The 38-year-old blind climber Jesse Dufton has made an impressive ascent of Wyoming’s Devils Tower, on the 500-foot , becoming the first blind person to lead the formation. Dufton—likely the —is a gear purist and remarkably prolific. When I spoke with him last April, he’d climbed more than 1,500 routes on sight (or “unsighted,” as he likes to say) across the British Isles.

Born with the degenerative genetic condition rod-cone dystrophy, Dufton’s vision went from poor to horrendous in childhood, and he was legally blind by his early 20s. Though he lost his eyesight, his love of climbing—which began after his first lead, aged 11—stayed for the ride. In addition to hundreds of traditional routes, Dufton has finished hard sport climbs, made alpine-style first ascents in Greenland, and last year became the first blind person to make the first ascent of a difficult multi-pitch route: “Eye Disappear” in Morocco.

Dufton only became aware of Devils Tower a few years ago, after attending a talk by French phenom Catherine Destivelle, who soloed El Matador in 1992. “It caught my interest for a couple of reasons,” he said. “Firstly, the rock formation is awesome. The columns are like some crags in the UK (Fairhead and Kilt Rock) where I have got on well with the climbing.”

Because the route follows a system of vertical columns, requiring one to stem up the rifts between them, it also presented a manageable multi-pitch objective for Dufton from a route-finding perspective. Going off-route is a constant concern for Dufton, particularly on face climbs. “It’s hard to go off-route when climbing columns,” he explained. “Secondly, I thought it would be a good route for me to push myself. 5.10d is at the limit of my current trad onsight ability. I’m also reasonably tall, and I had hoped this would give me an advantage on El Matador, as I would be able to get into a bridge sooner than shorter climbers.”

Dufton climbs using a “sight guide,” his wife, Molly. Typically, in addition to belaying, Molly calls out possible holds to her husband as he ascends. But on El Matador, Dufton was primarily on his own. “She couldn’t really give anything other than encouragement,” Dufton said. “She couldn’t spot holds for me. There aren’t many!”

Dufton, who called El Matador “the most brutal trad route I have ever attempted,” led five of the route’s six pitches, with Molly tackling one of the easier leads for logistical reasons. As a blind climber, sometimes the crux sequences for Dufton are different than for a sighted climber, but on El Matador the route’s standard crux, a box-stemming marathon of a second pitch, was also the kicker for Dufton. “I don’t think I have ever tried as hard as I did on [that] pitch,” he said. “The guidebook says it’s [125 feet], but it seems never-ending when you’re on it, like climbing an infinite elevator shaft. It’s one of the most memorable pitches I’ve ever climbed. I’m not sure I had the best beta, but I found myself doing this iron-cross style double-palm-down to move my feet up. My mate reckons the columns are a bit wider apart now, given how hard I was pushing on them…”

Although the columns made the routefinding straightforward, the friction-based nature of the climb also made it difficult for Dufton to find footholds. “None of the moves in the stem box are stoppers,” he said, “but it is unrelenting, and the cumulative fatigue makes it desperate at the top.” Dufton said he only found two tangible footholds on the entire crux pitch. “For every other foot placement I was smearing in the stem. I’m sure there must have been small edges to make the foot placements a bit better, but because I can’t see, I didn’t find any of these. I’ve never known such pain in my calves.”

While the column has seams to offer jamming on either side for most of the way, in the last quarter of the pitch the cracks seal up entirely, forcing the climber to full-stem, with both hands and both feet. “When you can’t see what’s coming up, it’s quite hard to commit to such a strenuous approach,” Dufton said. “You have no idea how many moves you’ll have to do like this, and no idea when the next gear placement might come.”

Dufton’s style typically revolves around static, ultra-controlled movements and surefire placements, but El Matador was a toss-up at times. He fell more than once, and had a share of sketchy moments.

Shortly after leaving the first belay ledge, he placed a bomber nut around six feet up. “But one of the many problems about not being able to see is that you can accidentally kick your gear,” Dufton said. “Which is what I did as I moved up.”

Although the nut stayed put when he kicked it, he’d somehow kicked the gate open on his quickdraw, unclipping it from the nut. “It sailed down the rope to meet Molly. I’m now [13 feet] above the belay with no runners. Not the relaxing start I was after.” This is a nervy situation to be in when you can see. When you’re blind and doing everything by touch, it becomes downright heinous.

Dufton also had to give up his onsight after slipping on a small plant growing out of the right-hand seam. “Obviously, if I were able to see, I would have seen the plant and avoided it, but I can’t. I [stepped] on the plant, and promptly slipped and plummeted.”

Another sketchy section came at the tail end of the crux. Dufton had placed a nut, reached back on his right hip to find a quickdraw, and “felt the Dyneema strands of what I thought was my last extendable quickdraw.”

He grabbed the attached carabiner and clipped it to the nut’s wire, only then realizing that what he’d grabbed and clipped onto his nut wasn’t actually a quickdraw, but a cam. “Fumbling madly for a quickdraw, my feet started to slide,” Dufton said. “I groped again, snapped in another [carabiner] to the wire before my panic-stricken mind realized that this second crab also held a cam.” White-knuckling it, he ultimately managed to remove the cams, search his opposite hip, and find a draw to clip in.

Add the pressure of being unable to audit the placements itself, and a blind climber like Dufton is truly adrift on a big route like El Matador. He can feel with his hands and use his best judgment, but particularly on a stamina-based line like this, he can’t spend much time finicking about with placements. He has to trust his gut and go on. “It can be quite harrowing,” he admitted. “You don’t get the reassurance of looking at gear and knowing it’s solid. You just have to quest into the unknown, trusting that your gear will save you if you take the ride.”

Filmmaker documented Dufton’s work on El Matador. His film about the ascent will premiere in late October as part of 2024’s .

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Scout Bassett learned an important lesson from an early age: you have to create your own luck.

Born as Zhu Fuzhi (“Lucky Girl” in Chinese), Bassett had to endure years of life’s cruel irony in her name. As an infant, she survived a fire that resulted in the loss of her leg, as well as the early abandonment by her biological parents.

