Great disertation on (from) Reardon

[billcoe]

Whoa pulled this from the site noted and put it on RC.n00b. Good stuff and very worthy of a read! Reardon also put some great soloing pics there as well.

 

 

 

http://www.freesoloist.com/page15.html

The Birth of the Anonymous Shameless Superhero

 

 

 

"Hollywood is a wonderland of dreams, chaos and utter depravity. It’s the only place on this dustball where a hairdresser can become the head of a studio and a poor Irish kid can drink a music-video director into submission to get a job. As with me, a producer/director, when your box-office receipts surpass the gross national product of a small country, you get to fly around the world, lecturing on success.

 

During a stopover in Los Angeles, a lithesome blonde with distracting attractions introduced herself during the post-speech Q & A reserved for those hungry for a break into the business. “Professor Reardon,” she started, sending blood rushing to various parts of my body as I waited to impart my entertainment wisdom, “is it true that you lied about soloing the Vampire?”

 

She had obviously Googled me prior to me ogling her to which I could only think of getting back the topic at hand - convincing this fine feminine work that being breasts layered in red Jell-O on film is art and the casting call was my office. Jack Nicholson rang in my head as I cleared my throat to imitate the master from Five Easy Pieces:

 

Bobby: I'd like an omelet, plain, and a chicken salad sandwich on wheat toast, no mayonnaise, no butter, no lettuce. And a cup of coffee.

Waitress: A #2, chicken salad sandwich. Hold the butter, the lettuce, the mayonnaise, and a cup of coffee. Anything else?

Bobby: Yeah, now all you have to do is hold the chicken, bring me the toast, give me a check for the chicken salad sandwich, and you haven't broken any rules.

Waitress: You want me to hold the chicken, huh?

Bobby: I want you to hold it between your knees.

 

Hair sticking up and ready to go, I gazed into the vacuum of her eyes and collagen smile, She’ll make a great actress, I lustily envisioned. However, a lesson, or at least a spanking, was needed if my personal life was going to visit my professional. “Truth is a rare thing,” I instructed. “Climbers are like Hollywood actors in that they both avoid responsibility to the greatest degree. Only climbers could play chess using wine bottles on bark or reinvent the tightrope and call it a ‘sport.’” She seemed to understand, nodding as I riffed. “In both entertainment and climbing, there is truth, but there are also a jealous few that refuse to believe others are capable of doing what they can’t and could never do.”

 

Sparkling eyelids blinked over the void, giving me no choice but to continue.

 

When I discovered climbing, at Tahquitz, it was in high-gloss glam and zebra-striped pink lycra. Living in Hollywood, where 8-year-old millionaires and morally bankrupt superstars coexist in a silicone stew, the rock provided solace in its constant and honest form. And I reveled in the challenge of elevating myself to its strength and charm. Soloing without a net became my fascination, and in short order, I found that by climbing alone, I could escape the repetitive grind. Days turned to weeks, weeks to years, until one remarkable moment in the Spring of 2004, I traveled two vertical miles, untethered, at Joshua Tree, doing some of the hardest - and easiest - pitches of my life in a non-stop binge powered by family, friends, and more than a couple sips of caffeine.

 

The day had started uneventful enough as I met the usual crew with no specific intentions set, but there were stress marks that my body had endured. Bruises where the cortisone was forced into the cysts in my feet and bleeding ulcers in my mouth implied a harsher training schedule than I believed performed, but this game is more mental than physical, and everything had aligned without my knowing. My hands touched the harsh chilly grains and from there everything became a blur. Circuits were linked as my partners came and went in shifts, unselfishly giving up their projects to help me with mine. The energy was unbelievable, yet perfectly reasonable at the time until it finally rested to a lazy halt. I sat there, appetite satiated, with a friend who had stuck with me for the entire ride, and together we watched the sunset turn the desert landscape into a golden paradise, giggling like school children at what just transpired.

 

Inwardly, I was proud of conquering a long-term goal and had a private feeling of satisfaction. Outwardly, the world changed in an instant. The spotlight usually reserved for my heroes – Barber and Bachar - had suddenly shifted and turned on me. Those men, living legends that conquered the sport in ways still unfathomed by many, are the legends that deserve our recognition, but it was also then that I was blindsided with spite by a clique of climbing’s lowest common denominator: the Anonymous Shameless Superhero (ASS), modern-day toadies who have, again, risen to power thanks to the great equalizer of the Internet.

 

“However, before I get too far ahead,” I told her, “know that ASSes are dedicated to rumors, lies and the eradication of truth.” She ran her fingers through her hair and pursed her lips; I knew I had to go on … for her sake. "They are climbing’s benchwarmers--never having performed themselves--and build their climbing careers by undermining the accomplishments of those on the field," I ranted.

