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...

Be Gentle It's My First Time...

We all remember our first time, the awkwardness, the pain, and the confusion.  Thoughts of; am I doing this right, is my partner gonna laugh at me, why has it ended so soon.  My first time was awful, I used all these grunts and power when some delicate finesse would have sufficed.  I'm sure through the looking glass of memory it has only gotten worse, but I am certain I was sweating like a fat guy in a leather recliner while breathing as heavy as a horse.  Obviously, I'm not talking about my "first time" nor am I talking about my first time climbing, but instead this post is about the first time I knew I was a climber.

While trying to start homework tonight, I followed my usual protocol of deadpoint, twitter and facebook.  During my facebook stalking I discovered a climbing video.  Now this is nothing unusual on facebook, with most of my friends being climbers and usually posting video/blogs etc.  What made this different was the video itself.  This video was pre-digital photography, pre-windows movie maker, final cut, and cell phone video cameras.  This video is 9 years old and shot by my friend Chris.  It is a full length bouldering video made using Clemson University's liberal lending policy on media equipment.  It stars my first group of climbing friends, myself and A.J.  Check it out here: Rumbling Bald

After the hilarity and the wonderful memories of friends and good times this video brought back, I began to think about my early days in climbing.  I climbed v3/5.11a for a better part of my first three years and could never seem to overcome that grade.  I switched between ropes and bouldering without regards to a preference.  Basically, this is an old man sitting back in his chair telling his grandkids about the good old days when I used to "climb for fun."  Truthfully, it was the innocence of my climbing youth, I lived just to climb and I didn't care how hard, how tall or how new the climbs were, I just wanted to climb because it gave me that funny feeling in my tummy.  Shortly after sending my first v5 I moved to California to participate in AmeriCorps, while there I stopped climbing for a full year.  The Corps ended and I moved back East.  I settled into my old climbing life, the only thing that changed was my climbing partner had jumped five grades in my absence.  I set it in my mind that I had to catch him, I took the plunge from hanging at the gym, to training at the gym, from climbing for fun to climbing for the numbers.  My former plateau of v3 took a week to over come, then v5 a day, within six months I had gone from not climbing to climbing v8.  That was when my climbing youth died.  To William Blake I entered into the age of Experience.

I have been training for harder and harder sends every fall since then.  August starts and I draw up a training scheme.  Week nights I tear muscles over and over again looking to stretch and tear them again the next night.  I turn away from friends having fun at the gym and I turn down dates to do pull up workouts.  On the weekends I let my frustrations and aggression explode onto boulder problems, because I have gentrified myself into only bouldering during the winter/fall/spring, "ropes are for the summer."  Climbing has evolved from the fun past time of chilling with friends in the woods, to the passionate dysfunctional embrace of loving a thing that can't love me back.

This video has me wondering, when did I become a climber?  Was it during my innocence or my experience?  I look back to that day when I first started adding pull up workouts to my climbing, I try to look back to the one day before, to the day before that and decide, when did I first feel like a climber?  When did I know that no other word would describe me?  I cannot remember that day occurring before the training precipice was crossed.  I was back to climbing after a full year off and knew I was never leaving it again.  The moment came while sitting on top of a boulder at Rumbling Bald, in western North Carolina.  I had just sent a problem called Shao Lin, it was my first v7.  I was looking towards the sun setting behind the purple mountains of the Appalachians, the leaves were all gone, but there were still some red's and orange's on the ground.  I was breathing hard, sweating, my hands were on fire, but I had done it.  I had climbed one grade harder.  For better or worse my climber identity was born from pushing myself to the next level.

Climbing Friends...