Part autobiography, part self-help, part social critique, Bassett’s new book offers a candid view of her life, athletic career, and the seemingly insurmountable obstacles facing athletes with disabilities, especially female athletes. Bassett’s intention of this book was to help “position ourselves to be overcomers—to be champions…to have the fortitude, the grit, the strength, and the mental toughness to do just that.”

Surviving Trauma from Childhood to Adulthood

The book tells Bassett’s personal journey from a poverty-stricken Chinese orphanage, to a small northern Michigan town, to the University of California Los Angeles (UCLA), to the Rio de Janeiro 2016 Paralympics, and to the heart-breaking miss of making the 2021 Tokyo Paralympics team.

Bassett takes a straightforward narrative writing approach to the story of her childhood. Her earliest memory was tainted with hardship and abuse in the orphanage: living on a bowl of rice every day, sleeping in a narrow cot with another orphan, surviving abusive disciplinary acts such as waterboarding. The children never went outside; Bassett never even saw a housecat until after her adoption—or any animal for that matter.

Following her return to China as a Paralympian after the Rio Games in 2016, Bassett was thrown back into her childhood trauma. The experience of seeing that the orphanage had not changed much—the same rice for the children, the same permeating urine smell in the building—left Bassett with panic attacks long after her return to Los Angeles.

Discovering Belonging Through Running

Being adopted into a conservative Christian family in northern Michigan was her first salvage, though it didn’t solve her problems of feeling like the other. Bassett never knew what a school was, let alone being the only Chinese student in a majority-white school and the only student of disability.

“Growing up and being ethnically Chinese, disabled, and adopted, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel like an other. This dynamic was most obvious at school, with my peers, and the sports teams I was on.”

Even after arriving at UCLA, she felt she wasn’t fully accepted by some Asian American students. “By the time I got to college, I hadn’t spoken Chinese in over a decade…I was raised by a white family…For my roommate, I was too culturally white to be Asian,” she writes. “Not white enough to be white, mind you…But not Asian enough to be Asian.”

RELATED: Des Linden in Her Masters’ Era: “I’m Glad I’m 40”

When Bassett discovered running at age 14, it was an indescribable sense of freedom which enabled her to overcome a mindset of victimhood and otherness. “Running was really that transformative for me,” she says. “I grew in confidence; I grew in self-belief. I held my head just a little bit higher.”

Eventually, through running, Bassett realized that “Being an other is a lonely place to be,” and shared a bit of advice: “Don’t allow your otherness to lead you to embrace a victim mentality…If you’re reading this right now and you feel like an ‘other,’ here’s what I’d say to you: Do not hide. Please, don’t hide. Don’t mask who you are…Your path is not going to look like everybody else’s, but aren’t you glad?”

Betting on Yourself While Navigating Loneliness

Arriving at UCLA in 2007 started a new chapter for Bassett. Not only was she more exposed to people of all ethnic groups and religious backgrounds—including more Asian Americans and the LGBTQ community—she was inspired to pursue Paralympics once a female coach asked her.

Then came more obstacles: a lack of training facilities and lack of coaches who are willing to work with Para athletes. Bassett was undeterred. She started training herself by watching YouTube videos and showing up before dawn to train on the track.

After graduation from college, Bassett went against everyone’s advice and quit her job at a medical device company. She lived in her car and on people’s couches to minimize her expenses so she could train full-time. In two years, she competed in the U.S. Championships but came in last. This only made her focus more and double down on her efforts.

The toughest part of Bassett’s pursuit was not the demanding physical training, but the prevalent sense of loneliness when choosing a path less-traveled. “The obvious truth is that loneliness is a natural byproduct of life in an orphanage. But what I’ve learned since is that loneliness is a natural byproduct of life…period…I’ve felt lonely on varying levels during almost every season of my life since.”

Even being on the cover of Self magazine and having an made out of her own image couldn’t cure the everlasting loneliness. Bassett accepted the frequent loneliness and used it to fuel her training. “Sometimes, that might be to remain isolated so you can grind out a skill, learning, or development,” she writes.

As Steve Magness writes in , “When we explore instead of avoid, we are able to integrate the experience into our story. We are able to make meaning out of struggle, out of suffering. Meaning is the glue that holds our mind together, allowing us to both respond and recover.”

When Bassett found meaning in speaking for others who often feel lonely because of their “otherness,” she realized that “training, mentoring, and advocacy have been my answer to loneliness—which now doesn’t feel like loneliness at all.”

This mindset has enabled Bassett to go from finishing last place at the 2012 London U.S. Paralympic track and field trials to competing as a Paralympian at the 2016 Rio Paralympics. After the setback of missing out on the Tokyo Paralympics, she then staged a strong comeback of winning the 100-meter at the 2022 US Nationals.

Building a Legacy on and off the Track

Bassett is unafraid to offer a critical look at the overall lack of systematic support for athletes with disabilities: lack of coaching support, lack of media coverage, and fewer Paralympic events to compete in. It goes all the way to the governing body: Only 4 out of 15 governing positions at the International Paralympic Committee (IPC) are held by women.

But perhaps the biggest hurdles of all are the limited options for Para athletes to continue developing and competing beyond high school. This is one of the intentions Bassett had set up her , to create a pipeline of Para athletes with adequate financial support. “I’m not talking about a few thousand dollars,” she writes. We’ve had a partner give a very generous donation that will allow us to give five-figure grants to these girls.”

Christine Yu has also discussed the profoundly inadequate funding in women’s sports in her book, . “On the whole, these institutions (NCAA, etc.) prioritize men’s sports over women’s sports.” But on the Para athlete level, systemic support remains nascent. As recently as January 2014, the board of directors of the Eastern College Athletic Conference approved the for student-athletes with disabilities.

RELATED: Can Women Outperform Men in Sports? That’s the Wrong Question to Ask.

Bassett credits track running star Allyson Felix as one of her inspirations with advocacy. “Alyson has been a great role model for me as I’ve gotten older in my career. She is the person who helped me to see I’m so much more than just an athlete…I’m more than my wins. I’m more than my losses. And Allyson set that example for me to follow,” she says.

In creating her Scout Bassett Fund, Bassett hopes to also create other advocates like Allyson Felix and herself—whole champions on and off the track.

