Sarah Jane makes short work of a 5.7.
Photo by Kris Miller
Reading “The Self-Coached Climber,” I came upon a passage discussing how in the United States, many people are just chasing numbers, not refining their ability. As soon as they send a climb of one rating, they are chasing the next higher number. They don’t care whether they understand how to move efficiently; clumsy brute force will do as long as they can move on to the next rating. No one wants to be a 5.7 climber.
Except me.
That’s who I am; that’s where I am. And I am proud as hell.
Two months ago, I was a 5.6 climber. Six months ago, I had never climbed.
When will I be a 5.15 climber? Probably never. But I’m not chasing numbers. I am chasing myself. My best self.
Perching on tiny nubs that once looked impossibly small fills me with pride. Getting to the next hold on a gym route I couldn’t figure out how to reach during my previous practice makes me ecstatic. Understanding why a gym hold is placed a certain way – meaning that I’ve finally used it efficiently – puts a wide smile on my face.
The only person I’m in competition with is yesterday’s me. Even then sometimes I suck – comparatively. Sometimes I can’t find my groove, my mind is chatty and undisciplined, or I’m tired, cranky or hungry.
Seeing people taller than me (most people older than 11) easily maneuver holds that I have to bust my brain to figure out how to reach – maybe making two moves to their one – I used to get frustrated. The old “It’s not fair!”
But now I think, “Yeah, walk up that wall, you tall drink of water. I’ll climb it.”
So many moves for me are grand achievements. The 5.7s that my short self have figured out bring me happiness those tall reachers will never know. If they understood how I have to connive, ponder, twist, dyno, reach, bump up just to get where they can go without thinking, they might be jealous. “Man,” they might say, “that girl feels so much joy every step of the way. It’s not fair.”
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