I went climbing for the first time in more than two years last night.
There was a point in my life where I'd choose climbing over literally anything, including really good sex, if I had a choice. I was strong and powerful and determined. I'm not a slick climber- there's nothing beautiful about my form or technique, but at one point I could do 10 pullups in a row without being winded, and it felt so fucking good. I was strong and powerful. I had a hobby and passion. My girlfriend and I would go for drinks after climbing and solve the problems and talk about strategies for the next time we went.
I found mindfulness and comradery for the first time, along with power in my body.
In grade 10 (?) we had to go to the high school weight room for a gym class, and the only people who ever spent time in there were a bunch of farmer rednecks (with killer bodies, I'm sure), and I got on this machine that used your quad muscles to push weight forward, and I fucking nailed it. You know those tiktok videos that strong women like to post of men's reactions to them being able to lift? Jaws on the floor. It was like that, but better. The redneck teens kept putting more and more weight on the machine for me and howling in amazement at how much I could push. Secretly, and honestly I'm not even sure I've ever shared this experience with anyone, it was one of the proudest moments of my entire life. I may be exaggerating, and I'm sure I am, but my memory says that I pushed 500lb. It was probably half of that, but it was FAR MORE than the guys ever thought a woman, especially someone who weighed 120lb could do. I don't remember many of the specifics, other than a small crowd gathering and the dudes just in awe of my abilities. I can only attribute it to being 3km away from a store that sold candy, and getting there by bicycle, only. I had quads of steel. But that day, I may as well have been a fucking bodybuilder who dedicated her life to weightlifting.
That's sometimes how I felt while climbing. I, a woman in my late 30s, could flash V2s, the occasional V3s, top rope 5.10s, sometimes even 5.11s and do it well. My body is not athletic, it never has been, outside of that one day at the weight room at PVEC. I loved every second and every element of climbing. The escape from reality, the fist bumps at the end of getting a problem, working on a problem for weeks and finally getting it. The changes in my body. The ache in my hands. The tight shoes and chalky fingers. The familiar faces in the gym. Solving problems before getting on the wall. Pushing myself. The few years I spent climbing 2-3x/week is something I'll never forget.
Now in my early 40s, during a pandemic, suffering from (honestly serious) mental health issues and anxiety around Long COVID (not dying, not mild covid, not quarantine or spreading it, or anything else... I will go broke and things will be bad if I get Long covid), last night's "risky behaviour" of going climbing was... good. 90% of the people in there were not wearing masks (shame! shame!), but I kept my N95 on and away from people, and just tried to enjoy it. We were bad. It was kind of amazing how poorly our bodies and minds reacted to being on the wall again. We couldn't figure out the problems, our bodies were weak. Our arms and legs and hands were failing us. We struggled through V0s, ones we would have warmed up on. V1s took a few attempts, if we got them at all (though, I did flash one, which felt good). Everything felt clunky and unfamiliar. There was a time where I could just look at a problem on the wall and knew which employee designed it. Now, the pieces seemed scary and too high up, no one trusted our hands to hold us, and we gave up mid-problem. We were the people we'd once feel sorry for.
But I still had fun. I want more.
7:47 p.m. - March 27, 2022
Recent entries:
Solo - July 02, 2023
"TRAUMA" - June 23, 2023
Fini. - June 17, 2023
Climbing - March 27, 2022
01 2022 - February 02, 2022
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