Ten years later

I cadged a light off the group sitting under Fandago wall. As we huddled into the strip of dry we caressed the crimps whilst talking bollocks. Someone mentioned they were moving to Bangor in a couple of months, my ears perked up.

“So am I”

A short blond lad, eyebrows almost as fair as his face was leering at me. We’ll have to climb some stuff then.

The uni club seemed like a waste of time. We met under the SU in the drizzle. Gortex clad wanabies milled whilst veterans of a year at university tried it on at being in charge. I’d seen the Orme in the sun from my halls so was unimpressed with their plan of a walk in the rain.

“fuck this shit”

An hour or so later we were cranking out our first 7a’s at LPT. Alex could crimp like a fucking lunatic and I just tried hard.

We rampaged. Library tours were sacked off and seminars missed. We had next to no gear and no fucking idea. At first we fell off eight meters up everything we tried, the height of Harrison’s Rocks. We climbed the corner of the Cromlech placing about five runners as we only had five quickdraws. We thought we were bigtime.

We knew though that Slate was where it was at. We were unfit and even thought the walk in to the Serengeti was a long way but we could both pull on tiny holds. We moved from shitting ourselves on E1s to shitting ourselves on E4s. We failed to notice the accumulating near misses. Ground sweeping falls on the Never Never Land slab, decking gently with an unzipped rack and a general lack of judgement. I had been raised on a diet of Hard Grit, Deep Play & tales of the Redhead. I thought the reason I fell off was because it was too safe and I did not care enough.

If Slate was where it was at, Rainbow Slab was the main deal. We had climbed the easy routes but knew the real deal were the proper routes. Raped By Affection, Cystitis by Proxy & Naked Before the Beast.

Poetry Pink looked like the soft option. Reputably it was safe where hard, and easy where dangerous, and if equipped with Linford Christy on belay, not too bad. (I suppose now, one would rather Usain Bolt)

I left the ground with a few quickdraws and a handful of wires. I pissed the opening slab to a faint break. Sacking off the potential gear I shook out, buoyed up by the adrenaline displacing the traces of hangover. Further moves gained the first bolt. Hard finger searing moves led up right of the bolt. Further pulls lead higher above the bolt until fingertips grasp the good edges.

I pause.

If I fell off here, arms at full stretch I would probably stop just above the floor. Above me was a bolt; between me and the bolt was an easy mantle. Well, a comparatively easy mantel. Once, however I start the moves I know I’ll hit the floor if I fell. That extra height and the bunched position would add additional rope into the system. Alex is light and slow. Not as fast as Linford anyway. I’m about fourteen meters up and begin to sweat despite the chill late October day.

I move.

A moment later I’m stood on the good holds fumbling the rope into the quickdraw on the bolt. Fingers which had been crimping hard discover I’m in balance and relax. Now it’s just a case of not fluffing the 6b crux above the bolt.

The edges of my shoes stick and my hands grasp the rainbow, calf’s burning I rock up gaining better holds. The climbing eases as I run it out above the gear, panting with muscles feeling the twinges of lactic acid working against them. I gain the cracks and slam in wires, my legs shaking, cramping, then onwards. From above the gear looks shite and the moves feel awkward. I consider retreat but can smell the safety of the belay. Reaching right I gain the base of the groove. Matching and reaching up will gain jugs. Instead I’m off.

Accelerating downwards I rip the few wires I’ve placed and stop thirty four meters later in a crumpled heap on the floor.

I hit the floor, moan a little and then convulse. I’ve broken my arm, the outrageous angle and bone protruding are obvious diagnostic aids. My leg was is also an awkward unnatural angle.

Alex delves in and retrieves my tongue and broken teeth from my throat. Airways clear I begin to breath again.

Next I say fuck.

Fuck

Fuck

Duvet jackets are pilled on top of me.

Three days later I wake in hospital.