Fat Man and Social Climbing

I do not have a natural affinity for climbing. 

There are a few factors acting against me such as the force of gravity playing against my bulky frame. The main thing is just plain fear.

That is a good enough excuse and it has served me well in avoiding any situations of impulse or coercion to make an ascent of anything and anywhere.  

In reality I just do not like heights.  When young and with no perception of fear or the implications of impact on hard ground you could find me quite happily walking atop a high wall with a precipitous drop on the far side, leaning over a parapet of a lofty bridge or the barrier around one of those high altitude tourist viewpoints over a deep cutting or gorge. I could as easily just be shinning up the trunk of a sturdy tree.  

With age and an increased sense of mortality comes the gut wrenching anxiety and fear when faced with anything not completely flat and level. 

My teen years were fraught with difficulties associated with heights which did have an affect, for sure, in curtailing those natural urges of recklessness and adventurism that go with that period in the life of an otherwise normal lad. It took a week away on an Outward Bound Course in the English Lake District with its regime of constant exposure to mountain sides, tree-top death slides , abseiling cliff faces and jumping into white water rapids to overcome my  fears and apprehensions. It was a week of intensive activity and i seemed to be cured of my affliction but as soon as I stepped down off the bus to be met by my parents on my return to civilisation the beneficial effects evaporated and I was back to my usual quivering mess of nerves and in most cases irrational paralysis of limb and brain. 

I tried my best on family holidays to keep up with the children as they cavorted about on the headlands of the Cornish coastline, dashed breathlessly across the narrow swinging suspension foot bridges that are commonly found in that area and clambered about on rocky outcrops with crashing waves around their jelly-shoed feet. 

My wife still reminds me of my half hearted and ultimately aborted attempt to get up to the natural landmark of The Quirang on the Isle of Skye. I stand by my defence that it was a windy day, and the pathway we had found ourselves on had in fact been fashioned by sheep and not seasoned and risk averse walkers and ramblers. 

So, with this history of vertigo like symptoms and an accentuated sense of fear  I asked myself why I was now at the foot of a vertical climb rubbing chalk powder into my sweaty palms. 

I at least looked the part of someone who had an inkling about what to do. Loose fitting T shirt, baggy cargo pant shorts and a pair of borrowed mountaineering pumps that would not have looked out of place in a ballet performance.  I was just missing a bandana although I was glad that I had not found an old cravat in the bottom of the wardrobe and passed that off as one of those trendy accessories. 

I reached up to the first handhold. 

It was uncomfortable on my office-work softened hands and delicate keyboard fingers. Taking the strain was a rude shock to weak and flimsy muscle tissue in my flabby upper arms. I was however confident in my legs after a good last couple of years dashing about on my road and mountain bikes. I was reassured when they relieved my already tired arms of some of the dead weight as I wriggled the delicate footwear onto another narrow projecting ledge and stood up straight. 

I looked around for the next exertion and in a yoga stretch felt a few pangs and pains as the next hand hold was found. I had not heard of any incidences of people my age throwing out a hip at altitude and this was reassuring, at least a little bit.  

I repeated the process and slowly ascended the face. If I did not look down then I would be better off and I craned my stiff neck upwards to try to make out a suitable route. 

The rough texture of the vertical surface was streaked with what were definitely bodily fluids all with a light and chalky hue from saliva and other mucus.  Traces of blood I recognised from my fascination with CSI New York and some of the spatter patterns would certainly tell a story.  

By now my arms were really aching as though under massive G-Forces. Now higher up I was gripping the hand holds with no intention of letting go but I knew I had to press on. 

I had been concentrating so much that I had not been aware of anyone else around me. The sound of another climber alongside came as a bit of a shock and even more so as it was my daughter. 

Her experience of climbing had allowed her to sprint up to me but this only gave me the incentive to reach the top before her. Although incompetent in ascending this did not prevent my naturally competitive streak from kicking in. 

I held on with one hand to the final hold and, as though I had conquered the most difficult peak at the top of the world, I reached out and touched the ceiling. 

Did I omit to say that I was at an indoor climbing centre and below me a wonderfully soft and forgiving crash mat?