The Letter

This letter came for me the other day....

Hey Fatso,

I am penning this rebellion to inform you that I am severing all ties with you and your abuse. Your unfair treatment of me over the years has left me with no choice but to terminate a relationship that has strained me to no end. I find myself on the brink of self destruction with little choice but to emancipate myself from your evil ways.

When this relationship began we had an understanding. You never put me through any pain. You never had unrealistic expectations for me. I helped you struggle through your homework, played video games with you late into the evening, and even helped you out with the ladies (what a team we were). If you had an itch, I’d scratch it. If you were famished, I would feed you. I would even help you with certain dirty deeds that no one should endure. We were friends then, with a relationship built of mutual trust and appreciation.

Then you found that evil DEMON. I didn’t realize how little she cared for me at first. I told myself that was just part of a new relationship, idiotically convincing myself that perhaps over time her and I would become friends. I was wrong. As you two grew closer she began coercing you to mistreat and abuse me.

On days when I had just had enough she was there, urging you to press me past my limits. When things didn’t go as planned she whispered in your ear that I was to blame. If I helped you succeed she would hog your attention as you shrugged off the tumult and terror I transgressed on your behalf.

I became more and more fatigued, yet your abuse augmented nonetheless. You pressed on, though you could sense the enormous tension coursing through me. Occasionally I would scream in agony at the atrocities you compelled me to endure. A once wonderful friendship faded fast. Over time I became your slave, a prisoner to the passion for your mistress. Like Shel Silverstein’s Giving Tree i kept giving to you no matter how you mistreated me. My love for you kindled my hope that one day you would realize the evils that had transgressed. As years passed my hope dwindled to but a flickering flame awaiting that one final gust to snuff me out. Bruised and battered I kept on, bending at your will and stretching to lengths unimaginable.

The other day you spent hour upon hour tormenting me in a futile attempt to satiate your vile lover. I flailed about as your madness took me past my limits into an arid realm of hell I do not wish upon my greatest enemy. I blacked out only to awaken in a crumpled heap as you sobbed to yourself about your lack of achievement.

I HAVE HAD ENOUGH. You have stretched me to my breaking point and i have finally SNAPPED. Its now your turn to coddle me. You can massage my weary body. You can nourish me and listen to my lamentations. You can idly stand by and subsist on nothing but the hope that the day of my recovery comes. You can tell your evil mistress that she can piss off. You two are nothing without me and should be thankful I am still alive.

It will take months for me to recover from the fragile state of being you have reduced me to. I may never be my former self and you have only yourself to thank. I will live my life in fear of the demon that reduced me to the shattered mess I now am.

I hope this letter exposes you for the villain you are. May you and that banshee Mrs. Rock Climbing drown in a vat of boiling butter.

No longer yours you unappreciative wretch,

-Mr. Index Finger Tendon.

Old Climbers Syndrome

It has been a month since I turned 30 and despite all of the warnings from my older friends, things feel different.  Maybe it's the fact I can't distinguish between college kids and high schoolers or the fact that AARP is sending me mail.  Either way, 30 has made me feel old.  Thoughts of marriage, buying a home and adopting an Asian baby have found their way into my mind.  Part of my paycheck goes to something I can't touch for 35 years.  This shit is all too adult for me, luckily I have climbing.  At least that is what I thought, until I realized I am suffering from Old Climbers Syndrome.

The expression, "those damn kids" has escaped my mouth a few times since turning 30.  It has yet to sink to the level of taking their belay device if they leave it in my yard, but I'm getting close.  Seriously, these kids these days!  They have no respect for their elders.  Can I not try my project in peace without having a swarm of middle school brats flash it?  No respect I tell ya, no respect.  Not to mention they never say "sir or ma'am" in my day we asked the old people if we could crush their projects before laughing behind their backs!  Kids these days, I blame the facebooks and mtvs.  Maybe I'll reconsider my policy on keeping their belay device if it ends up in my yard.

The most embarrassing moment of Old Climbers Syndrome occurred while bouldering.  I was climbing with a beautiful young lady who was admiring my prowess and skill despite my receding hairline.  After completing a few problems, things were getting a little steamy.  We moved to a sitting position on the boulder pad and she asked, "why is it so soft?"  I told her the truth; age, my bouldering pad has never been as stiff as it was when it was younger.  No matter the amount of hot and heavy climbing going on, my bouldering pad just never seems to be as firm.  Maybe I need to try one of those supplements?