“The main idea behind the Scout Bassett Fund is to allow these young women to train their way into Paralympic contention. But it’s also to give these young women a megaphone—to give them a chance to build their own platforms so they can join their voices with mine to fight for equality and to fight for better representation of disabled females on and off the track.”

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Climbing and Eldorado Climbing Walls have teamed up to raise $20,000 for Paradox Sports, a 501(c)3 nonprofit that works tirelessly to expand adaptive climbing accessibility.

Each year, Paradox connects roughly 350 people with physical disabilities to climbing. They work with climbers with amputation or limb differences, blindness, hearing impairments, spinal cord injuries, neurological conditions, traumatic brain injuries, and post-traumatic stress disorder, among others. Paradox does this with the help of a variety of funding sources—but roughly 10% of their revenue comes from individual tax-deductible donations.

We’re hoping to raise $10,000 for Paradox Sports by October 25. By doing so we’ll unlock an additional $10,000 match from Eldorado Climbing Walls.

The first 100 people to donate more than $50 will receive a custom-made 20-ounce water bottle with art depicting Ouray ice climbing.

Where do my donations go?

• $50 covers the cost of a one-day Colorado-based skills clinic for an adaptive climber.
• $100 covers the cost of adaptive climbing equipment that we supply for our participants on national trips which can include shoes, ice picks, crampons, harnesses, helmets, and adaptive systems
• $200 covers a scholarship for a 2.5-day Yosemite Valley skills trip for an adaptive climber

About Paradox Sports

Since its founding in 2007, Paradox Sports, a 501(c)3 nonprofit, has worked tirelessly to expand accessibility in our sport. They do this by hosting for adaptive climbers and veterans’ groups, introducing hundreds of people with disabilities to the sport every year; they run designed to help adaptive climbers increase their skills in a community setting; they for gyms, guiding services, veterans-affairs facilities, and university programs around the country, sharing the latest adaptive climbing practices so these organizations can better serve their local adaptive communities; and they sponsor individual athletes through their Adaptive ���ϳԹ��� Fund.

About Eldorado Climbing Walls

Eldorado Climbing Walls has a commitment to quality products, to doing things and treating people the right way, and to the ongoing success of our customers. Eldorado has the widest range of climbing wall products available anywhere – modern woodies for indoors, stunning artisanal concrete for outdoors, and a bevy of do-it-yourself panels for those home climbing walls. From a few DIY panels for toddlers, to the largest man-made outdoor climbing walls on the planet, to our latest climbing creation – Kinetix Action Towers, we have a solution that we think you’ll love. The employees at Eldorado all feel pretty lucky to be doing what we’re doing, and we graciously look for ways to give back to our sport and our community. Today we are paying it forward to 1Climb, Paradox Sports, and the Boulder Climbing Community – inspiring non-profits that Eldorado is proud to be able to support. Learn more at .

About ���ϳԹ��� Interactive Inc.’s Find Your Good 

Climbing‘s parent company, ���ϳԹ��� Interactive Inc., believes in supporting and partnering with nonprofit organizations dedicated to inclusivity, increasing outdoor participation, fighting climate change, and protecting our planet. We support 14 nonprofits who work to protect the planet and grow outdoor participation among youth and underrepresented groups in cycling, running, climbing, hiking, skiing, sustainability, and wellness communities. Learn more .

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Andrew Bernstein told his story to producer Ann Marie Awad for an episode of The Daily Rally podcast. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I was trying to get back into the gym and I was working out, from a seated position in the wheelchair, but I was just not used to moving around again, and everything was out of balance.

It was scary, because every time I couldn’t stand up, It was a reminder of how weak I was, and how much my body had changed, and how much my life was going to change going forward.

Everything was hard.

I am better known as Bernie. I’m originally from Brooklyn, New York, and I’ve lived in Colorado since 2018.

I am a PR and marketing professional, and I work for the virtual cycling platform Zwift.

For a lot of my adult life, I was an amateur bike racer, and had a lot of passion for cycling and riding and racing bikes. Now that I’m no longer actively racing, I still ride a lot, and I’m very passionate about it, but I also have a passion for just being outside and hiking.

In 2019, I was the victim of a hit-and-run, and survived pretty traumatic injuries, including a lot of broken bones and collapsed lungs and internal bleeding.

I suffered a spinal cord injury, which resulted in paraplegia. My left leg is now paralyzed, and it also affects my bladder. Whenever only one side of your body’s impacted, you get all these imbalances. So I live with a lot of chronic pain as a result of my spinal cord injury.

I was hospitalized for three months and then I went home with his new paraplegic body and, and had to spend a lot of time learning how to get in and out of the car, and get into the house, and use the bathroom, take a shower. All basic things that you have to relearn when your body no longer functions as it did.

There were a lot of challenges, but one of the ones that has stuck with me as the hardest to overcome was learning how to stand.

When I was in the hospital, I was largely using a wheelchair. And when I was discharged from the hospital, I had been given a leg brace called a KAFO, which stands for knee, ankle, foot, orthotic.

When you don’t have any strength around those joints and the muscles around those joints, the brace can keep your leg rigid. It almost becomes like a peg leg, and you can put weight through it.

I was learning how to walk with that, and I was getting along pretty well, but they still tell you “Listen, when you’re out in the world, you’re on the sidewalk, you’re getting in and out of the car, sometimes slips and falls happen.” So it’s important before they let you leave the hospital that you know how to get yourself back on your feet.

The way that I did that was with a physical therapist in the hospital. She would get out a wrestling mat, and she’d have me transfer to the floor, that’s the physical therapy term, transfer.

I’d get down to the ground, and then we’d try all these different methods of standing. Sometimes she would grab me by the waist of my shorts and haul me up to my feet. I didn’t quite have the strength to get there. I had all these weird imbalances, and my muscles were super atrophied. I had previously been bed bound for two months. So sometimes just the act of standing would be painful. I’d wrench my back, and then I wouldn’t wanna try again for days or weeks.

Finally I was coming to the end of my time at the hospital. Being in the hospital is terrible, but at the same time there’s a huge amount of support, and that particular hospital was well staffed and the staff there was very caring and very supportive. This process of learning how to stand was daunting because not only was there a physical challenge, but it was also like every time I did it was a reminder that I’m taking a step towards leaving this very supportive environment.

