There’s more than meets the eye up here in the cold, white vastness of the North. While I thought the main attraction was going to be the wild polar bears, I was surprised to learn where the true magic comes from…
“What do you see?” My friend asked as I climbed through the notch in the rocks above her. “Is that the route? Is that the slab?”
We were almost at the summit of Mt Wetterhorn, a 14,015 foot peak that looked like a shark’s tooth jutting vertically out of the jaws of earth.
“Holy mother!” was my answer back. “Are you kidding me?!”
Realizing I wasn’t really answering her question I continued, “It’s a slab of rock alright! Sliding right down over a cliff..."
How the lessons of rock climbing help you reach your goals.
If I don’t make a move soon, it’s over. My forearms are shaking. I am not even moving, and I am sweating so much my hands are starting to slip. I reach around my back to get more chalk.
Every second I hold onto this rock burns more precious muscle strength. It’s now…or...I fall.
I. Stopped. Moving. Forward.
The only thing left was…to fall. And so, I braced for impact.
My left hip hit the dirt first, followed quickly by my upper body. Because I fell down the hill, the momentum carried my legs over my head, and my body continued to slide. I stopped once my back found a rock. Awesome.
I felt like a kid again. The heavy black guitar case gripped tightly in my right hand. The music book in my left hand. The last time I carted around an instrument to a lesson was in middle school. And yet, here I was, 33 years old and going to my first guitar lesson in over 20 years. And. I. Was. So. Excited!
“Tobey! Your arms are moving so slowly it’s like they are in a cryo freezer!”
Despite wearing my fluorescent orange putty ear plugs, I could hear my coach’s words from across the pool, and I thought, “He is absolutely, 100%, without a doubt…right.” Sigh.
For anyone who has followed my triathlon career, it is very evident by my race splits (and my constant whining), that the swim is definitely my least favorite part of the swim-bike-run race. Doing the same stroke over and over again wasn't making me any faster. I needed to make a change. No more cryo arms.