It may not look long in that picture, but it's VERY long. Here's a little story of mine from riding it...

This was a couple of summers ago, for me. I had been enjoying the night life in Adams Morgan, and was headed back to my dorm via the Rosslyn exit. Nature had called on me a number of times already that evening and early morning, and I was very thankful that it had blessed me with a break during my metro ride home, and then blessed me again by redirecting that frantic experience towards my buddies, giving me the best entertainment of the night as I watched them squirm and groan. As I would later realize, my blessing was really a curse in disguise.

As they spilled off the train and let fly from their over-pressurized bladders, huddled around pillars and daring each other to hit the 3rd rail, I confidently strolled over to the main escalator with an attitude that only a drunk college student sporting a seemingly empty bladder can muster. In class that day we had talked about the ambushing tactics used by the Vietcong and the thousands of casualties they claimed. I was woefully unaware of how personal that lesson was about to become.

For those of you who don't know, the escalator at Rosslyn station is more massive than many of your feeble minds can even begin to comprehend. During one of my trips to DC, I entered the station to take the train in to Federal Triangle for an interview. Upon realization that the down escalator was closed, and the elevator was for handicapped use only, I chose to walk to the next station instead. When you divide a number by zero, that is the number of steps this escalator has.

I was about 4 steps into the escalator when the desire to piss charged into my concious like an enraged rhinoceros. I looked up the escalator at the never ending set of stairs and, sensing the futility of a panicked dash up, turned back to try to make my way down. My so called friends were quite aware of just what the terror stricken look on my face was born of, having only recently felt the same pressures. As I desperately clawed at them to let me pass, they stood their ground, relishing in the sweet taste of swollen bladder justice.

With my last bit of free will, I turned again to the intimidating task of climbing the massive mechanical hill that awaited me. There was no way out. I surged forward, plowing through those in my way like a NFL linebacker, laying waste to bureaucrats, foreigners, and old women alike. Nothing was sacred except my desire to not piss my pants, no cause just except my own.

Each frantic step I took jolted into my painfully enlarged stomach, threatening to burst forth with the force of 9,001 stampeding mustangs. But I did not falter. I carried on, certain that my success of my future -- my very life -- lay in the outcome of this quest.

As I neared the top, I could begin to taste the victory. Strangely, victory tasted a lot like 50 cent wings and Miller Lite being chucked up to the top of my throat, but I paid it no mind, focusing solely on my goal. As each step fell to my conquering stride, I began to anticipate the appropriate place to void my urine. The presence of metro police was considered, and then ignored. Nothing else mattered at this point other than letting out the surging tsunami that waited in my belly.

When I finished my crazy dash to the top, I ran through the turn still, smacking my quick pass to the card reader like an Olympic sprinter passing the baton to the next man in the relay. I made a beeline to the empty wall between the phone booth and the metro pass pay machines, undoing my belt and pants as I ran. No sooner did my feet stop moving, than the pee started flowing. I have been known to write my name or phone number in golden cursive, but this night I could have written the Emancipation Proclamation, in it's entirety, in at least 3 languages. As I stood there, letting wave after wave of relief flow over me (and out of me), onlookers stood by. Some were offended, others laughed, and even some took pictures.

But I did not care, they were barely more than a faded haze; I was free. My bladder was free. The heavens sang, the trumpets played, my friends fell to the ground laughing, and I just smiled. From that day on, I have appreciated the value of indoor plumbing and toilets like I never did before. My life has changed. I feel like I was touched an angel that day.

TL;DR: Ghana bars do not card for pitchers of Miller Lite during the World Cup.