But it eventually got to a point where it’s like, OK, it is time. I shouldn’t be here anymore. I’m well, or I’m well enough. I’m occupying a bed that could be used for someone who needs it more. Plus, you wanna go home, you wanna be with the cat.

I realized I really did need to learn this skill if I wanted to be able to exist in the community. So, I was practicing with my physical therapist, her name was Natasha. I just remember one day, close to the end of my time where I was like, “OK Natasha, I really need to get this down. Let’s try it.” I think I know the right positioning for my hands and I think I know the right position for my feet and I think I know exactly what to do this time. So, I got transferred to the floor on the wrestling mat, and got my feet all set, and got my crutches set so I could lean on them, and started to get myself up. I didn’t quite make it, and fell back to the ground.

Natasha knew from all of our previous tries that oftentimes, I was one and done. And she asked if I wanted to try again. I was like, “Yeah, I do.” And I stood up for the first time.

Natasha asked me what I had done differently and I just said, “Natasha, I just decided to do it this time.”

I think that moment will always stick with me because it taught me that mindset was such an important part of everything in front of me. And that was very important because getting back on my feet was just the early part of this recovery. And since then, I’ve decided that I wanted to ride again, and I do ride again.

I decided I wanted to hike a lot, and I figured out how to do that. And I’ve been able to drive my recovery by setting goals and then deciding what I want to do, and then working backwards and figuring out the steps that I need to take to get there. And that’s been very helpful to me.

It’s helped me accomplish a lot of things despite, or maybe even because of, my paraplegia, my spinal cord injury.

I think the single biggest lesson was just that I had a choice. I could choose to wallow, and certainly I met a lot of people who had made that choice. Or I could choose to move forward. And that’s enabled me to have a strong recovery. And I’m very grateful.

I’m relatively new to this. I’ve been injured for four years, and I’ve had the great privilege to speak to both people who are newer in their injuries and also people who have been in it way longer than me.

This is advice that I’ve been given and also advice that I’ve given to others: You should approach it with curiosity. I think our natural inclination is to be scared and depressed and fearful. And that’s completely understandable. I definitely was in those spaces at times, and still am. But I think what I’ve come to learn is that if you’re curious about what this means for you, if you’re curious about what you can do that makes your body feel good, and what you can do that maybe helps you improve. If you’re curious about what your life looks like now, and what it can look like, those are all things that I think can help you focus on the right things and improve.

Some people with spinal cord injuries will not see a physical recovery. I’m very fortunate that my injury has these things go relatively minor, so I’ve been able to recover. That’s not the case for everyone, but I do think that any person with this type of injury can try to think about how they will move forward in their world, and how they will continue to be an engaged member of their community and continue to enjoy life.

And I think we can all do that. And it just takes a little bit of work, a little bit more work for a person with a disability to do so than an able-bodied person. But it’s possible for all of us.

Andrew Bernstein is an elite track cyclist and marketer in the outdoor industry. He has also written about his recovery on outsideonline.com. You can follow him on Twitter @bernietweets.

You can follow The Daily Rally���Dz���,��, or wherever you like to listen. and to be featured on the show.

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Timmy O’Neill told his story to producer Cat Jaffee for an episode of The Daily Rally podcast. It has been edited for length and clarity.

It hit me so hard that I’m tearing up now just thinking about it. Because it was such a painful thing to hear. I remember really inconsolably weeping on the phone and then hanging up and going back to bed, and of course not being able to sleep, just wondering what would become of my brother.

I got two nicknames when I first got into climbing. One was YST, because there was another guy climbing in Joshua Tree called YSD for Young Strong Dave, but mine was for Young Stupid Timmy. I really loved risk, and that’s because of how we were raised—I’m one of seven kids in a family of kayakers. So at an early age, we were able to do really risky rivers and participate in rowdy experiences in whitewater. That informed my way forward.

I grew up right outside of West Philadelphia in a large Irish Catholic family. Seven kids in ours, seven kids next to that, seven kids next to that. It was like basically growing up in a rabbit hutch.

Sean is my oldest brother. He was a unique kid in that he had the chemistry set and the erector set growing up. He was that classic bespeckled, curly-haired, wiry, little nerdy boy. He would really do a deep dive into the intellectual aspects of life, which was really impactful for me because he could demonstrate and define and explicate these wild ideas that I would take later and really run with when I moved out west and became a climber.

I was climbing in Joshua Tree, and I was actually working at a job site and didn’t own a car. I didn’t own many things. Summer in Joshua Tree is unmercifully, boiling hot. And I get this call, it’s nighttime, and I remember my mom saying, “Get ready. I have bad news.” I hadn’t had much bad news in my life up until this point, so it was like losing my innocence. I remember it really clearly. She said, “Your brother isn’t dead, but he’s paralyzed from the waist down.”

He had jumped off a bridge for fun that was quite high, because we grew up jumping off of bridges together as a family. He happened to break his spine at the T-12, which is where your thoracic meets your lumbar, right about at your belly button. He would be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

He went through rehab. He learned to be in his wheelchair. And it would be maybe a couple years later that I was home for Christmas, and I wrote out a gift certificate to Sean that was good for one ascent of El Capitan with me. I didn’t know if we would ever do it. I hadn’t climbed El Cap myself yet, but I wanted to put something out there for him that would inspire him and inspire me.

Our first climb we did was Devil’s Tower in Wyoming. It’s the nation’s first National Monument, in fact. We drove there from Philadelphia, and it was like the great American road trip. Here we are, two brothers, and we’re just driving across the country in new terrain for both of us. Sean had never climbed at this point. We figure out at the base how to do this. So we take duct tape and newspaper and create these pads around Sean’s lower extremities to preserve them. And then we figure out how to do the pull-ups up the rope.

We spent a day going up and down the Durrance route on Devil’s Tower. It was amazing, because we didn’t know what was gonna happen, but that was the point—that we would have this experience and find out.

Then we did Castleton, and then we did a couple of other climbs, and then eventually we went to El Capitan. We spent seven days living above the ground, and it was beautiful because you’re all experiencing a disability on a wall because you can’t move very much. You’re all tethered. You have to be really careful about how it is you navigate. So there was a sort of immediate equality between us.

