Ten years ago, a young entrepreneur with a struggling backpack company wanted publicity photos of real people using his backpacks in rough-and-tumble ways. So he held the first-ever GORUCK Challenge, in which 20 or so hooah weirdos paid good money to sign up for an event of unknown distance carrying backpacks of bricks punctuated by PT beatdowns at the hands of an ex-Green Beret.
People loved the Challenge so much that they wanted more, and entrepreneur and SF vet Jason McCarthy realized that he wasn’t so much in the business of making tough rucksacks as tough ruck beatdown events.
Tomorrow we celebrate the 10th anniversary of Class 001. I don’t know how ready I am. I’ve rucked little in the last two months while healing an injury, and though I’ve been blazing away on the kettlebells in the meantime, I didn’t really know where my aerobic base is right now.
Here’s what I do know:
- I’m waaaaaay more experienced now than at my first awesome GORUCK event two years ago. I’ve troubleshot my gear, made friends with the horror of hypothermia, and learned that the emotional/physical lows are soon followed by great highs.
- I’ve packed enough peanut butter M&Ms, cashews, and caffeine for a one-man ruck rampage through six counties.
- I have great mentors and advisors: Sgt. Šileika, Scott, Griff, I’m looking at you.
- And there’s no substitute on earth for this kind of camaraderie.
And finally, I know that I won’t quit. I’ll be back tomorrow, with my shield or on it!
It’s official. Lean Solid Girl and I have formed an artistic collaboration called The Camoufleurs. We’ll be found an artists’ residency and showing late this year.
Love camouflage patterns? Join us on Instagram at https://www.instagram.com/p/CEADvoKgFXb/?igshid=240rplbf8fm7
The French really understand parched, roasting climates. From 200 years of walking around North Africa, they figured out what to wear for brain-boiling heat.
If you’re a regular reader of Lean, Solid Dogs, you already know that I love short shorts. And my favorites are surplus French Army shorts. Cheap, durable, and comfortable, they would be 100% perfect if not for the tragic European aversion to back pockets.
But my French cousins absolutely aced one other piece of hot weather gear: the GAO shirt. Think of it as an optimized tank top. Its most distinctive feature is that it doesn’t have sides, just straps that hold the front and back together while ventilating your body. For even more ventilation, there’s a deep V-neck that leaves about half your chest exposed to the air. Only the shoulders get extra coverage to protect them from the sun and the chafing of pack straps or other loads. And the designers even compensated for the lack of back pockets on their shorts but putting a sort of dump pouch across the small of the back, like some cycling jerseys have.
The GAO shirt’s origins are somewhat mysterious and people are unsure where the name comes from. It might be named after the Gao region of Niger, or it could be an acronym for “Operational Support Group” (Groupe d’Appui Opérationnel). What we do know is that it appeared in 1983 in Chad, when the French Army helped repel a Libyan invasion.
To my surprise, I’ve never seen a GAO shirt on anyone else in the United States. Peerless for hot, dry weather, they deserve to be better known. I first saw them years ago in Claire Denis’ film Beau travail and instantly saw how comfortable they would be.
French surplus GAO shirts are cheap but very difficult to buy from within the US for some reason, even in the age of Ebay and FedEx. However, they are easy to make. If you get hold a French specimen to copy, a sewing machine, and some 33% polyester ripstop fabric, you’re in business. If readers are dying for a pattern, drop us a line and I’ll do my best to provide you to provide you with one.
Part 3 in our series on “The Je Ne Sais Quoi of French Surplus”
In the 1940s, the world was still enamored with rubber-soled canvas sneakers. It might be too much to say sneakers were glamorous, but they were still modern and cool. In America, Converse All-Stars gained popularity in the Twenties and Thirties and broke through to celebrity as the shoe of the US Olympic team at the Berlin Olympics in 1936. And they won adoption by the US Army as their PT shoe during World War II.
While American servicemen only wore their All-Stars while exercising, other countries actually tried marching and fighting in sneakers. And they loved it! China fought the whole Korean War in the cheap green sneakers they called “Liberation Shoes” (解放鞋), and they thought they were much, much better shod than their Allied foes in leather boots.
In footwear, as in many things, France was somewhere between the Americans and the Chinese. Strange as that sounds, France shared some important things in common with China. They had a relatively low-budget military, indebted to but aloof from their nearest superpower, and they were very interested in low-intensity insurgent warfare in agrarian societies. Accordingly, both countries prized light infantry who could move themselves quickly around austere environments.