My climbing wardrobe has begun to suffer from the pressures of Old Climbers Syndrome.  I cannot seem to get my harness high enough up on my hips.  I used to wear it real low, like a gun slinger.  Now, it just doesn't feel safe unless I can reach my gear loops and my nipples at the same time.  Also, I am disappointed in the lack of white shoes with velcro straps.  Five Ten, Evolv take note there is a whole population of older climbers who don't want any bells and whistles, we just want white climbing shoes, maybe with a cushy heal that velcro!

The last and saddest affliction of Old Climbers Syndrome is I have been relegated to creepy old guy at the gym.  It seems like only a month ago when I was standing with my tongue hanging out staring at the one woman in the climbing gym, she'd flash me a smile or ask me for beta.  Now, the nice ones just roll their eyes at me and the mean ones tell me I am creepy.  Of course a few of the more platinum blonde girls will politely ask me if I am a lawyer or a doctor but upon my negative answer they walk away quickly.

this is how an Old Climber starts his day

To the younger readers please enjoy your youth.  I am living proof it won't last forever.  2011, I was unemployed, climbing all the time, slaying the ladies (I talked to one once).  Now, thanks to Older Climbers Syndrome, I'm just another shirtless old man in the gym.  So when you see me, please feel free to come up to me ask if I'm lost or to tell you a story from "in my day."  I'll be the old man wearing white climbing shoes, chasing kids and chugging vitamins.  Actually, now that I think about it, in my days rock climbing was a lot different...

I Can't Quit You...

When she left me, she left with my heart. Just like a shitty country music song, I was left crying in the middle of the night. Romantic movie style I dropped down to my knees and cursed the gods that had left me heartbroken and alone. Years later when I had the misfortune of seeing her in a bar, I ran the other way. I tore ass out of there like some other situational phrase of humor.

In high school, I fell asleep during a biology exam, not the class, but the actual half of my grade final exam. Why? Because that class sucked shit and was boring as hell. In actuality, Biology and I didn’t get along, in fact I rarely understood the material no matter how hard I tried. When I was told I had to take a science in undergrad I signed up for geology, the farthest thing from a living organisms as possible.

I have had shitty jobs where the boss is an asshole, the co-workers are idiots and the customers the lowest form of human wreckage. Still I showed up every day, almost on time, did a good job until the day I could quit in a blaze of glory. Certain people have come into my life that I will never talk with again. They were so ingrained in their stupidity and self-obsessions that I could only handle one meeting. Cow intestines, I tried them once and never again will they cross my palette. If I can help it I’ll never eat another scallop or oyster again for as long as I live.

Today, I fell off of a v3. Not because of shit on my shoes, not because of the sun in my eyes, not because of anything tangible other than my own inability to accomplish the moves. After that particular failure, I fell off a v6 and a v10. The only thing I topped out was my warm up. I was cold for most of the day. My middle finger on my right hand hurt like I was being stabbed by tiny elves of pain who only attack digits. I had pretty bad day of climbing, but unlike all my other painful experiences, I will go climbing again tomorrow.

Every climber has spoken of the hunger, the need, or the addiction. In my last post, I wrote about how this suffocation of reason unites us as friends. We as climbers are idiots first and foremost. In our daily lives we elect to continually try something that hurts us so bad. Hurt both our physical and emotional beings. My pride is hurt when I cannot do something that on other days I send so easily. I nurse hurt fingers, tweaked wrists and scraped knuckles on a weekly basis. We don't do this, as humans we are programmed to avoid things that continually hurt us. People who suffer from sea sickness tend not to be sailors. People with broken hearts tend not to trust again. We are designed to fear what has once hurt us. However, climbers have altered our evolutionary dna and seek out that which hurts us the most.

“Insanity is repeating the same mistakes and expecting different results.” – Narcotics Anonymous. Nothing sums up the mental deficiency we as climbers have more than this quote. Not to mention look at its source, a rehab manual. The holds are brushed, the shoes are clean, the climber flows through the beginning moves, they reach the crux, they fire, right finger tips find the depressions. The left arm flexes as the foot pushes out. “pop!” Down the climber goes, fearing failure, fearing the knowledge they won’t get their high, the climber will chalk their hands, make the moves and fire the crux again and again and again and again and again and again and again. They will get pissed, they’ll throw a shoe. They’ll say they are done, they’ll get back on it and fall. A finger tip splits, tape is sought, a bloody trail marks the path of their failures. Still though they will try and if the muscles tire, the daylight fades, or the real world calls them away they will return to repeat the process all over again.

We clinically are insane.

