Most Muscular

The last few weekends were sadly lost to 'family commitments', those things that really shouldn't be too much hassle but giving up a good weekend (or worse two!) of climbing doesn't quite seem on. Typically I sulked through both, hopefully not being too dire company for our respective parents. To console myself I decided to make life hard and spend a few of the days in between out and about, camera in hand. Whilst this seemed like a good idea at the time, the backlog of work is now evident and all I'm doing is dragging out this darn thesis and the onslaught of a regular, time consuming job (where I might add, they'll likely want me to be both respectable and timely of which I'm neither).

Over the river (also known as 'Chee Tor') I have a few things left on simmer; Queer St., Ceramic and mainly Mortlock's Arete, all of which I wish to address before the lure of bolts becomes too much to resist (if it hasn't already). A few trips over to Wales won't hurt (or might) either.

However, I'm finding it hard to resist the appeal of sport these last few weeks. An evening session at the Cornice proved just how much more I can get done in a short period of time compared to trad, climbing 5 routes in an evening (leave Sheffield circa 6pm) just isn't feasible when you have to talk to yourself every move or curse yourself for still not getting the gear right 20 minutes on, calves on fire and kahunas shrinking rapidly. Having said that (or spilled it onto a virtual page) this Trad malarkey hasn't left me in a too shabby state (surprisingly). I'm fit, probably something to do with doing what some might classify as Aerocap unknowingly as I cower beneath what is likely a trivial move above but nonetheless a change of trousers is almost a guaranteed requisite.

After climbing again with Dy(log)an, Lu(log) and the one and only log of Dob, bolts are appealing no end. Last Tues, two of the logs picked me up en-route (actually on a nightmare Sheffield-center morning-traffic detour) to the Tor, somewhere I must admit I haven't done 'that' much at. There are certainly some notable exceptions in my Peak sport climbing education, for which really there's no excuse. At the crag, we met up with Shark; overlord numero uno. Shark was the first person in Sheffield to take me to the Peak (maybe we can blame him for my downward spiral into plywood obsession, likely not).

He offered a (rather swift) lift to the Cornice (Cheedale) and unknowingly I set off to open my Peak-lime education with a bang. I can't remember what time of year it was but it was far from the Predator-esque humid sweat fest of the weekend past, it was freezing. As per the norm 'Clarion Call' was the wake up/warm up and I remember struggling like mad. Fresh from two summers worth of Kilnsey fun this all felt like hard work and warm I was not. Later on that session I attempted Powerplant, that went less well. As the guidebook points out you can sit on the first bolt until a local your size turns up to hand out the necessary beta. He didn't come. I lowered off. It had begun...

Above and below you can see Shark cruising to victory on Crucifixion an ascent that has firmly placed it high upon my to-do pile.

As the weekend approached my monitoring of rain radar, Norwegian interpretations of smoke signs and anything other than Metcheck left me with the clear feeling that (typically) the weekend would be a write off. Poetically at that moment (Fri) my phone rang. Maybe it was more poetic that at the same time an irate supervisor appeared at my desk and promptly left (...I was on the phone). WCJ cornice wasn't my first choice of destination, after all Trad isn't known for making you strong or tackling rock of that persuasion. Its also the case that WCJ has my biggest nemesis to date. Monsterosity. I've fallen off this more times than I care to mention and hadn't been on it for at least 2 years, having given up, despite being overly strong, my power endurance was woeful and this route wasn't going to succumb to wheel spin. Friday night then came as a bit of a shock (no this isn't a Dobbin wet dream, no there's no success here either). Everyone else warmed up on the 7a, which lost yet more holds (I'm stunned to see it has any left). I was handed the job of sticking the QD's in Brachiation (a route which is starting to show its popularity with a shiny brass like finish). There's no denying it, it felt hard. The lower slab had lost the final hold in my sequence leaving me eyeing up the second bolt, wishing I could crimp with my teeth. I cannot. As the roof steepened my arms felt like jelly (why is this the warm up, you'd be better going for a swim). Back on the floor, I waited for my lead-like forearms to dispense at least enough lactic acid to allow me to untie and slink off. Climbing in a three can sometimes be tricky, pumped out of your mind the extra rest is all together welcome.
Some time later I was once again offered a belay and looking up at the in-situ draws I couldn't see any way of avoiding it. Unlike usual, there were no expectations other than it feeling harder than I remembered and almost certain failure. However, despite that I tied in and set off. I didn't fluff the start, nor was I pumped at the flake. I crimped, I slapped and I screamed clawing every extra inch I could. It didn't end in glory but I rarely climb like that, truly 'A muerte'. I put a lot into that go (it clearly showed next RP) and with it came the realisation that I CAN do it. Some of my sequence is in-efficient from my overly strong days but I can rectify this (I already have some pear of wisdom) and a few sacrificial bolt-to-bolts will pay dividends I'm sure. It'd certainly be good to have a reason for busting out a most muscular at the crag a la Rotpunkt Shark:

I just hope the weather plays ball... bollocks.