I wrote a while back that I would describe my recent tattoo experience in greater detail. It's old news by now; no long essay necessary. However, I'll say this much: the folks at Body Shop Tattoo & Apparel were fantastic. So fantastic, in fact, that they keep a basket of markers in the bathroom for customers to scrawl graffiti on the walls with--and so fantastic that when I stupidly left my precious washers (the threaded hexagonal ones that I've been habitually wearing as rings, and constantly twirling around my finger, for the last six years at least) by the sink after washing my hands, they not only spared the washers from the garbage can but have been keeping them for me until my next stroll down Lawrenceville way. Oh, Body Shop also does really great tattoo work, by the way.
(It's a bit tangential, but I've learned an important lesson about blogging: don't promise that you'll write more about a given subject, or indeed any particular topic, in a later post; there's a good chance that, by the time you finally get around to posting later, you'll either have lost interest in writing about that subject, or it will have been rendered irrelevant by that time.)
Okay, on to the main course: this week I finally headed down to Pitt's Cathedral of Learning, steel-framed beauty in fine limestone Gothic garb and second-tallest building dedicated to education in the world (behind an imposing and rather hideous Communist wedding cake of a building at the University of Moscow), to hike up the stairs. All several hundred of them. Over and over again. (I don't know how many stairs, to tell you the truth; I've never counted!) It's a 36-floor climb from ground level up to the handsomely appointed Honors College reception hall where you can take in exquisite views of Carnegie Mellon, Schenley Park, the Carnegie museum complex, Oakland, and downtown in the distance without paying a penny or even passing through security. Most sensible people ride the elevators up, but those of us who are drawn (or addicted) to that arduous climb--and there are far more of them than you might think--mostly use the elevators only for the ride back down.
Climbing the tower's stairs has been a routine training ritual for me for several years; it's a habit restricted almost exclusively to the first half of the year, a useful and surprisingly satisfying physical conditioning for the Race for the Cure and half-marathon in May (in combination with plenty of running), and culminating with the Rachel Carson Trail Challenge at the end of June (in conjunction with as much outdoor hiking as I can fit in before the hike). I hadn't been over to climb the tower stairs since last summer, and I was aching to return. Admittedly, I've also been experiencing a certain amount of guilt at having consumed so many Christmas sweets and alcoholic beverages over the holiday without much in the way of intense exercise to counter the calorie intake. My workplace is only two blocks from the tower, so it's extremely convenient for me to change into shorts after work, walk over to climb, then come back and change again before heading home. As I approached the tower on Wednesday evening, gazing adoringly up at this truly magnificent piece of architecture, my smile beamed; a push through the revolving doors and all the familiar smells, sounds, and vibes of hard-earned satisfaction greeted me like an old friend. I stretched for five minutes and headed right up.
Most of the time you're on your own in those 36 floors of stairs; but you're bound to encounter other climbers from time to time, especially at the top and on the ride down. (Some people walk or run down, but there's really no physical benefit in descending the stairs unless you're training for an intense backpacking trip or mountaineering adventure and are consequently hauling a substantial load. As far as I'm concerned, by running back down after every climb up you're asking for knee trouble and increasing the chances of a wobbly-legged fall or a tragic slip from one of the occasional pools of sweat accumulating on the stairs and landings.) The diversity of people who use the stairs for training is impressive; there are folks of many ages and persuasions, degrees of fitness and areas of athletic aptitude. Some sprint up the stairs like maniacs (and generally make me jealous); others torment slowly under enormous backpacks, grinding ever uphill like locomotives while bathing in their own sweat. I generally travel light, hike quickly--about six to eight minutes per ascent--, and aim for the maximum number of iterations.
It must be all that Vinyasa yoga I've been practicing since June, but I somehow pounded out five ascents in slightly over an hour total (which includes short pauses on 36, elevator descent time, and brief water fountain breaks). Actually, I'm not being entirely honest when I say somehow. The first four were planned, and the fifth was mandated by my ever-stubborn competitive spirit, refusing to duck out without a final go because I didn't want to seem like an early quitter to the other climbers. (There were five of us waiting to use the water fountain at ground level; how could I just stroll out the doors with these self-confident athlete types scrutinizing me?) Today, I went back over and climbed another five times in far emptier stairwells.
It's amazing how one's mind operates while climbing thousands and thousands of stairs, again and again, in stale old stairwells that have become so familiar--so much like a living being. I never glance up at the floor numbers painted on the door of each floor's landing. I memorize certain semi-permanent scuff marks and observe the locations of dust bunnies, candy wrappers, and discarded paper. I obsess over other climbers' sweat droplets. I let my mind wander; I never count. I use anger or obsessions or anxieties that I can't shake to fuel my determination. When I hear other climbers approaching below me, I speed up, pretending that they're predators trying to catch me or competitors who mustn't be allowed to pass me. I never wear headphones. (I don't have an iPod so why would I wear headphones? I don't think that I'd bring an iPod even if I did have one. I like working out unencumbered by earbuds because I prefer to stay sonically connected to my environment; it's a fundamental aspect of the experience. All those sounds in the stairs are a kind of music.) I sometimes offer upbeat words of encouragement to people I pass who are struggling--often out-of-shape or older individuals who deserve to be cheered on for their effort. I marvel at the physical prowess of certain people, sneer enviously at others, indulge more than a little superiority when I outperform sporty guys who look far more athletic. Good for the fragile ego, folks.
Me and my tower are back in business. It's going to be an awesome spring.
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