 

“Though difficult to trace, the origins of the ASS hearken back to the dawn of man,” I narrated. I began to scrawl a sort of family tree on the chalkboard behind us. She turned, and in doing so, revealed just a hint of whale tail: Her G-string was baby blue. I filed this info away in my mental Rolodex as the blood once again filled the nether regions.

 

“Moog just sent Brontosaurus Heap,” grunted spam.

 

“Okie-dokie,” said the tribal elders.

 

“He fake and smells funny,” said the ASS.

 

Trust gained by holding the rope soon became conflated with trust in the word and truth of fellow climbers, allowing distortions to arise. This created a game of “telephone,” where every telling and re-telling twisted the story until the end barely resembled the beginning. The ASS jumped at the chance to be a rumor-monger. However, people were not afraid to go to the source, and the ASS lost credibility:

 

“Hillary conquered Everest!” shouted the British.

 

“There’s no photos - he didn’t do it!” shouted the jealous ASS.

 

“I spoke with him, so piss off and give him a medal!” shouted the Queen.

 

Ironically, rumors spread by the ASS occasionally fueled positive, progressive inspiration: John Gill, legendary boulderer and training guru, had heard that Hermann Buhl could perform a one-arm, one-finger pull-up. Amazed at such gymnastic prowess, the ever-competitive Gill pushed himself until six months later, he could do the same with almost every digit on each hand. Years later, Gill found that the Buhl story was just that--a story. The simple-minded ASS uncomprehending of wonderful feats had unleashed a new mythical hero: John Gill!

 

“So telling rumors about others is a good thing?” interrupted the inquisitive gal.

 

“No, it was an example of how an ASS is still an ASS regardless of the intent, but at times it does a body good,” I replied.

 

“Like my plastic surgeon,” she added, hands firmly grasping the obvious.

 

“Yes, like your plastic surgeon.”

 

In the 1960s through 1980s, climbing next found its center in Yosemite, where legends created climbs and vice-versa. Faced with such a concentration of notable achievements, the ASSes cried foul in a feeble attempt to diminish the greats:

 

“Bachar soloed New Dimensions,” spoke the truth.

 

“It’s not as hard when you don’t have to place gear,” spoke the ASS.

 

“Whatever, dude,” spoke the rest of the climbing community.

 

“Kauk sent Midnight Lightning,” spoke the truth.

 

“It’s just a boulder problem,” spoke the ASS.

 

“Then you do it, dumbass,” spoke the rest of the climbing community.

 

“Croft soloed Astroman and the Rostrum before lunch,” spoke the truth.

 

“But he’s not an American,” spoke the ASS.

 

“Shut the fuck up!” spoke the rest of the climbing community.

 

It was during this era that the average ASS shrank in size, and in turn, climbing flourished. 5.12 became common, and 5.13 (whoa Nellie! - even 5.14) was set as the world standard for climbing’s gods and generals.

 

ASSes however, are ravenous beasts that understand their power comes only from holding others back. The ASSes needed a new plan of attack. Many of the legends left the battleground of Camp 4 for other, unsullied regions, leaving the ASSes to fend for themselves in the blackened ashtray they called, “camp”. With so much energy, a clean-up could begin, but instead these pitiless peons preferred to wallow in the abandoned remains of the finest boxed wines under a hazy cloud of bunkweed puffs. Nothing but needles separated them from their homeless counterparts in the city, as they continued to spray among themselves no matter the accomplishment of others.

 

However, with the elite conquering fields afar, the ASSes began to gain weight with petty battles won. An ASS could wire a route and sandbag a visiting dignitary to which the other ASSes could then spray their victory amongst any willing to listen:

 

“Messner conquered the peaks!” shouted the elite.

 

“He can’t conquer El Cap in under eight hours!” shouted the ASS.

 

Silence from the climbing community for such a trivial argument.

 

With each petty battle won, the ASSes sprayed like dogs in heat and created a new coalition, establishing ground zero for the information battle that lay ahead.

 

“Why Camp 4?” asked the starlet-in-training.

 

“In the early days of climbing, ASSes were incapable of venturing out on their own, preferring to live vicariously by licking the boots of those who actually climbed,” I replied.

 

“Like an actress getting a job from a producer?”

 

“Yes, only I don’t wear boots.” Well, except for the knee-high rubber ones with the frilly leopard-lace around the rim, built specifically for their traction….

