checkered flag - the roar of the sky edging in side-ways from the east as i gallump down the slippery trail - yesterday was a godsend - nothing but rain and languid meetings all day, excuse enough to settle down and suck at the marrow of life after a straight-fortnight of surrendering to the she-devil that's consumed my senses of late - a spot of sun and wicked winds made the rock frosty but cool - at the shaded base at the proverbial 420 hour, sober by beacon standards and adorned in a motley array of jackets, hats, hoods n' gloves - less than a half hour later at the railing, the billowing sky to the west wondrous to behold and the wind a talking thing, though i don't know for the life of me what it's saying...

you boys killed it - all of us got a thick slice before da wedder gawds forked us...

11/11 - day 62, lap 146, 9 CBI - 12 straight days of beacon and i'm ready for a break, my knees bruised and achy, my spirit a bit done with stuffing fear down into the back part of the brain - one lap in the howling wind, hemmed in by crowds - the 2nd pitch in a wicked goofy state - sat up top and listened to the sky screeching by and felt fine with calling it good, reading a bit in the parking lot before fetching the boy and watching "midway," which i found a tad disappointing - guess there's no getting one over on the old charlton heston classic...

11/10 - day 61, laps 144-5 - sunday like saturday, thanks to the vets - yesterday curtailed after 2 when the rain crashed down long through the evening, but that'd been dispensed by mad max w/ the boy-childe until after the daylight died and i'd volunteered for bed - today a newe day and after 9 i set east, through cloud and fog and no feeling of favor - cape horne was hideous fogclime but with no reason for hope i kept hying away and soon thereafter was high-camped n cloistered along - the first lap ended in horror and how can i make you comprehend it? slipping and sliding, i regressed to knocking along with my knees, but soon thereafter i was on top and shivering - a few hours of reading on patton planed away the protrusions and so i plied upon a lazy second lap - that done, i returned west for a viewing of "dr sleep" w/ the family and afterwards headed off to bed thinking there was something certain beyond tomorrow

11/9 - day 60, laps 142-143 - not the saturday i'd settled on, but somehow it turned out alright - up at daybreak to finish the bill maher i'd passed out on halfway through the previous evening over bacon n' the all-mighty avocado toast - the plan to turn laps until near evening and then fetch my mentee - left the house under serious rain but it tempered by camas and faded away, the sky still deep gray and unpromising - the incorrigible bill coe n' company in the parking lot having completed lap 1, we headed down together to the base - kudos to those 2, as we started up simultaneously but they managed to top out before i could lap them, despite not dicking around more than a few minutes to top off on kombucha in the ride after lap 1 - sodden w/ sweat, i settled for sitting atop uprising alone n' sucking on that sweet, sweet temptation while looking around at the unholy sky - minutes later the heavens opened and the climbing was clearly over - worked out okay as i had chores homewards to tend to, and ended up watching classic movies w/ the boy-childe as the sky boomed down upon us - i guess there's always tomorrow...

11/8 - day 59, laps 140-1 - 16 ascents in 9 straight days of late fall, fortune shines brightly upon this unworthy boy for sure - the annual veteran's day show, such a delight to share my stage w/ someone who doesn't draw the same dull stares each diem - the ritual complete i crept out east under the dying light but with dainty winds n' set upon my business - a lap alone but encountered an olde broken boy at the top to accompany me down the trail - jon stewart i think he's called and out of the game for some time it's true, the demands of fatherhood and fixing grating bones mighty big ones - the 2nd lap under headlamp from the start, my breath foggy in the dead air, the placement of each foot n' finger a deliberate art - dave's afterwards we cooked up a rare auold great bonfire n' binged n' purged n' howled at the full moon w/ the coyotes to yip n' yowl n' keep us all amused - a 3 day weekend of fair weather open i weep to think just how much higher we can creep this rare record over...