Sean’s climb definitely changed his life forever, and mine. Suddenly I had this body of information that others wanted to experience, and others wanted to trade in, and I started doing more and more of these climbs, until we formed an organization called Paradox Sports. It is an organization that does adaptive climbing clinics, adaptive climbing programming, and adaptive climbing training. It certifies gyms and groups. We basically created a body of information that could enable and empower other people to have that experience.

As a result of my brother Sean’s paralysis, I think it underscores for me that discomfort is inherent in life. And if you can grow accustomed to it and trade in it, then you’re much more capable of dealing with it with yourself, and then you’re much more capable to assist somebody with their own.

Sean gave me the permission to feel OK about his paralysis. By him helping me understand that I can’t stop him from being paralyzed, but what I can stop is feeling bad about him being paralyzed, I could shift the way that I see it and release him and I from grief.

In 2009, Sean and I were in Anchorage, Alaska. We had just climbed in the Ruth Gorge in the Alaska deep wilderness, and we had a successful trip. Sean rolled back into the hotel room we were sharing and he goes, “Hey Tim, what’s up?” I go, “Hey Sean.” He goes, “How you feeling?” And I say, “I’m doing OK.” You know, I was a little depressed about something. And I go, “How are you doing?” And he goes, “I’m doing well. And I believe that.” And it was a fundamental shift for me when he said, “And I believe that.” You get to choose how you feel about how you’re feeling.

If you could shift yourself to say, “I’m OK with it, and I believe it,” that was the biggest takeaway, and I apply that to my life all the time. Because life is already so hard and seemingly against you, why would I aid and abet that? So I’m gonna let myself off. And not get out of jail for free, and turn my head away from it, and act like it doesn’t exist, but on the contrary, I’m gonna take a deeper look into it, understand my role, and then give myself the ability to have grace and acceptance.

Timmy O’Neill is a climber, father, husband, and the executive director of the . He’s also the co-founder and former executive director of , a nonprofit that integrates individuals with disabilities into outdoor recreation. You can learn more about Timmy at .

You can follow The Daily Rally���Dz���,��, or wherever you like to listen. and to be featured on the show.

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Kiana Clay told her story to producer Tanvi Kumar for an episode of The Daily Rally podcast. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I was knocked out for about seven minutes or so. I woke up on the back of a stretcher, and I tried moving everything, and I wasn’t able to move or feel my arm. So I started to freak out, and started screaming, “I can’t move my arm. I can’t move my arm.”

I’m 28 years old. I am an action sports junkie and a multi-professional athlete. I got into action sports when I was about four years old. I started competing probably at the age of seven, mostly in motocross. I was actually one of the top racers in the nation at 12 years old when it happened.

Back on November 18th, 2006, I was racing at Freestone County Raceway. I got landed on by another rider. His front wheel went over my neck, broke my neck and ripped the nerves out of my spinal cord. And as a result, I ended up losing the complete use of my right arm.

I was in the hospital for at least three months. When I was getting ready to go back home, me and my dad got hit by a drunk driver, and we ended up flipping in our lifted truck.

During that time, I was starting to gain some bicep muscle back, but after that car wreck, I lost everything that I was gaining back. My arm was already paralyzed, but that pretty much set it in stone that I was never gonna gain any movement back. So, I have no movement or feeling whatsoever.

I was always known as the girl that raced dirt bikes and did action sports. And it got taken away to just Kiana, and I had no idea who that was. It wasn’t just one challenge, it was probably a hundred thousand challenges.

Because I was dominant in my right hand, I had to reteach myself how to write. I’m an artist. I love art. It’s always been my way of expression, and I’ve always been big into painting and drawing. I had to reteach myself how to draw.

I had to figure out how to tie my shoes with my mouth. I had to come up with putting my hair up with a doorknob. So I really had to think outside of the box with the most daily basic tasks.

If anybody is ever up for a challenge, for one whole day, take your dominant hand and tie it behind your back, and go the entire day of just trying to figure out how to do things with your non-dominant hand. It’s a lot more challenging than what people think.

And so during that time, not only was I trying to figure out how to do daily tasks, but I was also trying to figure out who I was without racing. It was a lot to deal with because I was having to figure out puberty and boys and getting into middle school and high school. So it was just a really difficult time.

I ended up becoming a lot closer to God and I was really able to grow and mature a lot more as a person. When you step away from what you love and what you are passionate about for a certain amount of time, it really makes you appreciate those things even more. So when I got back into sports, I just completely fell in love with it even more than when I did before.

When I turned 18 and I went to college, I ended up getting a KX110 and rigging it up and figured out a way to ride with one arm again. One thing led to another, I started racing again and got on a bigger bike. I’m the first adaptive female ever to race a dirt bike. I did not foresee that at all—to qualify for regionals and all the success that has come from it.

And through motocross racing is where I found a gentleman who introduced me to adapted snowboarding. I ended up moving to Colorado full-time and training full-time. I had no idea that it was gonna lead me down this awesome path and career of being a pro snowboarder, and being third in the world in banked slalom for snowboarding. I have petitioned with Forbes and The New York Times for adding my category into the Paralympics. I’ve become the first adaptive snowboarder to ever sign with Burton Snowboards.

I’ve always loved snowboarding, but I never saw it as a career. But getting back into racing gave me snowboarding, and it also gave me skateboarding. I’ve participated in a lot of skateboarding competitions, and we’re trying to get adaptive skateboarding into the X-Games and in the Paralympics. So it’s cool to also be a part of that. Also with surfing and just the way wake surfing has cultivated I’d say in the last four or five years for me. So it’s just really awesome to be in the front lines of progressing the sports, and going out and showing what not just women are capable of, but just what human beings are capable of when you really have a passion and a love for something.

I can sit and say, Yeah, my dirt bike and racing took away my arm. But I love it so much. I’m still gonna go back to it because I just love it with everything that I have. A lot more of my dreams have come true being a disabled woman versus being a fully-abled woman.

When I was younger, my identity was so wrapped up in my bike that I really didn’t know who I was outside of that. And I think that could have been very dangerous. You want to just be a very well-rounded person. So I think it’s very smart and I think it’s very wise to just be like, OK, I can love racing, but I can also love going out with my friends. And I want to be a good artist. And I want to be educated, I want to go to college.