 

There are many theories as to the reasons behind the ASS, most of which trend towards a common belief that the ASSes tend to hate their lives, spouses, jobs … and selves. In the Aluminum Age, empowered by rotary-drill technology, these mental midgets discovered climbing didn’t have to be dangerous or worthy. Runouts could be limited to four inches or less; rose-scented glue and sand-colored chisels quickly plied previously ridiculed piles, to which the Weekend Armored Nintendo Kommando (WANK) was now master of this chossy terrain, an expert climber thanks not to hard work, but grade-puffery and grid-bolting.

 

A quick visit to any of these areas prompts quick discovery that anyone is capable of sending a “testpiece.” WANKs returned to their lives, spouses and jobs as kings above the climbing-ignorant, lifting their egos to heights their climbing accomplishments would never match. Drunk on their own brand of poisonous, Jim Jonesian Kool-Aid, the coalition of ASSes united these WANKs to create a Haven Of Lightweight Egos (HOLE), from which issued a geyser of slanderous, gassy ruminations:

 

“Sharma just bagged the hardest boulder problem in the world!” came the climbers’ shout.

 

“When’s he going to do a real climb?” spewed the HOLE.

 

“Hill just free’d The Nose!” came the climbers’ shout again.

 

“It’s because she has tiny fingers.” spewed the HOLE again.

 

“Josune sent 5.14c!” came the climbers’ shout one last time.

 

“A man already did that.” to which the HOLE continued to spew its frothy refrain.

 

Back in Camp 4, the coalition of ASSes grew older, fatter and weaker (others moved to Bishop), but continued to belay-bitch the handful of talented elders who had remained in the ashtray. Where most folks past their prime purchase a phallus-symbol sports car or play doctor with a waitress younger than their daughter, these Hallowed Aging Idiotic Resonators (HAIRs) resolved their midlife crises by adhering to the credo of the ASSes, and became wrapped in blindly repeating whatever the HOLE dispelled. With a powerful HOLE ringed by psychotically insistent HAIRs, the ASSes expanded in size and the climbing elite became stigmatized like never before.

 

“Someone chipped Caldwell’s natural 5.14d?” asked the horrified climbing elite.

 

“So what? Jaques LeCock just sent a 37-bolt, 20-foot, carved-out glued-up 5.14a at New Hack Shitty!” shouted the morally-bereft HAIRs.

 

“Frederic Nicole’s beloved Hueco Tanks is closed?” asked the concerned climbers of legends past.

 

“So what? A woman with hairy legs in yoga pants just sent V3 at the Happy Boulders with only 16 crashpads, three film crews and 46 spotters!” howled the HOLE.

 

“There are no sponsored Americans at Arco?” came the cry from the community best.

 

“So what? A mere $500 gets you entry to the third annual Wankfest in Tunafish, Wyoming--free Ecstasy, didgeridoo enema and tribal tattoos!” cackled the ASSes complete.

 

On and on the exchange went, with both sides of the divide getting more outrageous. Then, the ASSes discovered the Internet and a dark cloud engulfed all the world. With a promise of free expression and an instant forum in which to flesh out the truth, the Internet held the ability to diminish the ASSes' power and release the pent-up discharge of the HOLE. The Internet gave direct access to the source of any rumor, by providing the ability to send a simple email to the originator of the accomplishment. Question whether Yujo Hirayama onsighted 5.14? Send an instant message. Wonder if Hans Florine gained another speed record? Visit his website. Wonder if The Vampire was soloed? Send an e-mail to one of six easy-to-find public accounts.

 

The ASS, HOLE, and HAIRS, all flush with power, ignored this simple premise and went straight to the forums and bulletin boards to promote their slagfest agenda, feigning experience and knowledge, yet remaining anonymous so as not to be called into the ring for a much-merited bitchslap.

 

“Huber soloed 5.14a,” came the photo report.

 

“That edge he’s reaching for in the picture is a jug,” replied the HOLE.

 

“Rodden did the first ascent of a 5.14 crack,” Caldwell reported.

 

“She’s not qualified to rate it … plus she has small fingers,” stated the HAIRs.

 

“Reardon soloed two miles worth of routes at Joshua Tree in a day,” 50 witnesses claimed.

 

“Its impossible, and he’s gay,” from the ASS.

 

Using the Internet to spread disinformation and recruit like-minded pessimists with equally mediocre lives and climbing resumes, the ASS grew to enormous proportions never before seen in the history of climbing. This newfound size also created a deeper divide between rumor and truth, and buried deep in the middle was the HOLE. The HOLE continued to spew its gassy froth, but with only the HAIRs (bred strictly to suck up to the HOLE) to assuage whether any comments went too far in a desperate claim for cyberspace, the HOLE started to get caught up in its fabrications, spraying forth a constant stream and became an uncontrolled mess the HAIRs could not keep clean.

