Authors Note: This article is NC 17! We live in such a sex crazed society, and climbing has become high chic — gotta look like a model on the rocks.  I thought a little play on words on this topic is in order. In the spirit of Monty Python, Mel Brooks, and Warren Harding, have fun. Read Warren's Downward Bound book for some history and a laugh, I drank beer with him at the Fox and Goose Pub.  He was funny, politically — regarding rock climbing — indecent and irreverent, and enjoyed the ladies. 
 
When I feel old (age 50), I think back to when I was young (say, 20).
 
Bolt Run, my roadside attraction, is a 5.10d (some say 5.11) sport route at old Donner Summit, California, near paleolithic Lake Tahoe. Right on the old highway, hence the name, below the old bridge built in 1926, that 1950's Olympic skier Mad Dog Dick used to fly his plane under then do barrel rolls over ancient Lake Donner, until he found out what the stall speed was for that particular aluminum throated gas hawk. An airplane makes a good coffin in a three hundred foot deep grave. He's old, now, too. 
 
Roadside Attraction was first bolted in late 1970. She's nice, sensuous, and seductive. She's naked truth. Faire dinkum for sure (this Aussie phrase defined: "Pure gold" "No shit!" "Wow!" pornographic, true blue, Hawaiian=Da Kine). And I left her alone.
 
I'd driven passed that dame a thousand times on my way to other climbs, or up to Soda Springs Deli for chili and beer, or down to the Squeeze In cafe in Truckee for omelette's and coffee.
 
Chris Vandiver introduced me to her. He did her one handed. I heard him tell Hidetaka Suzuki he did her no handed, but that's a rumor. I watched little Joel dance up her like he was Baryshnikov. Terrence, being seven feet in elevation, looked more like the tall Russian, Barinov. I was never up to these rock gods level, but I knew I could set foot on their stage, when I got the courage up.
 
Roadside Attraction was — is — beautiful (I saw her a year ago, she doesn't age). I always took a look at her, like the open picture window at the Key West, Florida, strip joint where everybody, inside and out, can see her strut on stage and what she wears, her hairs, or lack thereof.  No charge to see beauty.  No curtains!  Muy linda, muy hermosa, muy bonita — trout.
 
I've caught many a sensuous salmon, even a stone-faced dame, but this seductive trout called my name, and I did not answer. I was so lame. She had no clothes on and was waiting for my fingers. I always climb with a stiff rope and a soft hand, but I couldn't — wouldn't — mount her.  My rope was limp as cotton twine. I was to blame. She was too awesome for the likes of my name. I had performance anxiety (ever had performance anxiety?). I couldn't shoot a spit wad. Yet she continued to wait for the feel of my 'biners.