I hear a lot of athletes and I hear a lot of people be like, “I’m a snowboarder or I’m a motocross racer. But this is all I know.” And so let’s say they spend their entire life training and getting into this. When they get out of those things, they have no idea what to do.

Action sports are awesome, but I have other ideas. I want to get into business at some point, and I want to maybe start my own nonprofit. So being off of the bike for six and a half, seven years, was actually a blessing, because it showed me all these other areas in my life that I wanted to flourish in.

I think anything and everything negative in this life can be used as a superpower if you allow it.

Kiana Clay is a pro snowboarder and an adaptive motocross racer. She is also a surfer and skateboarder. You can follow her on Instagram .

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Tim Brown told his story to producer Cat Jaffee for an episode of The Daily Rally podcast. It has been edited for length and clarity.

It was a bleak, cold day in Boston, Massachusetts. No one was really outside. I absolutely questioned whether I should be going out on that pier. Ice and snow are challenging to navigate in a wheelchair. So there was certainly a level of risk involved, and I felt trepidation around what I was about to do. I decided that this was a risk worth taking.

Some of my friends call me Tim Jo, which is a story for another time. I love to spend lots of time outside. And that journey in the outdoors led me to Colorado, where I lived and worked as a ski patroller at Snowmass Mountain in my mid-twenties.

In February of 2011, I was on sweep clearing the mountain one day, and I fell. I don’t remember the accident, but I woke up the next day in the hospital in Denver, in the ICU. I was told that I had been in a bad ski accident, and that I had broken my neck.

The night before my accident, I had met up with a friend just to grab a beer. I remember telling him that, after a few years of feeling a little bit unsettled and unsure of myself, I felt like I had arrived at a place where things were happening. I just started dating someone who I was excited about. I had received a very good mid-season evaluation from my supervisor. Everything seemed to be falling into place. So it was challenging to go from feeling like that to then waking up in an ICU.

I moved back to Massachusetts, where I’m from, moved in with my parents, and spent several years aggressively pursuing various physical rehab therapies in the hopes of being able-bodied once again. In my mind, in order to live the adventurous lifestyle that I had been living up until the point in my life when I was paralyzed, I had to be able-bodied again. It was such a core part of my identity.

There was always this intense comparison to what it was like prior to my accident, and what it was like now. It just didn’t feel the same. It was really, really hard for me to come to terms with that.

I had an experience last winter in my neighborhood here in East Boston. I went out on a cold, snowy, icy day by myself. I use a wheelchair now. There is this little pier that juts out over Boston Harbor.

Part of the pier is elevated probably 20 feet off the water, but when you go out over the water and you’re 20 feet up, the wind feels stronger and you feel more exposed. They had built an extension to the pier, a metal ramp, that I hadn’t pushed out on all that often because it was a little steeper. And I went up there.

I was out on the pier for probably 20 minutes. It was windy, it was cold, it was icy. I felt exposed. But I also felt confident, which I think is often what we are seeking when we put ourselves in these precarious adventure situations. To be out there where there’s a level of risk, but you also feel that the work that you have done has prepared you, and you feel confident you can handle it. It’s exciting. And it’s something that maybe I would not have thought twice about when I was 25 years old and I was able-bodied. But for me now to roll down there out over the water and feel the wind, it’s incredibly empowering.

Last winter was 11 years after my accident. Through a lot of hard work, a lot of therapy, and a lot of personal reflection and difficult conversations, I came to understand that I could experience adventure as a person with a disability, as an adaptive athlete.

���ϳԹ��� is different for everyone. It doesn’t have to be necessarily going on a weeklong rafting trip, or driving down to Baja California to camp and surf for several days by yourself. I might not have been at the top of a 14-er in Colorado, or a place that we typically associate with these sort of badass adventures. But for me, in that moment, I was pushing myself in a way that felt right, and it felt as adventurous as anything I had done in my life.

Tim Brown is an adaptive athlete, a podcast host, and a director at a clean tech startup called Solstice. He has competed twice in the US Open Adaptive Surfing Championships, and is the only quadriplegic person to heli ski at Silverton Mountain in Colorado. You can listen to his podcast, .

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Erica Cole told her story to producer Shweta Watwe for an episode of The Daily Rally podcast. It has been edited for length and clarity.

And then I was thinking, What if I can’t tread water in the same way? Because you’re kicking to stay afloat. I was like, What if I jump in and just start sinking?

I’m originally from Iowa. I just recently moved to Richmond, Virginia. I am the founder and CEO of No Limbits, which is an adaptive apparel brand for people with disabilities. I’m an amputee, I started it for myself on a sewing machine, and then it grew into a full-fledged startup.

I say adaptive fashion is one of my passions. And scuba diving is definitely the other.

Before my accident, I was actually living in New Mexico for a while. I was hiking a ton, like 30, 40 miles a week, and I was working a full-time job. I was the mascot at my university, so that’s a fun fact about me. I was going to all the football games in a giant suit and running around, it was actually very physically demanding. I was a ballroom dancer, on top of coaching P90X. So I was just unreasonably fit.

I lost my leg in an accident in 2018. It was a very sudden car accident. I didn’t really have much of a choice. I know a lot of amputees struggle with, do they keep their limb, do they try to go through surgeries to save it? I didn’t have to go through that.

I was in the hospital for a month. The day after I got out of the hospital, I was like, I have been in this room for so long. I think there were some heavy pain meds in me that were saying, What did we do before to get some dopamine? And I would always go for a hike, do something active. So I was like, Yes, Rocky Mountain National Park, let’s go.

I got my first prosthetic, and it was way harder to walk on than I thought it would be. It was summer, but we were going up to the alpine area of the Rocky Mountains. So it was nice and green on the way up. And then as we got closer to the top, there was some snow.

Since the accident, I had trouble thermo-regulating. So I remember, my dad was in long pants and a coat, and I was in shorts and a light sweatshirt, and I was sweating trying to go through on these crutches. I remember my dad being like, “What are you doing? Why are you doing this?” And I was like, “No, it’s fine, it’s fine. I’m fine. We’re just going on a hike.”