That meant being scrappy and fit so they could travel light. Where Americans might tackle a problem with machinery, materiel, and vehicles–which is great if you have them!–both the French and the Chinese could be pretty sure they wouldn’t have that luxury. The solution? Easy, just be ready to walk everywhere and carry everything!
As I repeat here often, you can carry a lot more weight in your pack if you wear less weight on your feet. As one Chinese source puts it, “The Chinese army had what many foreign researchers considered ‘the best light infantry’ of the 20th century,” and their canvas sneakers “played an important role.”
Of course, the French were not crazy enough to wear sneakers in the Alpine snows–to make that kind of sacrifice you have to be a Communist. But they did dream up a lightweight canvas-and-rubber boot for hot weather. The French Foreign Legion knew a thing or two about hot weather. For decades they had been marching long distances around North Africa in leather boots, but in 1947 they began also to issue canvas “bush shoes” (chaussures de brousse).
Think of French “bush shoes” as the lost twin of Chinese army sneakers, raised in a country with more money and fashion sense and a very serious commitment to walking long distances under load in the desert.
The shoes were supplied by at least two firms. From what I can tell, the first was a tire manufacturer called Palladium. In 1947 they created the “Pampa” model, which resembled a Converse high-top with the sole of a hiking boot. Two years later they added the “Pallabrousse.” In 1950 another supplier entered the game, a company named Pataugas, and it became common in French to refer to all bush shoes generically as pataugas.
What’s special about French “bush shoes?”
They’re fast. At just 500g each, the Palladium boots are far lighter than my beloved Rocky S2Vs (850g) and wicked fast. I tried them on two of my benchmark hikes, one on flat ground and the other on slopes of unpleasant igneous rock, and I smoked them. In both cases, I was almost 14% faster in the light Palladiums.
The Mil-Tec clones are heavier (650g each), stiffer, and hence not as fast. But they have other virtues, as we will see below.
They grip well. This is huge, because it doesn’t matter if your boots are lighter than helium if you slip and fall on rocks. Happily, the bush shoes have giant treads that dig in and keep me on my feet on steep, crumbly slopes, even if I’m unusually top-heavy with an 80# (36kg) load.
They are cheap. My cherished Rockies cost about $165. Not bad! They served me through almost a year of heavy use. But Palladium Pampas and Pallabrousses run less than half that, and the stiff-soled Pampa clones made by Mil-Tec can be found for under $40. (Apparently they look chic too. The first time I wore them, I actually received a compliment. From a woman. On my shoes. Incroyable! That was before I wore them to clamber through timber slash–I don’t get compliments anymore.)
How long will they last? I’ll let you know in a year.
They dry fast. To handle sweat, modern hot weather boots add ventilation holes or mesh panels. But these old-school canvas boots dry your foot differently. Instead of holes or mesh, you just have, well, the canvas. When your feet sweat, it soaks right through the canvas and evaporates in the sun. After a serious hike, your boots will be as wet with sweat as your shirt, and when they dry, you might find faint white streaks of dried salt.
The Palladiums demand a more active foot. With a flexible sole and no shank, your foot muscles have to work hard. This is probably a good thing for your performance and podiatric health in the medium and long term, but I needed a couple days to get used to it. And on rock terrain, I need to place my feet more carefully than usual. When I walk on a nasty surface in heavy boots, I can bulldoze over sharp rocks and pebbles and let my feet fall where they will. But in these light shoes, there is little padding for the bones in the ball of my foot, so either I need to take sharp rocks on the meat of the mid foot or step between them entirely, especially when traveling downhill. That means that I have to walk very actively on bad terrain, and after 10 miles on intensely undulating volcanic rock, I trashed my gluteus medius, the under-appreciated muscle that shifts your hips side to side when you’re on one foot.
Because the Mil-Tecs have stiffer soles, they feel much harder and more nearly permit you to “steamroll” obstacles like you would in a traditional hiking boot. You still have to provide your own ankle stability, but you can easily walk over rocks and dead fall.
An unresolved concern is whether I trip on rocks more in the Palladiums. When I blew away my old PR on the volcanic slopes, which were littered with loose stones, several times I caught the Palladium’s long toe against a trip hazard, twice even really unbalancing me. I would like to blame that on nothing more than the fatigue involved in a mad dash for a PR, but I will need to assess this honestly over time.