11/8 - beacon day 58, lap 139 - 8 days of serial ascents in a season notorious for nasty weather, my weather-luck waxes fat firfuksake - chris b n' company in the parking lot shy of 420, them fresh off blood, sweat n' smears on a tempestuous day - steve had attempted to scupper my quotidian compulsion with a sly bit of doomsday-saying as he scraped away on his pretty project but i shrugged his horned-words off (what else was i gonna do?) - winds to stamp us all to shreds he said, and at cape horn with 3 foot standing waves below and the car careening all about i was tempted to abandon meself to fickle-fate i must admit, but miles more and a calm came upon us and i shivered ever so slightly less at the portended storm afore me - mid-fifties and winds i could almost have outrun in the bye-gone days of yore greeted me in the lot, the sun six inches above the horizon, and that was good enough - nattering w/ steve in the gusty breeze at the base and then it was off and alone, the golden light of the setting sun gilding the upper branches of the bending trees - a flawless ascent in sock n' shoes n' gloves n' good-on-you that care to crawl along here after me...

11/6 - day 57, lap 138 - 7 days in a row and in this season a gift greater than most on offer i'd suppose - hump-day dispensed with and hell-humors at a full-roiling boil, i burst out through the bus-lot as the big cheeses churned their engines n' edged outwards toward the surging torrent of their highway exit - supplies acquired and the sun heeling hard upon the horizon, we bent space n' soon were upon a breezy parking lot bereft of tourists - dave said he'd be there soon-time so in that faint hope i threw in his beer and headed down alone - shade worthy of poor pluto i placed stinking shoes upon naked feet n' nuzzled up on to the teat of the mountain-mother, up into the perpetually receding and rather cruel cosmos that laid beyond - dark thick as sin i sat upon the gnu ledge n' howled at the half-moon until the man hisself was there and shenanigans ensued in the dead-light - not only am i annoyed at the shortcomings of my fellow man was the upshot of it all apparently, and with proverbial tears in my eyes we parted n' i tore west only to discover i'd been rather unreliable myself - to settle the whole thing once and not for all i salved my soul w/ scorching thai food n' sank into my soul-trench, afeared of the lessons i'd once again be taught in the morning

guido fawkes got-got in the grisliest of fashions this day, poor lad - day 57, lap 137, our per-diem lap count in sharp decline but what can you do when it's solid cloud-murk n' the dregs of dusk at 430? an eerie-evening, worthy of rod serling - the air limp n' half-frozen, fogbanks lazily drifting eastwards, bringing the summit in and out of focus - parking lot to parking lot w/o encountering a soul, the pad down in near total darkness - dave n' a quick gavreent then coffee n' crawling back west to get the boys n' toast the unholy union of tacos n' trash night

11/4 - day 56, laps 135-6 - the sun just a few fingers above the horizon in the windless parking lot and a balmy 50 degrees when i rolled in near the 420 hour - not a soul on the stone - slipped a bit at the penitent man's position and felt awful alive for half a second - the sun slipped under the horizon as i beat feet down the trail, but with an hour still to kill before fetching the boy i figured why not do the first head-lamp assisted lap of the year by the light of the waxing half-moon - with the bats for company and the centipedes too i felt my way up slowly into the sky, then satisfied beyond redemption shed my skin and was born again new

11/3 - day 55 of beacon wunderlust for fey 2019, laps 133-4 - devil-sunday dawned a tad delayed, dished as it were by equally diabolical-daylight-savings-time - churlish chores chock-o-block about us, i had just a sliver of time to pound out east while the chilluns did their demon d'n'd - balmy n' nary a breath of wind, i was stripped down to my base just 50 feet off the ground, sweating like the proverbial pregnant nun n' loving it, the golden stone all to my own - the next lap and suddenly the crowds had convened their cloister and calamity was all at hand, but dauntless i donned my shoes n' shot up w/ hardly a word - 6 cbi's this time, i collided at its head w/ olde-ujahn n' company and a merry discourse mottled the next few hundred feet, whereupon i wagered the chances of passing once more through the cluster-fuck and arriving at the parking lot in time to get on home by the deadline was fuck-all - ostracized by noon then i noodled on off west into the quickly setting sun n' dispensed with the displeantries that i imagine are killing us all quietly, whether we care to notice or not...now is not the time for melancholy though, moreover given it's a fine week of weather laid out before us and domestic n' professional duties are not too ponderously piled upon us - certainly 150 laps by december 31 is no fucking febrile delusion?

