Went bouldering at Miyashita Park in Shibuya today:
The wall they have is outdoors, which is rather cool, and they also have a big lead wall as well if you have the certification to do it. It’s nice because A) it’s really cheap and B) they only let so many people in at a time — so it’s great for going with kids cause they won’t bother too many other people.
Here is the wifey:
And our friend Mami:
The only real downside was the wait — they had a pretty horrible waiting list. I think next time we should just put our name down in the morning, get lunch, and then come back later. It was a lot of fun though. I do want to go back. I just need to twist someone’s arm and get them to do the rope wall with me.
I climbed my 4th 4-kyu/6a/V3 today and on about my 3rd time attempting it (which is dramatically faster than what it has typically taken me to send that level):
It wasn’t all that bad but the holds were all rather small and pinchy. It wrecked havoc on my fingers but not really my arms — and reaching the last hold is a bit tricky. I also made a lot of progress on another 4-kyu/6a/V3 that I have been working on after getting some beta from another climber. I was kind of stuck on this one hold were I have to replace my hand with my foot, and I learned I could heel hook it instead (by watching the other guy do something somewhat similar).
I also realized something else: I’m really not going to get much better than I currently am climbing once a week. I really felt it this evening as it was my second session in three days, and I was climbing way better than I normally do. I was on the wall for about three hours straight as well. Problem is that it would be realistically hard for me to do more than one session a week with my current schedule. Oh well, that’s what happens when you get old I guess.
I went climbing down in Shibuya with my son on father’s day while the ladies stayed home and made cookies. Here is Ren rocking the cave:
I managed to climb this 6-kyu which was rather fun:
The holds are nice and positive but it’s pretty rough on the steep negative incline. The last hold is also a bit tough to reach as your legs are all under the wall at that point. Or at least mine are. Because I suck.
The wifey’s dad came up to see us a few weekends back and we all teamed up to make homemade chicken pot pies. I searched around the internet and compiled together a recipe based on stuff we had in the kitchen (using some frozen pie sheets we had just sitting there in the freezer). Oh my god — it was so good. They were a bit of a pain to make but soooo yummy.
Our family had been eating out pretty much constantly for the last two days so tonight we promised ourselves we would make something at the house. I had no good ideas so I tried something new — essentially just cramming a bunch of mess together.
We made two types of baked pasta: one being with a tomato sauce and herbs:
And the other being a gratin:
They both came out well though!
Note both were packed with chicken and vegetables and the penne was whole wheat — which was a bit new.
I had a pretty fun climbing session last week; mainly because I wasn’t expecting too much out of it but I ended up doing quite a lot. That’s the secret to happiness though I think: low expectations.
Anyhow, I managed to repeat the 4-kyu/6a/V3 I did last week and one I have been doing for some time now. The very first V3 I did has now been taken down (but it doesn’t hurt my feelings too much).
I started looking around for a 3-kyu/6b/V4 to start working on but there really isn’t too many to choose from. I was trying to get one on rather flat wall without being hands/feet restricted but I could only find one or two that came close to that, and both of those were hard as hell. There was one hands/feet restricted one downstairs that may have potential but it took me a good two or three tries just to get the first hold. I have a feeling it is going to be a really uphill battle.
Oh, and I managed to pull off that steep 5-kyu I was trying last week but it was brute force: had to half jump from the last foot hold and was dangling on for dear life with one hand to do it.
So after all that, I made my way upstairs and played around on some of the “easier” problems on the 3rd floor. I was mainly climbing a bunch of 6 and 7-kyu’s but even those were sometimes a bit challenging as they are all hands/feed restricted (which I’m really not that good at), and my arms were already totally shot.
There were lots of fun routes to climb though and I ended up enjoying myself way past the point I should have. I even found a really cool (and insanely steep) 5-kyu/5b/V2 that I want to start working on. I’ll have to give it a few runs next time when I still have some arm strength remaining.
“The Open Window” – Saki (H. H. Munro)
“My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel,” said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; “in the meantime you must try and put up with me.”
Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing.
“I know how it will be,” his sister had said when he was preparing to migrate to this rural retreat; “you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice.”
Framton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction came into the nice division.
“Do you know many of the people round here?” asked the niece, when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion.
“Hardly a soul,” said Framton. “My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here.”
He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.
“Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?” pursued the self-possessed young lady.
“Only her name and address,” admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.
“Her great tragedy happened just three years ago,” said the child; “that would be since your sister’s time.”
“Her tragedy?” asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed out of place.
“You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon,” said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened on to a lawn.
“It is quite warm for the time of the year,” said Framton; “but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?”
“Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day’s shooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to their favourite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it.” Here the child’s voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. “Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back someday, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing ‘Bertie, why do you bound?’ as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window – ”
She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance.
“I hope Vera has been amusing you?” she said.
“She has been very interesting,” said Framton.
“I hope you don’t mind the open window,” said Mrs. Sappleton briskly; “my husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting, and they always come in this way. They’ve been out for snipe in the marshes today, so they’ll make a fine mess over my poor carpets. So like you menfolk, isn’t it?”
She rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds, and the prospects for duck in the winter. To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic, he was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary.
“The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise,” announced Framton, who laboured under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one’s ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. “On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement,” he continued.
“No?” said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention – but not to what Framton was saying.
“Here they are at last!” she cried. “Just in time for tea, and don’t they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!”
Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The child was staring out through the open window with a dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction.
In the deepening twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window, they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk: “I said, Bertie, why do you bound?”
Framton grabbed wildly at his stick and hat; the hall door, the gravel drive, and the front gate were dimly noted stages in his headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to run into the hedge to avoid imminent collision.
“Here we are, my dear,” said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window, “fairly muddy, but most of it’s dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?”
“A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttel,” said Mrs. Sappleton; “could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of goodby or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost.”
“I expect it was the spaniel,” said the niece calmly; “he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve.”
Romance at short notice was her speciality.