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When a series of unfortunate (or misguided) events found me in Utah nearing the end of my proverbial rope, in an act of desperation (or salvation?), I caved; I gave up on my monolithic faith in climbing. I needed another out. I bought a bike.
Without focus (or a serious amount of natural talent) you’re doomed to mediocrity in whatever you do. This, and the theory that the average person can be legitimately good at one sport per season, I have always believed.
When I fell in love with climbing it was all about the Type 1 fun—enjoying a day on the mountain with friends. Then Type 1 lead to Type 2 and to Type 3. I was hooked—all the way—I made the decision to arrange my entire life around getting on the rock as often as possible. I worked in a climbing gear store to immerse myself in the culture and afford the necessary accessories. Then I worked as a river guide, which allowed me to live in my truck and climb in the Cascades nearly every day. Later I landed a gig as a guide on Mt. Rainier, where my working days and my climbing days were one in the same.
Then a series of unfortunate (or misguided) events found me in Utah nearing the end of my proverbial rope. In an act of desperation (or salvation?) I caved—I gave up on my monolithic faith in climbing. I needed another out.
I bought a bike.
It started off simply enough. A little cross-country rig that helped me stay in good shape and let me work my legs on rest days. A little more speed, longer rides—then one weekend in Moab with some friends, I saw the terrain that was lying in wait—if I just got something with a little more travel.
Fast forward a few years and several bike upgrades and what was once a barely ridden hard-tail bike had been replaced by eight-inches of travel, a full-face helmet, a neck brace, and an amassing list of injuries and near-death experiences. After knocking herself out in a crash, my girlfriend summed it up nicely (while stumbling around in her concussed state) as she repeated again and again: “biking is dangerous.”
When you’re really getting after it on something worthwhile, your brief moments of fun often occur between or after extended periods of sheer terror and/or extreme exhaustion. Or you’re so thrashed by the time the event is over that you don’t realize you were having fun until days later.
When you’re really getting after it on something worthwhile, your brief moments of fun often occur between or after extended periods of sheer terror and/or extreme exhaustion. Or you’re so thrashed by the time the event is over that you don’t realize you were having fun until days later.
For the last few years, the conflict between climbing and biking had come to a head around the end of August. Without being able to focus on one activity, I would take off two weeks and go to Canada. The idea was to spend half the time climbing in Squamish and the other half riding in Whistler.
As it would turn out, the plan didn’t go to plan. Year one found friends and I watching the sunset on the Chief, but only after I smashed my hand to smiterhines blowing a corner at Whistler. We didn’t even touch rock that year. Year two found my climbing partner Jesse and I going off script and heading to the Tetons where, getting off route somewhere along the 1500-meters of rock climbing, I eventually sat down for the first open bivy of my life at over 3650 meters. I drove straight to Whistler from the Tetons, and on the first run of the first day there—I blew up my fork.
Back home I spent the winter training. The six-month training cycle and a failed climbing trip to Alaska wore me out, so the bikes came off the rack again once I got home. I barely touched rock all summer.
Another trip to Canada, another injury later, I was in rehab again. It was winter by the time I could touch my thumb to my index finger, so the first few months of getting outside consisted of one-pole backcountry skiing and gingerly hooking my way up beat-out ice climbs. By the spring I could rock climb a bit, but doing anything remotely hard was out of the question. Instead, I focused on long, easy routes and simply enjoyed moving over rock. I began to enjoy something I used to discount—just good old fashioned Type 1 fun. Between climbing in the Wasatch, a trip to Red Rocks, routes in Rocky Mountain National Park, and a week in Yosemite, I barely touched a pitch harder than 5.9 but had a great time ticking off classics.
Despite the injury and the months of forced time off, the bikes were still on the back of the truck when I went back to Canada for the fourth and most-recent trip. For the week of climbing in Squamish, I wasn’t sending anything that would impress anyone but a binocular-toting tourist, but I did get up some great routes and had a whole ton of Type 1 fun yet again (with just a hint of Type 2!). Then I went up to Whistler, where for the first time, I didn’t break a bike or myself. All in all, it was probably the most fun that I’d ever experienced in a two-week period.
Yet, somehow, there I was. Not a half day from Whistler before I was on the phone with a friend planning something that would likely scare the shit out of me and include nearly none of the Type 1 fun I had just been basking in. Here I was, planning for another miserable experience.
It turns out that Type 1 fun has a special place in my brokenness. When I’m rehabbing, Type 1 fun is there to provide the quiet thrills I need to get through the day. And even then, I’ll take my biking from a needed cardio workout to another gravity defying sure-fire injury fest.
But climbing through the night in the Tetons without the slightest clue where I am or where I’m going, waking up shivering at first light after the coldest six hours of my life, going to Alaska and climbing knee-deep powder snow over blank granite slabs—frozen hands while belaying each other through a maize of rock along the ridge—these moments will always mean more to me than any day of riding ever will.
But hey, at least I know my type.
Without focus (or a serious amount of natural talent) you’re doomed to mediocrity in whatever you do. This, and the theory that the average person can be legitimately good at one sport per season, I have always believed.
When I fell in love with climbing it was all about the Type 1 fun—enjoying a day on the mountain with friends. Then Type 1 lead to Type 2 and to Type 3. I was hooked—all the way—I made the decision to arrange my entire life around getting on the rock as often as possible. I worked in a climbing gear store to immerse myself in the culture and afford the necessary accessories. Then I worked as a river guide, which allowed me to live in my truck and climb in the Cascades nearly every day. Later I landed a gig as a guide on Mt. Rainier, where my working days and my climbing days were one in the same.
