The Lost Art of Climbing Relationships
By Suzanne StrazzaWhen I first got together with X, he was a climber and I was a climber-lover. It was a match made in heaven. We carried on a long-distance relationship for a while, usually meeting halfway between his world and mine and … climbing.
“If you want to be with me,” he proclaimed, “you must climb.” I wanted. So, I set out to be his dream girl. (Besides, I liked the idea of neon Lycra and skimpy tops). Then, with the patience only found with new love, he taught me the ropes, so to speak.
My first time getting far enough off the ground to actually have to rap-off of something, I scraped my belly, ass and shins over the lip at the top of the climb, and lay prostrate at my boyfriend’s feet.
“You have to stand up.”
Duh.
Rising, I glanced over my shoulder at the (maybe) 50 feet (at most) of air below me and began a shameless make-out session with the rock face.
I do not remember getting off that ledge. Like a few other traumatic experiences, I have blocked it out. But wanting to be worthy, I knew that I had to make it onto terra firma — convulsing legs be damned.
Living in corporate San Francisco at the time was not that conducive to embracing my newfound climber identity; this being before the age of yuppie rock gyms. While X was in the picture, I had a weekend climbing partner, although I was still an anomaly during the week in the office. I was also an anomaly at the crags, since I wore a suit during the week.
But, fitting in was never my forte.
Unfortunately, X was not in the picture for very long. One weekend, we met in Lake Tahoe with the plan of spending two days climbing and then he would be moving into my corporate-gal apartment to begin spending the rest of our lives together.
That weekend, he bought me my first pair of rock shoes and we headed up to Donner Summit.
The new shoes didn’t make it. He says I, and I say he, left them on the roof of the car and they promptly blew off. Bad, bad omen.
After retrieving the shoes, we spent two days climbing with our new French friends, Pierre and Marie. She was seven months pregnant and still managed to get a harness around her belly. She was my idol.
Monday morning brought us to our respective jobs; X’s first day marked the beginning of his new life in the city. Tuesday had me filling out a missing persons’ report and breaking into my own apartment. See, when he freaked out and bailed, he left my house key inside, on the bed with a note that said, “Don’t take it personally.”
Having starved myself for the previous six months to achieve zero-percent body fat, I promptly indulged in an entire pepperoni pizza. Having developed a raging eating disorder during said six months, I promptly threw it up.
Determined not to let this incident ruin my climbing career (remember, I did own shoes), I bucked up and called Pierre to see if he wanted to hit the rock. “Sure”, he said, “but will you sleep with me first, Marie has gotten so fat I can’t even look at her.”
I almost considered it. Desperation clouds the thinking.
Eventually, after hanging out at the few crags in the area that were scooter-accessible and sporting carabineers on my waistband, hoping to attract a mate, I found some folks to climb with and began pursuing it in earnest. See, I had this vision of running into X someday and climbing circles around him, making him regret the day that he left me.
Admittedly, there was a bit of trial-and-error in finding a good climbing partner in a city where very few climbed. I had to sleep with a fair share of them, which never worked out.
I finally found the perfect guys, two best friends, Born-Agains, actually, who didn’t go for meaningless sex and prayed for me every time I stepped off the ground.
What they lacked in experience, they made up for in cuteness.
After months of top-roping, we decided that it was time to try our hands at lead climbing. Off we went, rope, gear and confidence in hand. Knowledge and common sense got left behind, but stupidity joined us on our way out the door.
Having never led before, we decided that we should start on something “easy” — a short 5.10 that we had all scaled quite easily on a top rope. Being the daring one in the group, I went first. Up and up, graceful, smooth and totally full of myself, showing off my Lycra-clad ass for my admiring audience on the ground.
Just as I was making my last move, saying to myself, “Yeah girl, you rock!”, my feet slipped out from underneath me. My left foot hooked the rope and over and down I careened, into thin air. Fortunately, my gear held and the rope dropped my head just below an overhanging edge so that I only slammed the rock face with my shoulders, back, butt and heels.
At the time, I was a Head Hunter in the Financial District and a really lousy one at that. I was miserable in my job because I knew that I was completely inept and becoming a liability to my fellow employees. I also really didn’t want to be there, but I was trying to lead a “successful” life.
My company was run by Asia-America’s Business Woman of the Year, who competed with Archie Bunker for Chauvinist of the Year. Skirts and panty hose were mandatory. No exceptions. When I showed up the next day in a skirt and no nylons, I knew there would be hell to pay.
She called me into her office and asked where my missing undergarments were. After showing her the wounds snaking from ankle to mid-thigh, I claimed that hose would be unbearable, but if I could only wear pants …
She wanted no part of my pathetic excuses. “What are you going to tell clients when they ask what happened to your leg? That you have ROPE BURNS??”
Put that way, it sounded pretty humorous. But apparently, only to me.
“Either you give up climbing or you quit this job.”
HMMMM, a job I despise or an activity that I love …
“I quit.”
I moved to Boulder, figuring if I was going to climb, then I was going to CLIMB and Boulder was the place to be. I left behind all of my efforts at pleasing others and made a choice just because it sounded like fun.
After X had left, I tried hard to follow where he was. I knew that he was with his ex who was now his current and would soon be his wife, but I had lost track of them when they went to Alaska. Silly me, I thought they were still there.
But, to my surprise, they actually lived right across the street from my new home off Pearl Street.
X asked me to go climbing in an attempt to smooth over any residual awkwardness. (HA!) I went. After all, I had been waiting for this moment of glory. Confident that I could hold my own on the climbing wall, I grabbed the sharp end of the rope, passed it through my harness and tied … a bow.
Yes, X was watching.
Yes, so were several of his friends.
Humiliated. Very.
We eventually became friends and I eventually stopped trying so hard to prove myself. I became a climber in my own right and stopped wearing carabineers on my belt. Two years of climbing hard in Eldorado Canyon led to a career in mountaineering. This eventually led to marriage, motherhood and the demise of my climbing career.
I no longer climb; at least I haven’t for 10 years. Having kids changed my mental ability to hang it all out there. It’s okay — I don’t have to impress anyone any more. Although it was a great time in my life; I was free, I was strong, and I was happy. I don’t miss X and I certainly don’t miss Ms. Asia America.
However, I am still a climber; still hang with some of my old climbing friends. We all have small kids and big butts. We swap stories in that pathetic, has-been, living-in-the past way, although we deny being “those people.” I even see X, occasionally. After moving five times each, we ironically ended up in the same town. We are friends. After all, if he hadn’t taught me to climb, I wouldn’t know how. More importantly, if he hadn’t dumped me, I would never have so pigheadedly pursued climbing. Stubbornness and dreams of revenge have served me well.
And now, every summer, as my legs tan, the white scar wrapping around my shin emerges, reminding me of that old life and bringing a smile to my face.
MG