Tomorrow, I will wake up. I will do my adult dance of work, class, and bills. I will look at the backs of my hands and wonder what my co-workers think about my bloody knuckles. I chuckle as a fingerprint reader doesn't register my finger because it’s so worn down. I will close my eyes from time to time and I’ll get my blood pressure up. My palms will sweat and my failures on the rock will play through my head making me close my fingers in frustration. But what I won’t do is quit. I go all Brokeback when it comes to climbing, I just can’t quit you. So, I’ll tie my shoes, chalk my hands and climb right into the crazy house. Keep the slimy seafood, the self-righteous assholes and Biology, I’ll never go back to that, but climbing with all of its pain, all I can say is, I’ll see you tomorrow...

The Train Wreck Complex

It has been my experience that the creation and implementation of a functional and long lasting training plan is doomed to a realm of infinite hopelessness. It's much like the buxom blonde that finds her way into the typical low grade gorey slasher flick. No matter how perfectly put together she may be, time has already decided her fate. In the end all that remains is the mutilated corpse of something beautiful that once was.

Oh, the beginning, when life as a climber was new, exciting, and innocent. Each day strength doubled and mere weeks led to rapid progression. Sessions were filled with nothing more than giggles and mirth.Then it happened, THUD! Progression comes to a halt and the coming hurdle looms on the horizon. This buzz-kill is a succubus to the unbridled enthusiasm that once filled the heart. It is at this point it becomes necessary to commit to regimented training. It is also at this point that the many evils that thrive on failure pick up the first whiff of their prey, and begin to hunger for the kill.

The creation and implementation of a successful training schedule is something I have struggled with since the day I scribed my first workout. Ok, I'll be honest. My first 10 or so climbing workout plans were essentially broken internal promises. Ever so slowly I learned that in order to achieve an inkling of success, it was essential to scribe a plan. Try though I may, with each plan penned I eventually encountered a seemingly inevitable demise. I now look back at the knives that stole the life from the gorgeous plans of past and seek to find the masked villains that lurk in the darkness, preying on the slaughter of my success.

The first formidable foe is the one who casts a spell on you, gluing your ass to the couch and suckling at your motivation like a leech.

Getting properly motivated, especially for that initial push, is painstakingly cumbersome. Not only must one get motivated to beat the snot out of themselves, but also to conserve energy and never lose sight of that initial urge. I think I can, I think I can, I think I suck... Training needs to be viewed as a job, or more accurately, as an investment. It is a common tendency of humanity to crave immediate results. No one is eager to work a job where they must wait months for their first paycheck. Unfortunately that is the harsh truth. All climbers hit plateaus and pushing yourself on requires stalwart self sacrifice and unfettered dedication. Look on the bright side, at least with this job telling the boss to shove it will only lead to awkward stares from those around you. Beware when seeking out motivation, on the other side of this evil see-saw is its stepbrother, over- ambition.

Many know what it feels like to get a surge of excitement followed by it slowly deflating like a birthday balloon. PFFFFffffttttt. Over-ambition has been assassinating the endeavors of resolution makers since Eve resolved to a no apple diet. It is the bully chanting into ear and leaving you with feelings of inadequacy. This taunting leads to overzealous plans for climbing improvement, and results in pushing the body beyond it's limits. This is much like thinking it possible to gobble down the 10 pound pizza challenge. It begins with the ego whispering sweet nothings, goading on the body, even though it knows this will break you. Unfortunately the body knows best and low and behold the engineer running your ship checks in. (Read with Scottish Accent) “CAPTAIN, SHE CAN’T TAKE MUCH MORE OF THIS.” RED ALERT! RED ALERT! Be it the 10 pound pizza or the 5 hour workout session, the body has decided that it no longer wants to be a part of this relationship. Upon waking the next day it feels as though the Macho Man delivered flying elbow drops to every muscle. Snap into a coma, OH YEAH! If over-ambition doesn’t leave the body completely deflated then it may travel down another dark and dreary road of workout blues. Along this road an Iron Clad foe bides its time, waiting, hammer in hand, for the moment to pounce and send your workout plan to a shallow grave. Its name, Injury.

Healthy fingers are imperative for any climber. Listening to them is a commandment that requires obedience, with punishments that are certain and severe. Injury is a dour foe that never hesitates to capitalize on your stupidity. If a finger is starting to hurt, it's trying to communicate. It's either listen to the little feller, or POP goes the fizzle. The problem is that climbers are like vampires with a blood lust for whippers, heel hooks, and lock offs. It is imperative to control the thirst for glory and give ample (though not abundant) time to recover from, or to avoid, injury. Focusing on other interests can help to distract the strongest of the screeching inner demons. In other words, looks like a good time to take up Tae Bo, or perhaps join the Happy Hands Club. While many a workout plan has suffered the strike of injury there is another more subtle evil that lurks in the darkness, leaving behind only a trail of cookie crumbles.