Lean Solid Dogs is honored to present our first guest post by Sgt. Šileika, a kindred “marching philosopher” and my oldest and most reliable mentor in everything related to rucking. I dearly hope that one day he will write a whole autobiography, but the part of his resume that concerns us here is that the good sergeant has logged many, many, many miles on his feet, first as a vagabond-adventurer-pilgrim, then as an infantryman of The Black Watch (Royal Highland Regiment) of Canada serving overseas, and later as a reservist in his homeland of Lithuania.
Sgt. Šileika sent this advice to Lean Solid HQ in response to my recent curiosity about the idea of “third-line” equipment, items that you don’t need to carry attached to your person (the absolutely essential “first-line” gear) or in your ruck (“second-line”) but would still be nice to stash somewhere in the field.
The info is too good to keep to myself, so with the Baltic trail Yoda’s permission, we are publishing it here for the benefit of lean, solid dogs everywhere.
Over years of experimenting with “third line” equipment, I’ve come up with my own “formula” designed for the three most common scenarios:
Scenario 1) You will operate out of a vehicle. In this case, you have lucked out. You can bring all the third-line equipment you want. Pack it in a duffel and leave it in the vehicle. In fact, go ahead and pack a huge steamer trunk if you want. When Theodore Roosevelt embarked on his African safari, he brought leather-bound editions of Shakespeare, Homer, the Bible, Milton, Dante, and 54 other volumes. It didn’t matter, because he wasn’t carrying them all. Personally, I’d have skipped Walter Scott’s sentimental Victorian genre fiction to make room for Carl Jung’s Red Book and a modest kettlebell instead, but it’s immaterial: you can go bonkers on third-line gear provided you’re leaving it in a vehicle.
Scenario 2) You will carry everything into the field on foot, set up your own base camp/staging area, and operate from there. When I was in recce platoon, usually there would be an ORV (objective rendez-vous) prior to the objective itself, and that was where we’d drop kit, and some would stay to man the radios and others of us would continue on to patrol, man the vantage point, or hunt for chantarelles and catch butterflies.
I would carry third-line kit in an ALICE pack or Canadian Pattern 64 pack, and to the top of that I would lash a small pack containing second-line gear. (See image above. It’s grainy, but in the background you can just make out a Pattern 64 with a small Camelbak pack on top.) That way, when we hit the base camp, I could shed the main pack and continue on with the small pack. When we returned, I simply attached the small pack back onto the ALICE/64 pack and carried on. That saved me from repacking things hurriedly, which usually devolved into a frantic goat rope.
Here the general principle is modular packing, so you can shed gear and pick it back up quickly, without fuss. You can drop it and go, then recover it and go, with just one or two clicks of a buckle.
The Pattern 64 and ALICE packs are great for modular packing because of their big external frames: they’re perfect for lashing stuff to. But if you don’t have one, you can just attach your small pack under the bottom of your larger back, where you would traditionally strap your sleeping bag, or you can attach it under the floating lid of a modern pack.
Scenario 3) Surprise! You have to carry extra things! Sometimes you’re just on foot and there won’t be any further base camp/staging area. You’ll be carrying everything, so you’re not bringing any third-line gear to stash along the way. If you’re bringing it at all, you’ll be carrying it the whole time.
But now—surprise!!—you stumble across a pot of leprechaun gold. Are you just going to leave it there and hike back to look for a truck? Hell, no. You have to carry it.
The worst way to haul something heavy or awkward is to actually carry it in your hands. It’s slow, uncomfortable, and fatiguing. And carrying it on your shoulder like a stevedore isn’t much nicer. Instead, if you can somehow put it on your back, the difference will be like night and day.
To prepare for this possibility, you have two options, which I call “pack in a pack” or “partly empty pack.” I go with the first option: inside my small pack, I keep an empty “crunch pack,” some sort of satchel or other carrying device that scrunches down to 1L or less. If I discover buried pirate treasure (which used to happen all the time in Quebec), I fill the satchel and lash it to the top or bottom of my pack.
The second option is cheaper: you just carry an oversized pack, with more room than you need for your gear. If you meet a village full of Smurfs who want to stow away with you, you just expand your pack to its full size and then dump them in on top your field stove. Close up the pack and no one will be the wiser, unless they burst into song.
