The Ballantine stairs explained

You wake up and already find yourself stifling your sobs so as to not wake your roommate. Your mind fills with dread as you contemplate the horror in store for you.

It’s not the fact that you have a 9:00 AM class.

It’s not the fact that this class meets on a Friday.

It’s the fact that this class meets on the second floor of Ballantine Hall.

Your blood curls as you recognize the inevitable agony ahead of you. You succumb to the reality like a sentenced man approaching the executioner’s block. You are going to have to climb those godforsaken stairs.

We’re all familiar with Ballantine Hell’s Stairs

Most of us have had at least one class or office hours meeting in this pillar of misery. Its dreariness can be literally described as “old school.”

And we all know those stairs don’t fuck around.

While it is the tallest building on campus, the height isn’t the problem. Students generally don’t find themselves past the third floor.

Every time you feel confident that things will be different. You’re wearing better shoes. You’ve been working out.

It doesn’t matter.

Your breathing starts to become shallow after going up a single floor. Your lecture starts in two minutes and your vision is already starting to blur.

You press on, trudging up to the next level. Exhaustion kicks in. You’re winded. Your legs are like sandbags. You feel a little lightheaded. You wonder, “Am I really that out of shape? Is this altitude sickness?” Then you remind yourself that this only happens to you on the Ballantine stairs. So what’s the deal?

Fear not. You are not the problem. It’s Ballantine’s piss poor design

A lot of people surmise it is the steepness of the steps that make it so debilitating a climb. Don’t be fooled. This testament to rushed architecture was built in 1959. It didn’t even have air conditioning for nearly two decades after completion (at least us needy millennials have that going for us).

Turns out they also dropped the ball with the air circulation in the stairwells. They goofed so bad that when we swarm up and down those stairs we are literally using up the oxygen and filling the space with carbon dioxide that normally would be cycled out and replaced with new air in a building with half-decent circulation.

You’ll notice it’s at the busy stairwells at the extreme ends of the building — especially the congested north entrance stair — where the issue is the worst. Compare it to the way your leg falls asleep. Circulation is everything.

This design flaw makes climbing even a few measly flights a brutal endeavor. Little 500 riders use Ballantine to train during the winter months. That’s how hardcore these stairs are.

I’ll keep the science as simple as possible:

Climbing stairs is normally an aerobic activity, like jogging a half mile or climbing normal fucking stairs or trying to explain to your parents over winter break why waiting in a line outside Kilroy’s to get to a line inside Kilroy’s for a free T-shirt that you technically paid for with your cover is a totally worthwhile way to spend a Thursday night.

Without a decent supply of quality air to be shared by the Hoosier hoards, climbing Mount Ballantine becomes an anaerobic nightmare, like sprinting a half mile or biting off more than you can chew in the weight room.

I’d be a bad Hoosier if I didn’t give you my secret solution:

Unless the school installs a bunch of plants to re-supply the air with some good ol’ O₂ — actually, that would really liven the place up a bit — just use the central stairwells. They have less traffic and better air circulation.

Some might even suggest taking the elevator, but that will make you late for class more often than not. Plus, when you use the elevator, the Ballantine Hell stairs win.

@griffinleeds