I was treated like a fragile doll by some people. So I think on that hike, too, I was trying to show that, oh no, I’m still the same Erica as before. You don’t need to treat me like this fragile thing or this poor victim. But it was me forcing myself to try to get back to some sense of normalcy in a way that was not quite the approach that ended up being most effective for me.

Struggling to do a quarter mile really highlighted how much I had lost, and then how much I had to regain to get back to what my normal was. That moment it was settling in, like, Yeah, this is gonna be a longer journey than I originally anticipated it being.

About a year after that hike, I decided that I would like to take this scuba class. I emailed the instructor of the class saying, “I really want to take your class, but I’m an amputee. Do you think that I can take this?” And honestly, I was expecting him to say no, because I’d had all of these people tell me, “No, you can’t do that,” in this journey of trying to use a prosthetic and trying to walk on a prosthetic and all of that. I’m not sure why I even decided to take the chance. I actually think there was a part of me that maybe wanted him to say, “No.” To just confirm that me wallowing in self-pity was appropriate, that there were all these things that I couldn’t do.

So then when he said, “Yes,” I was super caught off-guard. He was like, “We’re gonna make a mermaid out of you.”

Taking this class was the first time I had even gotten swimming since my amputation. And then I was thinking, What if I can’t like tread water in the same way? I was like, Man, am I gonna be out, just right out the gate? But no, I got in and I was treading water and I was like, Oh, OK, this is gonna be OK.

Nobody’s paying me any attention other than just, “Hey, hop in the pool. Let’s go.” It was a very friendly, accepting environment.

There was the pre-accident Erica, and then there was the post-accident Erica. But this group of people that I was meeting at my scuba class, they didn’t know pre-accident Erica. There was only the current Erica. They weren’t treating me like this fragile thing. This was the person that they had known all along. They were just like, “Yeah, That’s Erica, she’s a scuba diver.”

I was pretty hooked on diving. Maybe not from the first dive; the first dive is not typically people’s most comfortable experience. But the second dive when you’re like, OK, I’m not gonna die underwater, I was like, Oh yeah, this is for me.

Just imagine caves made out of coral, and the water absorbs light in a way that when you’re underwater, everything looks kind of green-blue. You’re diving through massive towers; it’s like an underwater city of coral. You carry a light with you, and then when you shine a light on the coral, all of the colors come back into the coral, and it’s just kind of a psychedelic, kaleidoscopic wonderland.

You could watch just a square foot of this reef and see hundreds of fish, because everything’s so tiny. It was the most beautiful, incredible experience I’ve ever had.

The other thing is that you’re really focusing on your breathing, because your breathing is how you control your buoyancy. So it almost forces you into this meditative state. The only thing you can hear is your inhale and exhale of all these bubbles. Underwater, there’s no room to think about anything else.

I was suddenly feeling so graceful when, for the previous year and a half since my amputation, I was feeling like the clunkiest, most awkward person. You’re getting around on crutches. It’s not a graceful journey. But then being underwater and being able to really control where you’re going, moving around just like everybody else. Being able to enter this world where I feel in control of where I’m going. I feel this weightlessness. It was a shift in: this is my reality now.

A phrase that I’ve come to use is, “Embrace the new normal.” Embrace this moment instead of thinking about what could have been or what was. It’s so easy to get wrapped up in, What’s next, what’s next, what’s next? But just take a moment and relax.

That meditative time in scuba where you’re just focusing on breathing, and you’re feeling this weightlessness and you’re just listening to your own bubbles, that forces me into that state.

Erica Cole is the founder and CEO of , a ready-to-wear adaptive clothing brand for people with disabilities. No Limbits was also featured on “Shark Tank.”

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Vasu Sojitra told his story to producer Paddy O’Connell for an episode of The Daily Rally podcast. It has been edited for length and clarity.

Telling my parents that I’m gonna be a professional skier was fairly far-fetched. I come from a South Asian background, Indian-American. There’s not many professional skiers that come from India. It’s definitely breaking the mold of what folks that look like me typically do. It was a massive shift in my trajectory as a human in society.

My name is Vasu Sojitra. Some people call me Voss for short — don’t wanna say the “su” part, I don’t know. I identify as a disabled person. I have one leg, and I also am South Asian, so I have multiple identities. I grew up in Connecticut and also partly in India.

I fell in love with skiing when I was around ten, so I started going up to Vermont a lot, a little later in my teens. I went to school there at the University of Vermont.

I feel like one of the bigger challenges is trying to figure out what we want to do with our lives, and that was definitely something I was trying to figure out in my late teens, early twenties. I was in engineering for my college career. I needed to get out of that school as quickly as possible. Because I realized I do not like structure as much as I thought I did. But I did pretty well as an engineer. So I was like, OK, cool. I’m good at something, but do I like it? Maybe, maybe not.

What I did enjoy was experiencing the outdoors with my friends. I was kind of an arrogant teenager, just like, Oh, I’m a good enough skier. I don’t need to do anything here. This is fine. And then I was introduced to Vermont Adaptive. I was 21 years old at the time, and it was a pretty sunny day and we were on a ski lesson on a green circle, a typical trail that many people take to just go back to the lodge. I was on this lesson with another volunteer who was physically tethering this other individual, just so the participant would stay in control.

I was skiing next to him next to the edge of the ski run. So the trees were on the other side. I was trying to make sure he looked up and was trying to initiate some sort of turning. But at the end of the day, we were just mostly trying to have fun. The skier had a cognitive disability, and from what I can remember, I believe he was non-verbal, but he was just screaming and hooting and hollering and just having a day. And I think mostly it was based on the speed at which he was going and the wind in his face. We were all happy and joyous and making each other laugh and whatnot. And he was just having the time of his life jumping up and down and just hooting and hollering.

That’s when I stopped talking and just started observing. And I was just like, This is what it’s about. This is really cool. It really doesn’t matter what you look like, where you come from, who you are, or what your background is. This is what true joy is.

That was the moment I was like, Hell yeah. This is where I want to go, and these are the experiences that I want to help cultivate and create.

During the summer of 2014, a few of us decided we wanted to move out west and Montana was our choice. I decided that I wanted to work in the adaptive sports industry, and got my way into working at the local one here in Bozeman.