Being part 2 of my field notes from a glorious 48 hours with my boots on. (Find part 1 here.)
The anguish of my unrecognized comic genius: At one point, the command post radioed our group to make sure that we hadn’t eloped with sasquatches or been eaten by raccoons. In the terse language of the Incident Command System, this came out as “Team Twelve: welfare check?” I wanted to drawl, “Thank you kindly, but we work for a living.” I’m pretty sure they weren’t in a mood for my mirth on a command channel, so I kept the fun to myself. But it hurts to be blessed with talent like mine and not be able to share it with the world. One day… One day search base will see me for the genius that I am!!
Map-reading and cognitive load: Since childhood I’ve loved maps, an unsurprising love for an intellectual, someone who interacts with the world more through concept and abstraction than through his moment-to-moment senses. When you read a map, you encounter the earth through a sort of “God’s-eye view,” taking in at once a panoply of information about the surroundings that far exceed what any one observer on the ground can see. But being a basically unobservant person, I must work hard to reconcile what I see on a map with what my eyes see. If I am in a canyon surrounded by distinctive ridgelines and peaks, then in principle I should be able to find those formations represented on a topographic map and thus find my location, but I’ve found it far harder to do in practice than in theory. Imagine that.
But I keep on practicing, and finally I’ve been succeeding. On this trip I played a game with my hiking buddy: occasionally I tried, in my comical professorial way, to guess our location with just a map and eyeballs and then he checked my guess against GPS or a compass. And … it worked! Pretty consistently!
But fatigue blunts mental acuity. One teammate, Gunny, told me about a mud run he used to organize. Between wall climbs and rope swings, participants had to stop at other stations and solve math problems in their heads and other brain teasers. I would suck at that. When I suck wind, my head gets “thick” and turbid, like the thoughts are wading in knee-deep Jello. During the search I was navigating non-stop for hours in dense, tiring vegetation, and by the end of our assignment I lost 30 IQ points.
What to do about this? I’m sure practice and experience helps: the first time you “grid” a nasty slope of tough foliage, you’re at the steep part of the learning curve. I’m sure the tenth time is a different experience than the first. And it helps to travel as light as possible. As we’ve discussed before on this blog, researchers have quantified how much extra energy you burn by hauling unnecessary pounds. (Especially on the feet—we’ll return to that point soon in our post on French boots.)
However, beyond that, another factor is aerobic conditioning, and that’s squarely in your control. As an erstwhile strength athletes, it pains me to say this but there is no substitute for cardio, and I doubt you can ever have enough cardio, simply because I can’t imagine a time when you couldn’t improve further, or be better prepared for an emergency, just by having a bigger gas tank, better speed, and longer range. Don’t get me wrong—I still love strength, strength is still important, and most people have plenty of “room to grow” and get noticeably stronger with just a small investment in “easy strength” training. But in strength there are some very real points of diminishing returns. One is that, for almost any activity except powerlifting and maybe certain positions in American football, there comes a point when enough is enough. As we’ve written here before, Navy researchers found that aspiring SEALs who were too strong in certain events actually fared worse in training. Their explanation? If you’re deadlifting with such focus that you pull triple bodyweight, you’re robbing training time from equally important things like running and swimming and pullups. That is, you’re over-focusing. This brings us to the second point, which is efficiency. It takes almost nothing to train a healthy man to deadlift two “wheels” (225#, about 100kg). From there, it takes only a little more time to pull three wheels (315#). Four wheels takes a lot longer, and five (495#) takes many years. For six, you need several of the following: freakish talent, drugs, good coaching, a willingness to sacrifice your health, and many years of persistence. Each level gets harder, takes longer, and gives you less improvement in exchange for your time. Once you’re at the top of your game, you might spend a year trying to bump up a given lift just 10 pounds. You’ve become a highly specialized athlete and sacrificed lots of other attributes to become a strength specialist.
In my own life, I won’t run into many problems that call for a 500# deadlift. But I often would like the freedom to move farther faster longer and with more surplus energy and mental clarity that comes from a huge aerobic gas tank. And I can maintain a deadlift of close to 400# without thinking about it. That’s enough for a deadlift—for cardio, I don’t think enough is ever enough.