11/2 - dia de los muertos, no? day 54, a golden sombrero means laps 129-132, plus a nice n' even 20 cbi's - awoke on the couch after a delightful friday night, intent on wandering upstairs to sleep in the soft bed for a few more hours, but soon saw it was 630 a.m. so settled for early coffee n' a good-old-fashioned fry-up - a cold, frosty morn, but we've managed still not to turn on the heat so i cooked in my climbing clothes n' hat from the evening afore - beacon after 10 as i put some kahlua in the coffee n' couldn't get to caring until it had run it's course - brilliant sun n' still plenty of wind, so the first few laps were limpid, freezy kind of things, me feeling all fluish, sweating n' freezing simultaneously but mostly secure in the sense it was all just a waking dream - did i see a condor? sure as hell looked like one...- many faces, many races, the trail down in particular a kaleidoscope of the multitudinous peoples that rim round the curious pacific - music alphabetically by song title, we crushed t through u n' only a few were fear-inducing in their not-so-subtle import - crowds kept dave from joining me on number 4 but i noodled along alone past 8 others and then in short order was living the dream w/ adam n' claire around a big old cheerful bonfire - night claimed its hostage and soon i headed back for a gutful of ameri-aussie food and a grand sleep in anticipation of going back out again in the morning...

i was always just me...

11/1 - all saint's day was #53 n' yielded laps 127-8 - a resplendent school day spent trying to reign in the inner zeal - successful at school-break i sizzled out east to eat of the world eclectic - a lap alone, 2 terrified cbi's claimed as sinners in the eye of the wicked wind - dave came along for the second and lord did we wax large - the gnu-ledge in a stiff breeze but beers were suckled as the sky grew gaunt - the parking lot in the dark and god damn that was some good times, gesticulating over the godawful truths we've all been transfixed by - camas-wise i wicked up the boy-childe n' commercial-grade pizza n' so was friday way-laid

10/31 - day 52, laps 125-6 - two sordid ascents on samhain before zombieland w/ the wife-bot, then fetch-n-carry for the boy-childe - 'twas a sin to do something so simple after the scorching cold of the clamber just two days earlier...

10/29 - day 51, lap 124 - howling winds haunt my day, my heathen-soul shackled to the hate-waves of late - how do we stay atop them and why? 42 degrees and 40 mph in the deep shade of the parking lot, this i suppose is what all that training was for in the not so distant days of yore - first lap this season in socks and gloves, plus 3 layers of hat and hood, my eyes screwed down to a port-lid of 12 inches, my vision no longer needed, my starfish-like fingers and toes independent things, creeping and crawling over the cold-scorched stone to seek and secure their ancestral holds - 15 short wind-shrieked minutes of fall terror, the full sequence utterly alone, Death dancing over my shoulder and patient he'll eventually get to come along and do His show

10/26 - day 50, laps 118-123 (the proverbial farmer's daughter i declare) - we're prime again, and something about 123 just rolls off the brain n' cries to run n' play away - abed by 10, but made it to an actual bed i did, and that's worth mentioning - strange dreams, sordid things, i do not like them sam-i-am - up at dawn for a bit of bill maher n' bacon n' toast n' coffee, then pounding down the proud highway - beacon by 9, the touron-tide already waxing large, i let loose alone for lap 1, the place to meself - 5 more over the hours to come and memory fails me now - jarred jackman tried to kill me with a biner but i collected it up n' passed it on w/ a smile cool as cucumbers - pouring rain suddenly on lap 2, the end of pitch 2 as gripping as anything i can remember in some time (can death come for you at 10:22 on a saturday morning? doesn't he get days off too?) - self-regulating at the car w/ berries n' tea n' what-not, the magic beans goddamn well know what to do and so my mind grows n' grows - what's the mother-fucking-frequency kenny put in an appearance, and with a mighty fine sheila too, and ain't that a fine how-ya-do? dave came along for the final lap and the sky grew purple n' thunderous as we perspirated our way upwards, pausing for brew at the usual places, descending finally in a downpour of hail and weather-hate - cut loose from the purely-personal, i beat my way west-wards for dinner w/ the folks under the golden rainbows that gilded the heavens all around, inspired by the tunes of long-dead nations to keep counting the miles even onto my surprising demise - "there is nothing more rotten, despicable and demented than a man deep in the throes of a Beacon-binge..." - fuck, mark it 123, Dude, next frame