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donini
Trad climber
Ouray, Colorado
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Feb 22, 2019 - 09:32am PT
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What we he say? Something like...pass that box red over here and don’t expect to see it again.
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Feb 22, 2019 - 10:20am PT
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One for the Road
In the Winter 2001-2002 issue of the Backside (the Bardini newsletter) I wrote a memoir relating the life and times of Warren Harding – the Yosemite Valley climbing pioneer – the prime mover in the first ascent of El Capitan in 1958. I have managed to collect a few classic “Harding stories” through my long friendship with him – none necessarily complimentary of Warren, but I’m sure Warren would be amused by most of them – not caring a fig about what others thought. Here’s “One for the Road”.
In the years beginning in 1982 through 2001, I had been riding in the annual Death Valley to Mt. Whitney bicycle race – a two-stage road race between Stove Pipe Wells in DV and Whitney Portal out of Lone Pine, California. The first day ended after 80 miles in the town of Lone Pine and on the second day proceeded up, not very directly, 20 miles to the Mount Whitney trailhead at Whitney Portal - a total of 100 miles and 13, 000 feet of elevation gain over the up and down route.
Each year I would have someone accompany me to Stove Pipe Wells in order to have a
driver to shuttle my car back to Lone Pine the next day. It was in the mid-1990s that Warren
was visiting in Bishop. One evening over many glasses of Red Mountain on Bardini’s patio, he volunteered to be my driver. I had some reservations about foisting the responsibility upon him – mostly because of his tendency to imbibe, but acceded and explained the details of his responsibility. He was anxious to do me the favor.
The next day he arrived at my doorstep with a smile, a cooler, and his luggage. Before departing Bishop I snuck a peek at the cooler contents – a few bottles of red wine, a fifth of cognac, and a variety of beers. He placed the cooler in the back of my pickup – close to the cab’s rear window within easy reach from his front seat perch. Surprisingly over the 130 miles to Stove Pipe Wells, he did not even hint at getting into the cooler. We arrived at the motel and had a pasta dinner in our room over my propane backpacking stove. Warren opened a bottle of wine and we each had a couple of glasses and went to bed early.
The next morning it was necessary to be up and ready to go by 6 AM when the race began. I reviewed his responsibilities to him – leave Stove Pipe Wells any time after the race begins, just make sure you get to Lone Pine ahead of me and you have a cold six-pack in the truck. Okay, he got it.
During the 5 hour ride to Lone Pine I was vigilantly watching for my truck to pass me with Warren at the wheel. Finally, after about 50 miles, Warren raced past me with a wave. When I arrived at the finish line he was waiting with the prescribed six pack and all was well. We went directly to our motel where I showered and we finished the six pack.
That evening we went out to dinner at the Seasons Restaurant instead of eating the picnic meal at the park with all the riders. Warren loved that restaurant and mentioned that the last time he ate there he had tipped the waitress $100. She brought his check back and assuming he had made a mistake. “No, I appreciate service, especially from beautiful women” was his reply.
Our dinner order consisted of escargot, filet mignon Bourdelaise, Caesar salad, and a bottle of fine Zinfandel. I had two small glasses of wine, Warren drank the rest as well as a glass of white “to go with the snails”. During our dinner conversation, he barely touched his filet mignon and requested a doggie bag. After tipping the waitress $50, Warren insisted on treating” me to a thimbleful of Courvasier, for which he tipped the flabbergasted waitress another $50 - by mistake - he thought it was a twenty.
He staggered ever so slightly as he rose from the table and we proceeded to the sidewalk in front of the restaurant’s large glass windows. I was in the driver’s seat as Warren attempted the high step from the sidewalk into the cab. I saw it coming but was helpless to assist. He lost his balance and careened backward toward the large window that separated us from the table we had just left in the restaurant. It was a near catastrophic event that ended with him on his back and me rushing around the truck to retrieve him. As I lifted him from the concrete, the restaurant owner’s wife came rushing out with Warren’s doggie bag. “Mr.
Harding, Mr. Harding, your dinner!”
Back at the motel I went over his next morning’s duties with him. Tomorrow, Warren, all
you need to do is get the Toyota to Whitney Portal by noon with some cold beer. It’s only
about a two and a quarter hour bike ride over the 20 miles with over 4000 feet of elevation
gain, so I should be there about 10:30. It usually takes until noon for all the riders to finish and for the awards to be presented. “Oooo ... oh, I think I can do thaa....aat, Don.” We retired immediately at 9:00 PM - I was exhausted.