I was pretty persistent in building relationships with the program directors there and connecting with them and asking about job opportunities, internships, you name it. Just putting myself out there as much as possible, which might have come off as very, very persistent or annoying to some, who knows. I moved from the assistant program coordinator to the assistant director, to the director of the adaptive sports program.

That just filled my bucket and fueled everything that I was trying to do. I moved out of that program during COVID-19. I started realizing on-the-ground work like the stuff I was doing was really amazing and really impactful, but it wasn’t going to create the systemic change that I’m hoping for, providing better access to the outdoors to folks with disabilities or better educational standards, or just providing that representation and cultural relevancy to an industry that seems like it definitely needs it. I started really pushing into the behind the scenes work, whether it’s advisory committees, or DEI committees at the North Face or REI, or at other companies to help them shift their cultures.

As an athlete, I’m in front of the lens a lot, utilizing that representation to share the stories that aren’t being told, especially around disability and race. To showcase that we are human and we also like to have fun.

Adaptive sports are so much more than just the activity itself, but just a way to feel empowered, feel emboldened, and be able to express ourselves how we want to, regardless of how society might treat us.

Vasu Sojitra is a professional athlete and disability access strategist. He is a founding member of the , a co-founder of the , and a member of . Find out more at , and follow him on Instagram .

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Brian Reynolds told his story to producer Caro Rolando for an episode of The Daily Rally podcast. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I was laying on the ground. My pack was beside me. I was thinking I’d probably climb out of the canyon without that pack on my back and just leave it there as a total loss. I didn’t know how I was gonna get to the top, but I knew that I was gonna get to the top even if it required crawling.

I grew up outside of Boston, and currently I live in New Jersey. When I was four, I contracted a rare disease called meningococcemia, which is a bacterial-based version of meningitis. And even now in 2023, it’s still a very deadly disease with a very high fatality rate. But back in the early ‘90s, it was an under ten percent survival rate. So when I say I’m lucky to have only lost two legs below the knee, I truly mean I’m lucky.

The prosthetic technology that I had growing up that was available to me was just not conducive to long bursts of hiking, running, walking, or anything in between. I had a lot of chronic sores on my legs and honestly, with all of that, I had no drive to do any sort of endurance sport and to push myself in that realm.

It was before social media was a thing. I didn’t know any other para-athletes. I didn’t know any other amputees in general, athletes or not. And I didn’t even know that those things were possible. I just kind of figured I’m an amputee, I’m just gonna get through life, but it’s not gonna be too exciting in the sporting realm for me.

I grew up trying to hide my legs, hide who I was. I was afraid of what everybody would think of my legs if I wore shorts. So I wore pants for the first almost 25 years of my life. Didn’t matter if it was 110 degrees out, I was there in jeans. It wasn’t until after college, I was at the gym over the summer and there was no AC in the gym, and it was probably 110 or 120 degrees in that gym. And I basically just said, Screw it. I can’t do this anymore. And I put on shorts for the first time since I was four, since before I was in the hospital. And you know what? Nobody looked at me any differently. Nobody cared. That was the “aha” moment. I’ve been hiding myself and putting myself away so that I’m not seen. I put shorts on for that first day, and I basically don’t put pants on anymore.

Between me putting on shorts and getting into endurance activities, it was no more than six months. I happened to stumble across a flyer for Team in Training that was like, “Go hike the Grand Canyon.” I was like, I like crazy things and I can’t walk a mile if you put a million dollars at the end of it, but this sounds like fun. So I went to the Team in Training meeting, and I was absolutely convinced that I needed to do it after the first meeting. I signed up right there.

I feel like that this was the first time I truly came out of my shell in just wanting to push my limits. I thought I couldn’t do it, so therefore I was determined to do it. Signing up for, I think it was a 16 or 17 mile hike across the canyon, just seemed like a really good way to see what I could or couldn’t do.

Team in Training is a really awesome organization. They have coaches that help you train every single week. We had a local team of, I don’t know, 10 or 15 people that were all training for the same goal. We were varying abilities of people who, like me, had never hiked or done anything endurance, straight through people who had hiked all over the world. Being able to hike with them on a weekly basis and having a coach that would give us exercises was definitely a really important part of getting me healthy, fit, and ready to go.

For the hike in the Grand Canyon, I believe we went down Kaibab Trail, across the Tonto Plateau, and then back up Bright Angel. Right before we started climbing out of the canyon, I wasn’t feeling good. I think it dawned on me how much of a newbie I was to the sport. For that hike, I was the only person using prosthetics. I was absolutely wrecked by the heat. My legs are encased in silicone, so I sweat drastically more than most people. The guide that they had for us that day made me sit down for probably at least 30 minutes, and nearly force-fed me electrolytes, despite me telling him I didn’t need them.

Well, he was right. I definitely needed electrolytes. Because 30 minutes later, I felt much better and powered out pretty fast for somebody who 30-to-60 minutes beforehand could barely stand up. Climbing out of the canyon, standing on the edge and seeing what I just did, made me think about how many other things I could do.

I started running on just everyday walking legs, which are terrible for running in. It’d be the same as if you went for a run in a ski boot: zero ankle mobility, lots of chafing, and heavy. That’s how I started running one minute a day for a week, and then two minutes a day for a week, and so on.

As new as I was to hiking when I ran the Grand Canyon, I may have even been newer to running when I decided a marathon was a good idea. From 2014 to now, I couldn’t even remotely tell you how many races I’ve done. Some years it’s dozens, some years it’s less. I think I’ve run like 12 marathons now.

It’s so much easier when you break it down instead of saying Oh, I have to go run a marathon. I have to go out for my 15-mile. It’s much easier to say, I’m gonna go out for a minute today, or five minutes, or whatever you’re comfortable at, wherever your level is. Just start moving forward. Just five minutes or less. It makes a difference.

If you start taking teeny steps towards your goal, you can summit a mountain. So I think my advice is to just start.

Brian Reynolds has broken several world running records for double leg below the knee amputees. He works for Athletic Brewing, and is also a professional runner for Brooks Shoes, among other companies. You can find him on Instagram @brianreynoldsrunner.

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