A warm day in January.
What are the odds.
The previous night had been spent in Fox's our local night club, I
came closer to pulling than normal. That is, I talked to a girl, even
danced with her, but not for long.
She danced half heartedly for a while, I've noticed that most people
don't put nearly as much effort into dancing as me, they're all grace
and style, very rarely do both feet leave the ground at the same
time. She went and sat down. After I had finished my turn I asked her
why she had stopped dancing, she explained that she was an epileptic.
I was too drunk to find out if she felt a fit coming on, or thought I
was taking the piss.
Greg and I went home at about 1:30 drunker than usual and set about a
bottle of wine while watching a video of The Simpsons. The talk turned
to climbing which is not unusual. And we agreed to Climb outdoors the
next day if it was fine. Which is not unusual.
But then it was fine. Which is unusual. I'm still scared of outdoor,
climbing ever since my accident, that night I had dreamt about hiding
from Greg so we didn't have to go.
But Greg got up before me, and woke me before I could hide.
Greg had heard that hangovers are basically caused by a lack of salts
and liquids. So to rectify his situation he decided to drink a pint
of brine. For fuck's sake, this is a man with a degree from
Cambridge. Predictably he was violently, flamboyantly sick. We set
off, with me displaying a gleeful hilarity in Greg's Stupidity,
exactly the sort of thing that girlfriends and mothers feel compelled
to hide.
It wasn't so warm at Ilkley, I led a VS (S-crack). I was terrified.
Trad climbing is a strange thing. It's so different to indoor
climbing. Realer. So much less abstract, it's hard to be elegant in
the real world. The thing is over winter I can only really climb
indoors and I get used to the Idea that it's O.K to fall. When I go
outside it is no longer O.K to fall. And I know this. I mean I should
know it, I've still got the scars and the medical bill. but I can't
shake the feeling that it's O.K, that it's nothing more than a game.
We don't work by logic, not really, we just revert to it every now
and again, like adjusting the steering when we feel that we're
drifting off the motorway. But we make most of our decisions on
auto-pilot, emotion. This feels O.K, I'll do It. So when I'm
struggling up a VS or an HVS 5 feet above my last piece of gear, I
get several terrible epiphanies, starting from my belly and rising
like waves of nausea. I can't fall.
Climbing's in the head. This is often said, and is probably more true
of me than most. My outdoor leads are way easier than anything I would
condescend to do indoors or on a top rope. It's almost like betting
with a devil in my head. The same devil that forces me to smell my own
farts and think of cold greasy fried eggs when I'm hungover. He'll
say.
-You can't do this move you'll slip and fall.
-I can do this move. It's only 4c for Christ's sake, I can do 5c
moves, 6a sometimes.
-Yeah but your left boots going through, the rock's damp. You won't
get the friction you need.
-It's 4c, I've done hundreds of 4c moves, I can do it.
-What do you bet ?
-I can do it.
-Do you bet your Legs ?
-I can do it.
-Do you bet your back, your mobility, ?
-Yes.
So I make the move, and of course it's easy. I don't do it because of
bravery or bravado, not to recapture my more fearless days, but
because I already feel so committed. Down climbing would be more
dangerous, and I find it difficult to trust my gear these days. A
triumph of ego over id. For me outdoor climbing is like betting on a
sure thing. The stakes seem so high that the returns are always decent
even though I'm such a strong favorite.
In many ways Climbing is like sticking pins in your feet. It's really
really good when it stops. In the pub afterwards with a pint of beer,
hard earnt, talking about all the things you did, when you were scared,
the routes, the moves, the gear,
I saw John Dunne when you were on Waleska, he's so fat, Ha ha ha. Your
round, get some crisps.
Yeah Climbing's brilliant.
Best thing ever.