At 7 AM the next morning we arose. Warren was more alert than I expected he would be. He was sipping motel coffee as I dressed and reviewed his routine with him. As I headed for the starting location, I rolled my bike out the door and I glanced back to spot Warren pouring cognac into his coffee. Oh, oh, I thought.
Part of the second day’s ride is through a residential area off the main road to the Portal, so it was quite possible that he could precede me up the hill without me seeing him. I was, again, very vigilant on the ride, but did not see him pass me. When I crossed the finish line he was nowhere in sight. It was early – 10:30 AM. Since I came in second (in a field of two), I awaited the awards ceremony. An hour later, still no Warren. One of my awards was an unwieldy hibachi. Without Warren, I was anticipating a 4300-foot descent to Lone Pine on a bicycle with a hibachi under my arm – a suicidal thought. I found a friend and resident of Lone Pine to carry my hibachi down. The bicycle descent on the Portal road is always adventurous due to rocks on the road, the multitude of pot holes, and the steep terrain. I had the additional distraction of looking for Warren in every approaching pickup and scouring the sides of the road for my wrecked Toyota. As I approached downtown Lone Pine I had to think about where to go. The sheriff’s station? The hospital? I opted for the motel - I’d go there first.
I rode into the parking area at Best Western to find my truck right where I left it. The maids were busily refreshing the rooms and all the motel doors were wide open. I went into our room. Nobody visible. I called out, “Warren?” No answer. Again, “Warren?” This time a low agonized groan emanated from behind the closed bathroom door. “Warren, are you in here?” The door knob rattled and finally the door swung open and out staggered Warren. He offered, “I over schlept!”
I put him up against the wall, hands over his head, and told him to hold it up while I packed my stuff and put my bike in the truck. When I finished I said, “Okay, let’s go.” He turned from his wall-holding position and tumbled into the dresser next to him. On the way down his head hit the corner of the dresser and opened a slit above his right eye that began to bleed profusely. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and pressed it to his forehead. He was sitting on the floor dazed, but smiling. “Here hold this against your eye. Do you have any first aid stuff in your luggage?” He muttered affirmatively and I was able to retrieve a Band-Aid, cut it into a butterfly, stanch the wound, and lead Warren to the truck.
Warren began to sober up as we drove the 60 miles back to Bishop. He managed to converse intermittently and occasionally uttered complete sentences. When we arrived in front of my apartment all the parking spaces on the apartment side of the street were taken so we had to park across the street – right in back of Warren’s car. My job ... get him across the street and into my apartment without the neighbors noticing. At the rear of the truck I asked him to assume the “wall- holding” position while I removed the bike and luggage.
In my apartment, after the last load, I turned toward the truck and my heart skipped a beat – Warren wasn’t there. Simultaneously, I heard to door to the upstairs apartment slam and realized my neighbor – a wonderfully conservative woman – was on her way across the street headed for Warren. He had left my truck and was bent over, leaning into the back seat of his car rummaging through a cardboard box. I raced across the street to arrive just as my neighbor finished asking Warren what he was up to. He reared up, wheeled around and with his nose inches from hers uttered, “What the [expletive] do you care?” Damn, just what I was trying to avoid. “Excuse him, he’s a little drunk.”
Warren continued his search through the box, mumbling something about an upcoming slideshow. My neighbor explained that she initially thought he was into her friend’s car, but now realized that her friend’s car was further down the street. She was very
understanding of the situation and was not offended by Warren’s remark. Relieved, I ushered Warren to my apartment where we settled in and minutes later he was asleep on the sofa. It was about 3 PM.
Around 5 PM the phone rang. It was Bardini, Allan Bard, asking how the race went and how Warren had performed. After my long response, Allan invited us over to a backyard party at his place. Warren had regained consciousness, seemed completely sober and alert, and was all for going to Allan’s party. So off we went. Hours later and many glasses of straight scotch later, Warren was arm-in-arm with Morpheus being led astray once more - down the road.
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Spider Savage
Mountain climber
The shaggy fringe of Los Angeles
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Feb 22, 2019 - 10:46am PT
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Great story. Can't get enough.
I quit drinking a year ago. Pretty much learned/experienced all I need to know about that subject. Tales like this permit me to enjoy the beyond the limits stuff so no need to experience that level of drinking first hand.
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