 

Prior to the Internet, the HAIRs could keep the HOLE dirt free from its lies because the ASS was smaller and easier to maintain. Now, however, they had access to immediately self publicate, on sites like ballesswonderbluffs.com and smellmychuffywetness.net, to which endless streams of spew was played. Completely disrespectful to anyone performing any feat beyond the pale, today’s HOLE has become resentful and foul, attacking anything and everything remotely touching a new level of achievement. This needs to change.

 

Climbing offers kinship like no other sport. It is the chance to join a family of fellow misfits marooned in the arctic terrain of a conformist society. Unfortunately, the ASSes of this world have brought their hate-filled lives into our vagabond tidings. They weigh us down and limit our abilities until nothing in our dreams can be accomplished, no matter how trivial. We must by lying, right? An ASS said so.

 

However, as with any infectious spew, there is a cure:

 

Establish the time and place of the event; then

 

Nullify the rumor by

 

Endorsing the truth, and

 

Make the A.S.S.(es) responsible, after which

 

Answers will follow.

 

If the climbing community can handle a simple ENEMA, maybe the HOLE will be flushed out and the ASSes will finally be brought to their knees, down with the WANKs, where they really belong. And then, our sport can continue to advance.

 

“Fine, I understand that there are asses in this world, but what about the Vampire? Did you solo it or not?” asked the job huntress. Jesus, back to this again, I thought.

 

“Does it matter? No one’s going to hire me to make a movie based on my climbing accomplishments,” I responded.

 

“Right, but the way you handle your personal life dictates how you handle your professional life,” she said, as her personal body motions dictated another professional career opportunity involving pasties and dollars. She had me on that. I could only respond by placing my hands firmly on my water bottle and prepping to squeeze. I opened my briefcase and pulled out a photograph. There I was, ropeless a few hundred feet up, before, during, and after the main crux of the climb, to which she earned the right and I gave her a job. After all, she went to the source for her answers; the rest were merely a mob undeserving of recognition."

 

[G-spotter]

shit, i'd put that up against Pat Ament and Bob Cotter's most impassioned splurtings for some of the worst climbing writing I have ever read.

[billcoe]

shit, i'd put that up against Pat Ament and Bob Cotter's most impassioned splurtings for some of the worst climbing writing I have ever read.

 

Ah bullshit, that stuff is great: you've been drinking again haven't ya?

[Bug]

Finely stated Kurt Vonnegut/Ivan Doig encased in a splat of cc.com.

[Stella]

Did that hit a bit close to home, G-Spotter?

[G-spotter]

No, but it's a great example of why many authors benefit from the skills of an editor!

[111]

What an all around talented guy. Love it, and wish he could be making more.

[powderhound]

The more I read and hear about Reardon, the sadder I become knowing that the climbing community lost one of its greats. He may have not been the best climber but it sure sounded like he climbed to have fun and and bring out the best in himeself and the poeple around him.

 

ps. it pisses me off more then it should when all the dopes nay say his accomplishments.

[pope]

There are no old, bold climbers. Not to point fingers because we've all been careless occasionally, but climbing is something you can't enjoy in a cedar box. No matter how talented and inspirational you are (or believe you are), you owe it to yourself and the people who care about you to show a little restraint.

[billcoe]

There are no old, bold climbers. Not to point fingers because we've all been careless occasionally, but climbing is something you can't enjoy in a cedar box. No matter how talented and inspirational you are (or believe you are), you owe it to yourself and the people who care about you to show a little restraint.

 

Nice speil, but I need to politely disagree as there's lots of them. John Bachar, for instance, was a regular with Mike Reardon on his soloing circuit. He almost bit it in a car accident a year ago and is back to soloing 5.11 after breaking 5 of the vertabrae in his neck in that accident.

 

I could name lots more but won't. And BTW, many of the best died doing something else anyway, suicide and car accidents come to mind. Earl Wiggan probably tops that list for his insane solo 2nd ascent of Scenic Cruise, onsite, where he gets off route in what is already one the scariest bad-assed places on earth, the Black Canyon, and unknowingly does a new 5.10d route, unroped, solo, unannounced and unplanned. Then he kills himself years later.

 

Reardon himself was standing on tera firma looking silly when a wave swept him out to sea, a not too uncommon occurance on the Washington and Oregon coast for non-climbers.

 

BTW, how sick is this, I woke up at 4 am thinking of climbing and with my mind spinning at high speed about it and unable to sleep, finally give up trying to sleep and just succumb to start spraying about it.

 

Sigh........

[Bug]

Addiction comes to mind....

[Bug]

As my girls get older I am freer to get back into climbing.

I do not intend to throw myself at the rock but I do intend to push myself and get back on some alpine 10's and 11's.

That is my favorite place to be. And I do not expect to die doing it.