On Super Bowl Sunday I was laying on the floor of my bathroom in the fetal position.  I had just thrown up for the fourth time that day.  To say I was having and introspective moment would be a lie, I was simply praying for a swift death.  I did my mini walk of shame past my functioning friends who were laughing and having a great Sunday afternoon only to crawl back into bed.  A few hours of awful sleep passed and I was woken up by one of my best friends, Stephen and his wonderful girlfriend.  They were heading home and were giving me a hug good-bye.  I mumbled some form of apology, received their hug and flung myself horizontal for fear of the world tilting the wrong way.  "Don't worry we've left him like this before, this is nothing new," said Stephen about my condition.  I drifted back to sleep and they flew back home to Portland.  I woke a few more hours later and let my mind flash back to a few similar moments of extreme hungoverness:

The time I threw up in the van in Maryland following ABS nationals.  The time I threw up blood after the February Fallout in Atlanta (we had used a shopping cart for our liquor needs that night!).  My inability to move from my bed following the Jello Shots bouldering competition in college.  I had a good laugh at all of my misfortunes from drinking and then thought about the uniting factor, they were all with my best friends who are also climbers.  Which led me to the most important math equation of all time: climbing friends = the best friends.

For the last eleven years I have dedicated most weekends to climbing projects, climbing road trips, and climbing competitions.  All of these have been with my climbing friends and all of these weekends have ended in so many memorable moments that I can barely remember half of them.  I have been with climbing friends on Christmas day in the middle of the Texas desert as we battled boulder problems.  I have been with climbing friends in a crowded gym on a beautiful Saturday because we are fierce competitors.  I have been with climbing friends on a Tuesday night salivating over the recent release from Sender or Big Up.  Climbing has ended jobs, relationships, old friendships and the structural intergrity of my shoulders and wrists, but it has given me my best friends.  Why are climbers such good friends?

We understand the obsession.  How many times in our lives have we walked into a party had a co-worker say something to the affect of "I hear you are a rock climber."  Which then translates into you explaining climbing for the next five minutes all while they continually refer to the "dangers of mountain climbing."  Climbers understand, they get it.  They know that it is not about the numbers but are excited when their friends sends a grade higher.  They know that the weekend was designed for projects and that it is okay to spend more money on gear than dinner.  All climbers no matter the age, level or profession would all rather be climbing.

Climbing friends share a unique bond in that we have all tasted a small sliver of deaths cold desert.  Some of us have had very serious injuries from climbing, others are lucky and have taken nasty whips or falls and laughed off the minor scrapes.  Either the serious or the routine, a fall in climbing triggers something in the back of our brain that mentally prepares us for the end.  Most times we are not aware of it and most big falls result in a few choice words directed at a spotter or belayer.  However, our subconscious understands and holds on tight to the joy that is life.  This knowledge separates climbers because we now know that death is a mere nano second of wrong decisions away.  To me, this makes climbers better friends because we understand how precious life is, we fully understand the joy of one life to live.

Because of the ability to know death and embrace an obsession climbing friends have an energy that carries them through all parts of life.  Parties thrown by climbers always seem to be louder and more boisterous.  Plus they usually end up in some form of shirtless feat of strength contest.  My climbing friends carry their energy into other passions as well from painting to woodworking to writing.  They know how to throw themselves into everything they do.  This vitality also leads to a state of mind for most climbers.  Check a climbers lunch box and it is nine times out of ten filled with some form of organic food.  My climber friends sign up for trail clean ups and donate heavily to access fund, world wildlife fund and the nature conservancy.  They contribute in because they know first hand how precious the earth is to all of us.

We as climbers overcome challenges for fun, we celebrate other's accomplishments and we are there when they fail.  We live in a microcosm of the larger world every time we step onto a climb.  We understand that pushing yourself is important while accepting your own abilities is just as necessary.  We strive for more while appreciating what we have.  In life I am friend first and a climber second, but my climbing friends allow me that opportunity to combine the two and be who I truly am.

Blinking Comp...

This past weekend we went to Philadelphia, for the Winter Burn.  This was the sixth annual Winter Burn, hosted by the Philadelphia Rock Gym. The energy was high as people placed their pride on the line, grabbed the starting v and pushed their personal limits.