Captain America and “third-line” equipment: Many teammates have introduced me to the idea of what some describe as “first-line” and “second-line” equipment, meaning roughly the stuff that’s so essential that you attach it directly to your body (e.g. in a pocket or a belt pouch) and the stuff that you relegate to your pack. That way, in case you get separated from your pack, you’ve still got the indispensable “must-haves” for staying/getting out of trouble.
But this weekend, a teammate’s example got me thinking about what I guess could be called “third-line” gear, stuff that you can’t schlep around all over the field and probably won’t need—but you’d still like to have options. Normally I keep that kind of “just in case” stuff in my car—tons of water, a hatchet and shovel and knife, ropes, lights, and spare clothes. And that’s great—until I catch a ride to a call in someone else’s car! This other teammate, a lantern-jawed Captain America-type, had a better idea: he showed up at staging with both a pack and an elephant-sized duffel bag that he stashed in the truck. As he told me, “Sometimes you can’t be sure what to bring, so I bring everything.”
This sounds like a good piece of insurance for when I show up at a call and find a situation that’s different from what I expected—which is every blessed time. I always arrive to find weather or terrain or something that’s different from what I expected. And in that moment, I think, “I can get by with my usual boots/gloves/layers/whatever, but I would have brought something specific if I’d known it would be this swampy/parched/dusty/thorny/humid/ drizzly/windy/cold/hot/rocky/slippery.
Food, Non-eating of: I still prefer not to eat much in the field. Over two days I spent about 4000 calories more than I ate, subsisting mostly on milk and pistachios, and it was only late in the second day that I developed more than a casual interest in food. If the keto crowd are right, this means that I’m sufficiently “fat-adapted” to draw my energy directly from fat stores (which I have in plenitude right now). This is a nice perk. Aside from mere convenience, I love being liberated from the alternating hunger and nausea I felt during the Star Course, when I was all sugared up.
Chest rig and dump pouches: At the big search, the chest rig was a dream. As often happens, I suddenly had to start manipulating a bunch of tools at once and clear space in pouches for a second radio and batteries, and the chest rig kept everything in order almost effortlessly. Losing stuff is a thing of the past for me—thank you, chest rig! And I finally I realized what I should be using those thigh pockets for: dump pouches. When somebody thrusts a jumble of spare radio parts into my already full hands just as I need to ruck up and jump on a departing vehicle in a hurry, I can either (a) juggle like a circus clown, (b) lose stuff, (c) drop everything on the ground and start sorting the puzzle pieces while everyone waits there, or (d) use those big thigh pockets as dump pouches and then sort out the whole Rube Goldberg machine when there’s a quiet moment. I’ve tried A through C before, with unimpressive results. But D looks like a winner!
Without meaning to, this weekend I got to spend 48 hours in the field. A buddy and I planned a weighted ruck and gear test in the mountains, and we came home gloriously delirious and trashed, and just as I planned to slip into a hot bath, I got an opportunity to join a major search operation elsewhere in the mountains. So instead of a lavender-scented bath, I got a hasty resupply and a 3:00am departure. It was awesome!
Did it really count as being “in the field” for 48 hours, given that I made it home between the hike and the search? Not precisely, but my inner lawyer argues thus: “Yes, your honor, I did get one hot meal. But it was week-old ravioli re-heated in a microwave and eating standing up at 2am. And granted, I did sleep in a bed with sheets. But it was only for 2.5 hours and I was wearing dirty BDUs. And if the court will allow me to approach the ladies and gentlemen of the jury, they will find in my favor just based on how I smell.”
It was paradise, or some near-synonym that means “something gloriously horrible that you would like to do again soon.” And I learned tons, which I will dump out into print here:
1) Options for dressing for high heat
How should you dress for prolonged exercise in high heat? One school of thought says you should wear shorts and a tank top, like a marathoner, and be cooled by sweat and breezes. The other school says to protect yourself from radiant heat by covering up, like a farmer. Both philosophies make intelligent points and science has tried to adjudicate between the two philosophies. But the results are inconclusive.
So my hiking buddy and I ran an unscientific test of our own. We were the perfect pair of subjects: I like to hike in short shorts (though normally I wear long sleeves on top) and he is farmer and works every day covered up in hot sun. So I wore French surplus, which is the ideal type of the “sweat and breeze” approach, and he wore inexpensive technical pants and shirt, ably representing the “block the rays” approach.
