Some of the saddest shit I’ve ever seen are injured climbers who try to keep climbing through their injury. Top-roping warm-ups with only three working appendages has always struck me as a pathetic use of time, something only a Genuine Loser would do. I suppose there is a way to view this brand of myopic obsession as a kind of inspiring commitment to our sport. But given the fact that we spend so much of our precious time at climbing areas, I’ve always thought: wouldn’t one want to use the opportunity of being temporarily injured to explore some other corner of this big, wide world that’s full of interesting, unique, and certainly more productive things to do?
After all, why not use that period of forced convalescence to read Flaubert, learn the Sicilian defense in chess, take up a new language, experiment by making tagliatelle from scratch, develop a serious (if temporary) drug habit, create some Reels of yourself taking a cold plunge, have an awkward orgy with other injured people, or do literally anything else than the same thing you always do, which is grinding out projecting days at the home crag?
That’s what I used to think, anyway. But now that I’m five weeks out from shoulder surgery to repair some rather significant tears in my rotator cuff, I get why so many climbers are anxious to get back to their old ways. The drugs, orgies, and Flaubert have all been fun—transcendent, even—but I gotta say … I really miss tying for another lap up the ol’ warmup.
To not go crazy, I bought an exercise bike on Amazon for $500 and started taking spin classes on my Apple Fitness app. “I’m taking spin classes on Apple Fitness” is a phrase I literally never thought I’d write, and yet here I am. I have to say that the job of a spin-class instructor appears to suit a personality type that couldn’t be more diametrical to my own. Oddly enough, I’m enjoying them. The first time I took a spin class for a spin, I went for a short 10-minute ride just to see what this whole thing was all about. I was fully unprepared for the fact that my bubbly instructor, Emily, would be lacing very emotional affirmations throughout her instructions about RPM speeds, building me up in a way that felt so unfamiliar to the normal pit of despair and self-loathing I am otherwise content to wallow in.
“You don’t have to be perfect to be loved!” she said. “Give up trying to be perfect right now on this ride! Be the boss of your body!”
Six minutes into my first ever spin class, I found myself in tears, weeping over how good it felt to hear something nice about myself for a change. Jesus F Christ, Emily, I’m just trying to get some exercise, not go to therapy!
This was such a stark—and, honestly, welcome—departure from the normal self-talk I hear when I rock climb, a sport in which it’s just you and the rock and the birds and the little voice in your head shouting, “You suck, you suck, you suck, and you’re probably going to yell take any minute, you weak bitch, because, don’t forget, YOU SUCK!”
I wonder if Spin Class Emily would consider creating a rock-climbing track that I could listen to while trying to send my project. There’d be a lot less wobbling a little more weeping. (Hard to say if that would be an improvement, come to think of it …)
The other thing I’ve been dipping into are the World Cup and World Championship broadcasts. Despite the IFSC’s woes of late, in which two of its doctors resigned from its medical commission over the organizations’ inability to meaningfully address eating disorders among its athletes, comp climbing in general has reached a maturity that is quite a sight to behold, especially for those of us who are old enough to remember just how gawky and awkward comps of 20 years ago used to be. People used to debate things like the format, and everyone with an asshole had an idea for what would make this floundering sport better, more interesting, more professional, etc. It’s hard to convey now how pervasive those conversations were, not to mention their effect, which was an overall disinterest in the comp climbing itself. Imagine if, after watching a baseball game, the only thing people talked about was whether or not baseball would be improved if there were fewer bases to run and the commentators didn’t say things like “struggle bus” so often. It made the whole thing seem arbitrary, like an art project whose only purpose is to invite public critique.
Happily, these concerns feel quite outdated at this point. Comp climbing is a mature and healthy sport. The format and the production value of the live-stream broadcasts are at a really high level. The setting and the hold shapes and styles are no longer trying to adhere to the paradigm of transcribing the outdoor climbing experience onto an artificial wall; rather, they are unique and distinct masterpieces unto themselves. Dynamic, outrageous, and really fun to watch!
A few weeks back, Shauna Coxsey commentated on the World Championships, which was a true joy to listen to. Give that lady a full-time job! Her insight and eloquence in describing how climbers were moving, or needed to move, brought a fascinating nuance to this side of the sport, one I haven’t heard before or since. She really brought competition to life for the audience, which is clearly a result of her background as a world champion herself. Just brilliant stuff that I hope to hear more of in the future.
As I sit here, perusing YouTube for comp-climbing live streams while nursing a busted wing, I am kind of struck by the realization that comp climbing might just be one of the most interesting things happening in climbing right now. Yeah, Seb Bouin is probably putting up some new hard route, and most other pros are happily repeating routes from three decades ago, but comp climbing has a lot of wind at its back leading up to the Olympics next year. This realization is one that I suspect many people such as myself—climbers who are solidly rooted in climbing as an outdoor, adventure-based sport—may not necessarily realize. I certainly wouldn’t have had my time at the crags not been taken away by injury, and therein lies the beauty of this moment for me.
Also, anyone out there who is injured, too, and likes Flaubert, orgies, and drugs, HMU!
> would be improved if there were fewer bases to run and the commentators didn’t say things like “struggle bus” so often. It made the whole thing seem arbitrary, like an art project whose only purpose is to invite public critique.
I’m in stitches