Competitions are energy.  They are a storing of excitement the day before.  The energy reaches critical mass on Saturday and it explodes into crimps, dynos and lock offs.  Sunday is recovery spent stretching sore muscles, laughing about botched beta and smiling about sends.  Just like electricity through than outlet the energy of a comp moves at the blink of an eye.

Friday night I was sitting and bull shitting with people at Metro Rock, soon I'm in the back seat of a car hauling ass through the never ending tolls of Mass.  I am quiet the nights before competitions.  My brain runs in slow motion, mainly doing a running inventory of how my muscles feel.  All the energy is introverted.  Nate and Kate keep the music flowing and my vision changes from the tolls to the forgotten factories of Hartford. I rub the sleep from my eyes and the worrying energy from my brain as New York's skyline races by the windows.  Jersey slogs by and soon we are at the hotel room.  Closing my eyes and trying to capture my pulse, the night ends.

Blink my eyes open and search for my glasses.  The world comes into focus and my energy changes.  It is comp day.  Breakfast and conversation, my mood has changed.  I am amped for this day.

The competition is in the late afternoon so the morning slowly fades into time killing.  My eyes adjust to a chalked filled gym as future crushers scale problems with grades higher than their age.  Registration is over and the rules are being yelled through a crowded gym.  There is limited space to warm up and soon I find myself on a harder seven for my "confidence booster."  I squint through gritted teeth and the crux is easier than I anticipated.  Judges sign my score card and it's time to crush.

Blink, I'm falling off a problem I need to get for finals.

Blink, I've just flashed a 10 and my finals hopes are alive again.

Blink, I can't stick this dyno, try again and my eyes shut tight as I hurdle towards the ground.

Qualifiers end and then I wait, this energy is awful, doubt mixed with hope, sadness mixed with excitement.  It swings like the blade of a pendulum.  The announcer voice cracks through the microphone and I close my eyes.  My name is called and my goal of reaching finals has been realized.

Blink, I'm in isolation, joking with other competitors.

Blink, I'm being walked out to the chair.

Blink, I am blowing the chalk off my hands and starting the first problem.

Men's number one had a dyno to start, leading into slopey crimps with desperate heel hooks to a giant volume.  My first attempt I screw up the beta and fall half way up.  I squint my eyes and shake my head as each subsequent dyno fails.  With a minute left, I visualize and stick the move.  I'm one move from the finishing jug when my hands slips off the giant volume.

Finals Problem #1 (The Moment...)

My eyes close in the fear of the fall.  I feel a thud on my head and then a violent crunch in my neck as my head-first fall is stopped by a would be spotters knee.

Blink, I can't blink the pain away.

Blink, it's still there, but now there are stars in my vision. I stand up.

Blink, I'm on my back and somebody is asking me questions.

I feel like I'm going to puke, I can't really see and I am dizzy.  Somebody walks me to a chair and I try to make my body and brain play nice together.  Deep breaths, close my eyes and head shake and I'm on to men's number two.  There are some hard crimp moves through the bottom, but my body can't figure out what to do.  I want my hand to close harder and my leg to press, but my brain says this in greek, while my body is deaf.  The energy is too high, I can't quit, I need to climb.  The energy pushes me back on again and I reach a big move, as I get set to throw, the stars in my vision are back.  The hold is probably three feet long, but I can't see it all...all I see are stars.  I blink, then throw.  I hit the ground and stumble my way to the trash can.  A small amount of vomit and a couple of dry heaves and I know I have a concussion.  

Blink, I'm sitting in the lobby while the comps goes on.

Blink, don't fall asleep Nique.

Blink, Nique don't fall asleep.

The night's energy fades and I find myself sitting in random places, watching the world move past me as if I am under water.  People's voices are muffled and I keep searching my brain for motor functions when I need to do a simple task. I grab a ride from Boof and Raff and with a blink of an eye I am at home in bed, where I am finally allowed to sleep.

Blink, I wake up.

Blink, my neck is killing me.

Blink, I can feel the energy building for the dark horse...