On this particular hike, I was the lucky one. We walked in shade for much of the way, sparing me from a lot of radiant heat. And we were carrying moderately heavy weight (45 lbs./20kg for each) with significant climb, generating lots of body heat. We both agreed that I got the better bargain that day. Even with all of our huffing puffing, my body heat dissipated right away, his did not. And despite my exposed skin, I had the luxury of intermittent, partial shade; I did not have to provide all my own shade with my clothing.
Though I lucked out that day, I could also have lost under some circumstances. It is hard to be certain of the conditions you will find in an unfamiliar environment, and as Goggins says of environmental stress, “…more than any other variable [it] can break a motherfucker down fast.” From what I’ve experienced, people can compensate for heat and cold for a long time, but once we cross some threshold, we collapse suddenly and badly. Once that happens, we are so compromised that it’s extremely difficult to save the situation by our own actions.
So on training hikes like this, I might as well carry more gear. After all, once I’ve decided to haul 45# for the hell of it, there’s no reason I shouldn’t trade some of the steel plates or bricks for clothes, shelter-building supplies, batteries, tools, and three days of food instead. So my next experiment in romping will be to devise an easy on/easy off weight so that I can do my weighted rucks with my regular, homely, lovable, eminently useful SAR pack.
2) Map is not territory: On the search, I got lucky and was placed with one of our teams “tribal elders,” so to speak, who has half a lifetime of lessons to teach about searching. She pointed out how wrong the topographic lines on our maps were. The maps were composed from aerial photographs of the tree tops, she explained, and the cartographers’ (highly) educated guesses about the ground below. But they might have had no way to know about some deep, narrow fold in the earth that we were struggling across where the map showed no obstacle.
3) The compass is king: All of our search teachers emphasized map and compass skills, and early on they told us that the compass isn’t just an analog backup in case your GPS breaks. But only now have I come to understand why. First, my GPS is great at telling my location and my track, but it sucks at telling my direction. But more importantly, if I’m staring at my GPS unit, I’m not searching, I’m just walking. With a compass, I can set a heading, find a landmark to walk toward, and then keep my eyes up and moving. (Uncle Ron, one of our nav gurus, even teaches a clever, quick trick for laying your compass on top of your GPS screen and getting map bearings to a distant objective. Then you can put your GPS away, glance down at your compass only occasionally, and still arrive at your destination.)
Part II in our series on “The Je Ne Sais Quoi of French Surplus”
Can you call something your “favorite” if you find it uninteresting and humdrum but you still choose it over most other things? If so, meet my favorite daypack, the French “musette F1/F2.”
I guess I love this thing. It’s basic and boring, but based on my actual behavior, it must be my favorite, because I use it literally every day and take it into the field several times a month.
In about the Seventies, the French army replaced their simple canvas modèle 50, which they’d carried through their Indochina and Algeria campaigns, with the musette F1, made of a clever rubberized fabric to keep water out. In the late Eighties they issued a slightly enlarged version, the F2.
You can find both on the surplus market for a little as $20. Also available but far less common are Austrian rucks that seem clearly like improved homages to the F2.
For a 1970s design, these bomb-proof French packs ride pretty comfortably, sitting nice and high on the back. I can pack almost 40# (18kg) of bricks into an unmodified F1 before it grinds against my low back.
Though the straps can scarcely be adjusted, they have the golden ingredient for comfort: they are broad. Not padded, but broad. (I owe this discovery to Sgt. Šileika, the Lithuanian trail Yoda.)
All I can criticize the straps for is that you cannot adjust them for length. However, we fix that in just a few minutes. We just need to replace the original “quick” attach hook.
See, the pack was designed with the idea that first you’d put your right arm through the strap and then, instead of awkwardly slipping your left through another tight strap, you would just have that left strap flopping free and then re-attach it to the pack with a hook near your left hip. (This may even have been necessary to make it fit with the FAMAS rifle’s unusual sling.)
But that hook is impossibly clumsy and slow (at least for me), and you can’t shorten or lengthen the strap to cinch it up to your body.
Happily, you can change all that for $1. Cut that hook off and replace it with a “G hook” and a short length of 1″ (25mm) webbing. And, regardez! You have an adjustable strap. (Believe me, if I can do this, you can do this.)
While you’re at it, replace the buckles, which as one commenter writes at La Tranchée Militaire, “… are almost impossible to use because they give you so little room to pass the straps through,” and you have to thread/unthread two long straps through two slots each.
