Deja Vu

Repetition gets a bad name. Parrot fashion is a bad way to learn something. Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results is a form of madness. Going to the same place every weekend is unimaginative; don’t you want to try something new, go somewhere new, experience something fresh and original?

Part of me does. But the other part of me is locked into an increasingly addictive and very enjoyable cycle; throwing myself up against something that feels too hard for me and the necessary improvement this demands. Once I’ve invested a certain amount of time, I feel like I’m in too deep and need to see it through. Weekends away are tempting, but the siren song keeps playing in my ears. Maybe this is the weekend, this is the one. Imagine how good it will feel to get it done, how satisfying it will be. You’ve put so much effort into this, don’t give up now. Finish the job.

Back at the crag. Bolt to bolt, clips in. Its so fucking long, this route. Back on the ground, nervous rest. Time for a redpoint. Through the low crux, resting, feeling ok. Belief courses through me. Its on, lets go, lets have it. Into the crux. Feeling tired, bollocks. One hard move done, but fingers ping off the second. Off. Fuck. Back to the ground. Light fading, arms wasted. An hour later, back at the rest, but I just know its not happening this time. Off again, to the top, draws out. Pack up, walk out. I’ve had this feeling before. Another late night after an early morning, totally wasted. Optimism replaced by self-doubt; am I ever going to finish this bloody route? Think of all the climbing I could have done, the trips I could have been on, the pints I could have drunk. Maybe its not worth it. But another thought butts in. Of course it is; this is the process you want. Trying hard is hard, that’s the point. Get on with it, embrace it, get better and get up it. It’ll be worth it. I’m back on script.

The weekend arrives. Psyched. This is the one, I’m feeling good. But it isn’t; three times off at the same point, with so far to go still. Screams of frustration bounce off the walls. The tourists look up with concern and probable distaste. I know its ridiculous but it feels good to have a bit of a shout. Last go of the day some pride is salvaged; a snippet of useful information from a fellow suitor that might make the difference, one day. The route is in the back of my head at work, drifting off to sleep, eating breakfast. What can I change, what will make the difference? Even gravity will get bored. Keep trying, I tell myself. You’ll fucking have it yet.

Despite what the above would suggest, I really love redpointing at my limit. Little things make all the difference. However, the thing that makes the most difference, in my view, is the sheer tenacity and bloody mindedness required to keep going back for more punishment. More than once during this summer heatwave I’ve thought that maybe I’d have had more fun off trad climbing somewhere. Maybe I would, but I’d have got bored with that too; I need to be trying hard, need to feel like I’m pushing my limits, and trad doesn’t always do that despite its many brilliant aspects. I like the mental challenge that redpointing provides.

So I keep going, whittling away at these totemic routes which I never thought I’d try, let alone do. Not that I’ve done them yet. But I’m going to keep being boring for now, keep going back, keep trying the same thing until there’s a glitch in the matrix and I emerge, gasping for breath at the end of the crux sequence. Then its about not blowing the last bit. I should probably practice that a bit more. I don’t want to drop it up there…