I have a new hero-Buster Martin of England. Never heard of him? Well, that's excusable. He's not cranking hard numbers or scary numbers or lots of numbers. Actually, he's not cranking any numbers and I doubt he's ever even roped up. He's not actually a climber, but in fact, is a marathon runner. Normally, I'd never give a second glance at some skinny dipshit running around in a tank top and shorts that no man should ever be seen in (the only other exception is Wig but that's just because he has three balls). But old buster is different.
When I say "old" I don't mean it as some endearing epithet. I mean it in the most literal and biological sense possible. Buster is 101 years old. But he's not my hero because he's a glimmering star of hope to the hobbling hunchbacks of the geriatric clan. I love the guy because he has the balls to do what the fuck he wants and it works for him. The guy has smoked longer than most people will live. People have no doubt been telling him to quit longer than I've been alive. But he's still at it and still running. Hell, he smokes when he trains. And trips to the pub with pints and girts are the standard post training cool down.
But lets be honest here. I'm just looking to justify for my own habit and hoping that if have enough smokes and beers, my ass will magically appear clipping the chains of Zulu, 5.14a. And that beard is baddass! I'm jealous.