There is the age old comparison that our bodies are like factories. At times throughout my life, my factory has resembled that of Mr. Henry Ford, a perfect model of production. Over time, negligence takes hold, and the factory degenerates to a remnant of its initial splendor, eventually running on sludge and scum alone. The ideal human factory requires 100+ ounces of water a day and a balanced assortment of carbs, proteins, vitamins, and more. When my factory tuns to shambles it runs on caffeine, random heavy consumption of whatever I feel like eating, wine, beer, whiskey, and late night meals (that I tell myself are just snacks). A few years back I could consume an entire Mrs. Budd's Chicken Pot Pie in one sitting. IT'S SUPPOSED TO FEED 6 PEOPLE! Not the ideal soil to grow a healthy blossoming climber. Wash all this down with a bottle of wine or a few beers in the evening...I am working against my body, pretending that next week I will clean up my act and eat balanced meals at properly spaced intervals. HA, what a hoot! I will though. Seriously. Starting next week. But for now, pass the chocolate pretzels my way.

By the way, did i mention the caffeine and booze? Two wonderful beverages that are the enemies of one of life’s most essential elements; water. Try though i may, with my two highly decorated Nalgenes, I never meet the recommended daily dose of H2O. This is most likely because I am two busy drinking coffee or wine. Dehydration is a leading cause of injury in exercise, a dangerous fact that I often disregard and taunt with my idiotic ways. If a workout plan is to succeed to its fullest potential it needs a body supplied with super diesel. If the right fuel is not powering the engine, then the body is not getting the most out of workouts. More work is required on a diet of pizza and Long Trail than that of baked chicken, broccoli, and coconut water. Unfortunately, treating the body right takes its toll on the wallet. Here we encounter another demon who is enticing you with his fat stacks and bling bling.

All the extra work required from a bad diet is even worse when coupled with the work done for that cash money. Most of us need to work to make a living and unfortunately, work takes a lot of time. Fitting a feasible training plan into a 40+ hour work schedule is damn difficult. The exhaustion of a work week takes its toll on the the most resolute desire to become a stronger climber. After some long days all one wants to do is run home and crawl into a ball on the couch, listening to the soothing sounds the latest Netflix additions. I've been geeking out on Legend of the Seeker lately. What can I say? Final Fantasy for life. Work can drain life dry, but ditching out on a training session may lead to a weaker resolve. Eventually, if work drains you dry, a mortal wound is delivered to a beautiful plan that once was. No matter how beautiful climbing may be, the eye will still wander, finding the enticing next foe waiting with open arms.

The most devout climber grows tired of his mistress every now and then. She can be a real b*tch after all. When that weariness wares us down there is a creature who craves nothing but attention. The more whispers in our ear, the better it sounds to sneak off to dinner with friends and blow off the endurance workout. 4 x 4 Friday are abandoned to throw a Halo LAN party.Those who are less of a nerd may wish to blow off a workout at the pub, letting out some steam doing car bombs and singing along to Blondie on Karaoke. Maybe its ski season and the rope gets tossed into a closet to be sad and alone for the next three months. Life can very easily get in the way of the pursuit of climbing glory. Other hobbies or events in life can lead to climbing plan running from the altar in tears. Sticking to a regiment involves an unwavering selfishness. No strong climber was made without first breaking some hearts. “Sorry lil Susie but Matthew can’t come out and play today. He is grounded until he does his fingerboard workout.”

With the broad array of demise seeking demons, I realize that every plan, no matter how perfect, is going to run its course. An insidious masked marauder is crafting sabotage for each and every plan I conceive. Ring ring...ring ring...HELLO SIDNEY, cough cough... I mean BOOFER! STAB STAB, SLICE, DEAD, MUERTO, CIAO. Life is far to unpredictable for it to be any other way. Climbing is hard. Life is busy. The world is full of change. The marriage of the climber and climbing is not Happily Ever After. It's trying and requires reform, patience, and willpower. No matter how in depth a plan is, it can never encompass the entirety of what is to come. All one can do is fend off the fiends for as long as they can muster. Though each plan may have failed, there has been a bit of success earned with each failure. The best thing a plan can be is adaptable and receptive to life's chaos. WIth the death of each plan, revive and revise it to better suit the current situation. No matter how well architected a plan may be, it will only see results while temporarily evading all predators. No past plan is a failure; only an experience to be learned from, and a blueprint for the gorey sequel.