Then a series of unfortunate (or misguided) events found me in Utah nearing the end of my proverbial rope. In an act of desperation (or salvation?) I caved—I gave up on my monolithic faith in climbing. I needed another out.
I bought a bike.
It started off simply enough. A little cross-country rig that helped me stay in good shape and let me work my legs on rest days. A little more speed, longer rides—then one weekend in Moab with some friends, I saw the terrain that was lying in wait—if I just got something with a little more travel.
Fast forward a few years and several bike upgrades and what was once a barely ridden hard-tail bike had been replaced by eight-inches of travel, a full-face helmet, a neck brace, and an amassing list of injuries and near-death experiences. After knocking herself out in a crash, my girlfriend summed it up nicely (while stumbling around in her concussed state) as she repeated again and again: “biking is dangerous.”
When you’re really getting after it on something worthwhile, your brief moments of fun often occur between or after extended periods of sheer terror and/or extreme exhaustion. Or you’re so thrashed by the time the event is over that you don’t realize you were having fun until days later.
When you’re really getting after it on something worthwhile, your brief moments of fun often occur between or after extended periods of sheer terror and/or extreme exhaustion. Or you’re so thrashed by the time the event is over that you don’t realize you were having fun until days later.
For the last few years, the conflict between climbing and biking had come to a head around the end of August. Without being able to focus on one activity, I would take off two weeks and go to Canada. The idea was to spend half the time climbing in Squamish and the other half riding in Whistler.
As it would turn out, the plan didn’t go to plan. Year one found friends and I watching the sunset on the Chief, but only after I smashed my hand to smiterhines blowing a corner at Whistler. We didn’t even touch rock that year. Year two found my climbing partner Jesse and I going off script and heading to the Tetons where, getting off route somewhere along the 1500-meters of rock climbing, I eventually sat down for the first open bivy of my life at over 3650 meters. I drove straight to Whistler from the Tetons, and on the first run of the first day there—I blew up my fork.
Back home I spent the winter training. The six-month training cycle and a failed climbing trip to Alaska wore me out, so the bikes came off the rack again once I got home. I barely touched rock all summer.
Another trip to Canada, another injury later, I was in rehab again. It was winter by the time I could touch my thumb to my index finger, so the first few months of getting outside consisted of one-pole backcountry skiing and gingerly hooking my way up beat-out ice climbs. By the spring I could rock climb a bit, but doing anything remotely hard was out of the question. Instead, I focused on long, easy routes and simply enjoyed moving over rock. I began to enjoy something I used to discount—just good old fashioned Type 1 fun. Between climbing in the Wasatch, a trip to Red Rocks, routes in Rocky Mountain National Park, and a week in Yosemite, I barely touched a pitch harder than 5.9 but had a great time ticking off classics.
Despite the injury and the months of forced time off, the bikes were still on the back of the truck when I went back to Canada for the fourth and most-recent trip. For the week of climbing in Squamish, I wasn’t sending anything that would impress anyone but a binocular-toting tourist, but I did get up some great routes and had a whole ton of Type 1 fun yet again (with just a hint of Type 2!). Then I went up to Whistler, where for the first time, I didn’t break a bike or myself. All in all, it was probably the most fun that I’d ever experienced in a two-week period.
Yet, somehow, there I was. Not a half day from Whistler before I was on the phone with a friend planning something that would likely scare the shit out of me and include nearly none of the Type 1 fun I had just been basking in. Here I was, planning for another miserable experience.
It turns out that Type 1 fun has a special place in my brokenness. When I’m rehabbing, Type 1 fun is there to provide the quiet thrills I need to get through the day. And even then, I’ll take my biking from a needed cardio workout to another gravity defying sure-fire injury fest.
But climbing through the night in the Tetons without the slightest clue where I am or where I’m going, waking up shivering at first light after the coldest six hours of my life, going to Alaska and climbing knee-deep powder snow over blank granite slabs—frozen hands while belaying each other through a maize of rock along the ridge—these moments will always mean more to me than any day of riding ever will.
But hey, at least I know my type.
Adam Riser has spent the last 20+ years rock climbing, ice climbing, mountain biking, and backcountry skiing. He has worked as a river guide in the Pacific Northwest as a climbing guide on Mt. Rainier and as a writer and photographer in the outdoor industry for over a decade. His words and photos have appeared in industry magazines, websites, and catalogs including Gripped, Black Diamond, CAMP, backcountry.com, Cotopaxi, Safariland, and others.
Adam now lives in Salt Lake City, Utah for its access to world-class climbing, mountain biking, skiing, and an international airport. In addition to climbing throughout the states, Adam has been on expeditions to Alaska, the Canadian Rockies, the Northwest Territories, and Peru.
Adam Riser has spent the last 20+ years rock climbing, ice climbing, mountain biking, and backcountry skiing. He has worked as a river guide in the Pacific Northwest as a climbing guide on Mt. Rainier and as a writer and photographer in the outdoor industry for over a decade. His words and photos have appeared in industry magazines, websites, and catalogs including Gripped, Black Diamond, CAMP, backcountry.com, Cotopaxi, Safariland, and others.
Adam now lives in Salt Lake City, Utah for its access to world-class climbing, mountain biking, skiing, and an international airport. In addition to climbing throughout the states, Adam has been on expeditions to Alaska, the Canadian Rockies, the Northwest Territories, and Peru.
info@HenceSupply.co
Park City, Utah 84098