Monday, September 17, 2007

Flipflop

“It’s a shirt.” I contested.

“Ma’am, remove your jacket.” He said, again. I wondered what kind of mark on my already marred TSA record would result in calling a security agent a pervert.

I stood half naked in a sports bra. Unflappable, he gestured toward my feet.

“Your shoes” he said flatly.

Now I was pissed.

“They’re flip-flops!” I spat, unable to hold my tongue.

“Ma’am, please step over there”

He pointed to the enclosed glass corral for problem passengers.

“Female assist!” He hollered.

Now I was screwed.

I waited in the black plastic chair, flip-flops obediently placed in the outline of feet in front of me.

Now I was late.

Eventually, the woman with the wand waddled up and looked down her nose at my feet. They were filthy from a week spent in the dirt at Tahquitz.

BEEP! The wand responded as she waved it over my right foot, detecting the twelve screws and metal plate. I pointed out the six-inch surgical scar and after considerable consideration, she released me.

“Have a nice day (delay)”

I grabbed my laptop and Ipod, and leapt into a sprint toward terminal 8, gate 88.

A gap opened up ahead. In haste, I went for the hole shot and stepped in the puddle of spilled smoothie everyone else was avoiding. The sticky residue produced a rhythmic crackling sound each time my foot lifted from the floor. My breaths came in open-mouthed gasps as I raced to the beat of slap, flip, slap, crackle, flip; slap, flip, slap, crackle, flip. I imagined O.J. Simpson. My left arm, which clutched my laptop, pumped faster. I hurdled the outstretched power cord of a charging cell phone. I overtook a portly bike cop on a straightaway. I disruptively burst through the line at Starbucks.

At the end of the terminal, the bouncing, illuminated vision of ‘GATE 88’ grew larger.

As the last confirmed passenger to board, I collapsed into seat 34C. Ironically, I was still only wearing my sports bra.

Trade Show Mania

Feeling a slightly uneasy nostalgia, I entered the Salt Palace the Monday before the tradeshow. The lights were dim, crates were scattered everywhere, heavy machinery beeped and competing boom boxes scratched out every genre of music.

I’ve been to eighteen Outdoor Retailers. I’ve arrived in planes, box vans, Uhauls, a 1976 RV, and countless road trip vehicles. This time, however, I drove my own vehicle the ten blocks from my house. That’s right, after all the years of dissin’ Salt Lake, I now live here.

I self elected myself to design and take charge of the AAC booth for this show. My vision was to erect a mini library. One of the greatest assets of the AAC, in my opinion, is the library, and I wanted to take that theme and design the booth with that in mind. I wanted it to be a cool hang for people to relax and browse through old climbing publications and discuss who had the better mullet, Scott Franklin or Lynn Hill, most outrageous lycra, Scott Franklin or Lynn Hill.

Because of budgetary constraints, I didn’t have much to work with so I did the best I could. My boyfriend came home from work after the first day of setup and exclaimed, “Where’s all our living room furniture?”

The Wednesday before the show started we hosted an eclectic group of friends including: Phil Powers, Jim Donini, Jack Tackle, Russ Clune, Lynn Hill (and her Mom), Christian Griffith (aka, Verve), Timmy Oneill, Ivo Ninov, Ammon McNeely, Joe Kindner, Dave Graham, Patagonia, Prana, Petzl, TNF, Black Diamond and our next door neighbor, Joe, a Vietnam vet from Guatemala. Needless to say, this was not the most restful or detoxifying way to start the show. Over the course of the four days of the show, we had personalities come by for ‘Story Time’. Lynn Hill, Heidi Wirtz, Ivo and Ammon, and Chris Lindner all came by to share stories, videos, pictures and gossip. And of course, there were the old guys, Jim Donini and Jim McCarthy (who devotedly manned the booth most of the time). Also seen and heard were Ed Viesteurs, Conrad Anker and Jim Bridwell. We even smuggled in a case of 3.2 Pabst (oh no we dih-int)

This year’s bouldering comp was held on top of the Shilo Inn’s parking garage, which turned out to be a fantastic location with a record attendance. Located right across the street from the Salt Palace, folks started assembling as soon as the beer started flowing. The wall faced south, the temps were in the 90s and the women finalists started at 6pm. Conditions were not crisp. The women were HOT! And I do mean HOT—half of the competitors wore Verve’s barely-there boom-boom shorts and teeny tiny micro-bras. And let me tell you, they wore them well. No way my mother would have let me out the door when I was 14 wearing that get up. For the men, who were unfortunately dressed more modestly (baggy shorts, boo-hoo), new AAC member Chris Sharma, took first.

A crazy after party was held at Club Sound where I had the occasion to meet yet another member from the Lynn Hill family. Her brother Tom owns the place. This normally means free drinks, but thing is, drinks were already free! Mammut, EMS and Revolution really know how to throw a party. Did I mention the cage dancers? Although I still maintain the women’s finalists were hotter.