Climbing and Ego are as interminably intertwined as space and time. The reality-experience of moving up in the world—on a climb or otherwise—affirms everything about who the person is and what they are made of—or,not made of, as the case may often be.

But nowhere in climbing have I seen the Ego stronger than during the setting of indoor gym routes. Route setters assiduously screw plastic holds into a wooden wall, constructing a very particular pattern of grips at very particular distances from each other. Their warped brains vainly hope to create an absolutely flawless rendition of the perfect route or boulder problem. In most cases, they actually believe that they have. This is why using beta that is not what they had envisioned to do a sequence is the ultimate insult.

Setters’ routes have everything to do with them, and nothing to do with the dozens/hundreds of gym patrons who climb them. I know this because I used to be a professional route setter, and when I was, my ego was at a zenith. I’d set routes using a Grigri and ascender and a hauling device to hoist up a bucket of holds and screws. After the work was finished, the most satisfying part of the whole process followed: I’d place a large piece of white tape at route’s start, write down a sandbag grade, give the route a name with some terrible double-entendre, and then, scribble my initials, like I was signing a painting I had just completed.

Probably not coincidentally, this was a time when I was also at my loneliest. I’d even work alone—setting routes early in the morning when no one else was in the gym. After setting, I’d climb my works of art to be sure all the feet were in the right place, and the moves were at the perfect degree of difficulty.

Because I had no friends, and also worked alone, I’d then solo these routes. Though only 33 feet, the wall was a spaghetti factory of topropes—in other words, ropes were there for a reason. If my boss at the time had found out that I was soloing in his gym, I probably would’ve been fired. But soloing in the gym, despite a keen awareness of just how stupid it was, helped me justify my life as a broke loser who then lacked the means to get away. I even admit to receiving a strange pleasure when I later watched the gym climbers tie in to their pathetic topropes and flail on routes I had set and, of course, soloed.

I got what I deserved, though. One time, I was in a rush to install some measly insignificant climb for a kid’s birthday party, I threw in some jugs, and did the laziest thing a route setter can do: designate the climb as having “open feet.”

After I was done setting, I climbed up the wall, using perfect back steps and applying just the right amount of grip pressure. While ropeless, even on an easy climb such as this, it’s a soloist’s code to always exhibit impeccable technique.

As I approach the top of the wall, I latched onto a deep dish and then matched on it. Suddenly, I was off. The hold had spun, because I had not tightened it down well enough, and I exploded backwards. My arms circled through the air like windmills, and I landed square on my back on a crash pad. It knocked the wind out of me like a homerun out of Fenway.

I lay there, gasping for air, for a good 30 seconds, though it felt like 5 minutes. Here are some of the thoughts that went through my head:

That was dumb.

I hope my boss didn’t see that.

I always knew these topropes aren’t necessary. I oughtta chop ‘em.