©2001 Elizabeth Kay
oil on oak
Icon of rock climbers, really great muscle tone,
and those seeking to elevate themselves
above the gravity of life.
With heelhooks edging on a crux sequence, Radboy Rocks was mentally spraying pretty highly of himself as he pinkpointed over pebble farms way above the heads of the other dudes. The route had been thuggy, even crimpy, and despite new heelhooks, toehooks, smears, and ankle locks, Radboy wasn't sure he was going be able to wrap his sweaty paw around the near featureless prow poking into a sun-drenched sky. Automatically, he thrust his hand into the canvas bag at his side and rechalked. At least he looked 100 percent in his cool new gear and stylin' lycra threads. Just beneath a double-overhang slap he turned to give a thumbs-up to Bianca, his slinky, tanned, 5.11a-climbing French girlfriend. She appeared bugsize now, but he could imagine her focusing her zoom lens on him for the ultimate hero shot that would be splashed onto a mammoth poster at next month's Climbing Trade Show. Deftly doing an Iron Cross, Radboy felt a wave of something like nirvana sweep over him, like he'd just pulled off a Sandbag-Beta-flash, or done a solid bit of Buddhaing. It was one of those exquisite moments of oneness with the universe, and he knew that for the rest of this climb he'd just Zen it.