Thursday, December 10, 2009

Take That Evil Voices And Apathy!

First a Quick Note
I keep finding that I have a certain tendency to attempt to try to explain things of which I have limited understanding… and roped climbing is one of them. Over the years, I have gone from being as tight as a pair of fine-fitting leather pants to being darn near a wild man when it comes to my top-rope climbing, but in the realm of leading, which is really the heart of climbing in my book, I know about as much as a preschooler knows about calculus. Recently, I gave a good solid effort toward writing an essay on fear and phantom fear while climbing, but then I realized that more experience was in order before I declare the word on confronting fear like a brother before a snoozing congregation.
So, as a consequence of my epiphany concerning my lack of expertise, I have now made the executive decision to focus on what I better understand… this moment in my climbing.

And Now for the Main Point of Post #2!
About four years have passed since my encounter with Chase in the climbing gym, and a lot has changed. Climbing has gone from being a really fun past time and means for staying in shape, to being thrown aside altogether for a period of time during which I was convinced that I was going to become a brilliant evangelist (or something of that nature). After the evangelism stage (in which I became depressive and ironically learned to not really like God), I went to Moab, Utah… one of the United State’s premier traditional climbing Mecca’s. While spending a quick day sampling some of the climbing potential offered by the smooth, red sandstone faces and perfect cracks, a switch began to flip deep within the recesses of my heart. A great call was beginning to be heard.
Realizing just how bad I still was at climbing in comparison to my climbing heroes who frequented Moab, and always secretly hoping that I could aspire to follow in their hand jams, I unleashed myself within my training facility of Spire Climbing Center like a famished raccoon in a cat food factory.
My first couple of weeks at Spire quickly highlighted the fact that even though I was a top dog in the climbing dungeon at MSU, I was but a Pomeranian with a growth disorder at Spire. The routes at the dungeon were rarely rated, and when I got to Spire I discovered that my increases in ability as a climber had taken my bouldering skill all the way to a proud V3... on a scale which goes from V0 to V15. Even though I found Spire to be a delightful place for playing around on a plethora of routes, I also began to feel a bit pathetic about myself. “Come on,” I thought. “Surely after climbing hard for three years I should be better than this!”
Do you ever notice that little voice that rises up within you when you take a glimpse at something overwhelming? For me, it usually says something highly constructive like, “give up Nathaniel… you’ll never make V10. Just quit now and save yourself the trouble.”
I’ve thought a lot about that voice as I have battled toward becoming a better climber. After nearly every session at the gym which doesn’t meet my expectations, I hear the voice blabbering away. Up until this year, the voice often situated itself as lord over my easily influenced being. The end result was a depressed and unmotivated Nathaniel. I would temporarily lose motivation toward going to the gym, and climbing would become a chore.
After having a series of arguments with the evil voice (yes, some were out loud… no, I’m not schizophrenic), I had a few realizations about how things are: 1) If I quit climbing, how will I ever know if I could have gotten to V10, 2) What is so special about the coveted V10 that makes a life of climbing meaningless if I do not achieve it, and 3) I’ve got one life to live… if I don’t seize the opportunity to be my dreams then I am a complete, head to toes, filled to the top and overflowing, moron!
Last week was the strongest week I have yet had climbing. I hit the gym on Monday feeling so strong and coordinated that I felt like a gash darn force of nature. I on-sighted (climbed in my first try) four V4’s and a V5, pulled off my hardest roped climb to date, and then, to top it all off, I sent a V5+ and a V6 into my record books. I couldn’t wait to get to the gym every night… folks, I must have been butter because I was on a roll!
Then this week happened. After three multi-hour sessions of climbing like a baboon on crack, I had reached my limit. The result… every night this week I went to the gym full of hope and promise that the glorious progress would continue…. And every night this week I drove home to a lecture from that evil voice in my head concerning how big of a loser I am. “Come on!” I thought. “Not even one week of sputtering and I’m fighting to stay in the game! Seriously, the evil voice has got some serious emotional instability.”
I wish I could lie and say that I told-off the voice and then sprung free like a unicorn from the trap of an evil sorceress. Unfortunately, despite little battles being won, I still felt a bit captured. I came home from the gym on Sunday with a “badditude” and immediately dove into a little bit of a hissy-fit as a consequence of my hands feeling a bit dry (good reason, eh?). Then, on Tuesday it took an act of God to motivate myself to go to the gym. Of course, about an hour into the session, when I was already feeling like Gumby looks (you know what I mean), I started feeling lethargic and spent the next half hour finishing the workout in a pout. Of course, as I was packing up to leave I once again felt a bit of a hissy-fit coming on as a result of my hands feeling dry.
So the million dollar question comes down to how to deal with the those times of dysfunction. Years ago, the periods of feeling like a sack of potatoes on the wall resulted in a brief and sometimes depressive sabbatical from climbing. It was a vicious cycle really… I didn’t climb because I felt pathetic, and I felt pathetic because I didn’t climb. The only thing which would end the cycle would be either a realization of missing the sport or a simple choice to go back and find my groove again.
As time has progressed, I realized that climbing was not so much of a hobby as it is a relationship. Thinking about all of the closest and most meaningful relationships in my life, it is apparent to me that my closest bonds are formed, for some strange and devious reason, through times of conflict. I suppose that even though the fun times build nice and fuzzy memories, it is during the hard times when I am forced to weigh the worth of the relationship and deliberately decide to invest in it. Over time, after consciously weighing-out what something means to me and then deliberately deciding to invest in it, it becomes a glorious pillar of love and passion in my life. Like my closest relationships, that is what climbing has become. It has formed who I am today by making me physically and mentally stronger, more disciplined, more patient, less materialistic, more courageous, and generally more wise.
Because of the fact that climbing has developed into a relationship in which I continue to invest, even in times of ultimate apathy, the evil voice which attempts to squelch my passion has become less of an influence, and more of an annoying, ankle biting, yapping dog. Every once in a while, on my way out to go climbing, I have to boot it out of my path as I say, “Hang on dream climbs, I am on my way!”


For four years the evil voice told me it wasn't possible.


... but on Thanksgiving Day, the lengthy bouldering traverse in the Stillwater Canyon was linked together, and the evil voice was made wrong yet again... hazzah!