Instead, buy a pair of 25mm “split-bar” buckles. You can slip them right on and you don’t even have to remove the original buckles.
Finally, take my advice and get six “web dominators,” which are basically little bungee spools for loose straps flapping all over. You’ll want them because this thing has about 2m of extra straps, and unless you’re currently using them all to strap stuff all over the outside of your pack, you’ll want them out of the way.
Pants are a problem for lean, solid dogs. Since the dawn of mass-produced clothing, our brethren have struggled with a perennial challenge: our thighs and butts have been marginalized.
Frank, a Finnish cyclist living abroad in hot weather, sends this question to the Lean Solid Dogs Mail Room:
It seems that, although my own physique has been relatively stable over the years …, the middle of the bell curve has shifted … I’ve ordered and returned half a dozen pairs [of shorts] … that are either too big in the waist, too tight in the thighs, or, most maddeningly, both. I’m thinking Lean Solid Dogwear might be the answer to my prayers. Any favorite military surplus options?
The answer is HELL YES! Armies have been clothing people for a long time–people likely to be walking on biggish thighs and butts that are out of proportion to their waists–and they have an incentive to liberate those legs and not bind them. As we know, the old backpacking adage is true: “a pound on the feet is like five in the pack,” and in fact the British Army found it’s actually more like 6.4 pounds! Similarly, if you walk in pants that restrict your thighs, you burn extra energy needlessly.
In the 20th century, armies approached this problem in one of three ways:
1) Make everything a little too big. This was the characteristic Soviet and Chinese approach. Back in my youth, Chinese men wore pants with waists that were oversized from a Western perspective, and they would wear these very high, above the hips and navel, and secure them there with a belt. (The belt itself was usually hugely oversized too, often wrapping all the way round to the man’s back.) Military uniforms worked the same way, and TONS of people wore cheap PLA surplus pants. I’ve never tried this approach myself, but it seems to have worked just fine. It just looked a little rumpled, but so far as I know it didn’t hamper one’s movement.
Of course, it probably helped that in the old days Soviet and Chinese citizens subsisted on diets that were anything but rich and left people pretty trim. There were not a lot of beefy butts and thighs to begin with.
2) Lots of combinations of length and breadth. Instead of trying to shoehorn every body type into one-dimensional categories like “medium” or “large,” you can very sensibly offer an abundance of possible combinations of width and length.
This is the approach taken by the English- and German-speaking armies. The Bundeswehr offers twenty possible trouser sizes, which certainly sounds like a lot, but it highlights the limitations of a sizing system based just on inseam and waist. Even though you can choose from up to six different waist sizes, if you’re squatting or cycling a lot, you’ll blow up your butt and legs more than the German pants can really accommodate. In my experience, to be really adequate you need to offer more choices, like the Austrian Bundesheer with twenty-eight combinations (four length options and a full seven waist sizes). And America being the land of choices, we offer 36 options: six lengths and six waist sizes, with really roomy thighs.
Interestingly, the unrivaled champions in trouser sizing were the East Germans. Despite belonging to the Soviet bloc, they ostentatiously retained German uniform designs. But they took things even further: in addition to waist and inseam sizes, they added a third category for body type, with four values ranging from athletic to rotund. All told, the East Germans offered a whopping 120 permutations, in a small rump of a country of only 17 million people.
3) Man up and wear short shorts. In general, French and Italian uniforms set terrible examples for accommodating “hip and thigh diversity.” Their pants have skinny legs that look very sharp but aren’t compatible with things like barbell squatting. Or protein. Italian surplus in particular seems designed for vegan marathoners suffering from kwashiorkor. And the French have narrowed down their options for long pants to a one-dimensional chart with a maximum of 13 options.
However, the French and Italians have also spent a lot of time in the Mediterranean and North Africa, and for hot climates they solved the hip-and-thigh problem ingeniously. They cut the Gordian knot of variables—waist, thigh, seat, and inseam—and just issued shorts. And not just any shorts—not bermudas or board shorts or cargo shorts but short shorts. Seventies shorts. Shorts that insecure men might even be too timid to wear. Because you can almost eliminate the problem of thigh size as long as the shorts are short enough. Your legs will be free to move, sweat, and soak up vitamin D.
Watch this space for more further installments on choosing milsurp short shorts.