The most fun you can have with rubber shoes on?

What a week! Where to start? This one's a bit long, so I hope you're sitting comfortably...

I guess the story begins a month ago - after I'd decided to go out to Mallorca for a deep water solo holiday with Clare and her mates. Having never really done any DWS, I figured I'd best get some practice in, and luckily there was a crew heading down to Devon that weekend. I cut my teeth on the quite brilliant Magical Mystery Tour (6a) at Berry Head, and then another traverse followed by an astonishing route. Cavewoman (6c) starts with a downclimb on red and white crystal pockets, traverses along a steep wall into a cave to a rock bridge sit down rest, and then exits through a chimney of green crystal walls. Talk about unique climbing! I'll have to go back with a head torch some time to have a proper look at those rocks.

A week later I found myself back down at Berry Head, this time with Clare for her first taste of DWS. She had a right good go at Magical Mystery Tour, but with a really low tide it turned out to be much harder than the week before, and a little cold. Undeterred, she came back the next weekend armed with a wetsuit, for another go at MMT followed by an attempt on Rainbow Bridge traverse. The 6b start proved a bit much for her with water running out of the wetsuit sleeves, but I managed to get across that, followed by a flash of the 7a+ crux pitch, and then the 6b climb out. I struggled a bit on that though - the climbing was pretty straightforward but laybacking 10m or so above the water had me gripped, and things were going to get a lot spicier in Mallorca!

We flew out to Palma on the next Sunday evening, picked up a couple of small cars - I got my focus upgraded to a rather nice little BMW 118d Sport for a the princely sum of 7€, it wasn't an absolute flying machine but it was pretty quick off the mark and the rear wheel drive and "traction control off" button were to provide some fun - and drove across to Porto Colom. The apartment was well situated with the beach, Spar and DWS crag of Cala Marcal in a couple of minutes walking distance, views out to the lighthouse from the balcony, and a decent sized pool for drunken evening frolics.

Monday morning we headed a couple of miles south to a Cala Sa Nau - a small place with a nice starter sector called the Virgin Area - not too high at 10m, plenty of easy grades to intoduce everyone to DWS, and one 7a+ called Attack Of The Spindly Killer Fish to spice things up.

I warmed up on Virgins Are Only Human (6a+), and as soon as I got to the top I took my shoes and chalk bag off, and turned to jump. Fuck, I was gripped. It may have been only 10m but the water looked miles away. It took me a couple of minutes to psyche myself up, but eventually I took the plunge and it settled me down a bit.

Another couple of jumps and I was ready for a go at Attack. First attempt I didn't get round the little roof, but second go I got to the high crux, launched for a hold with full commitment, missed, spun down face first, and smacked the millpond flat water in a full on belly flop. Before I'd even surfaced I felt a deep, visceral pain in my chest. I popped out and tried to breathe, but there was just a low groan coming out... I was totally winded. A few seconds of mild panic ensued, followed eventually by that grateful first gulp of air, and a gentle swim to shore. The last time I was winded to that extent I'd fractured three vertebrae, so it brought back some unpleasant memories. No damage was done, but my confidence was shaken a little. On the one hand, it was nice to get a worst case scenario out of the way, but it made me a lot more tentative on my next few attempts.

A bunch of Germans arrived, and one of the girls looked familiar - she looked back at me and asked "did we meet in Portland or something?", and I realised it was Heide Spets who used to train at the westway some years ago before moving to Norway... it really is quite a small world the climbing community! After warming up, they joined us working Attack, but the crux was proving a bit tricky and committing. In the end, I went home without the send. That evening, we were treated to a gorgeous sunset back at the apartment... Spain never seems to disappoint in that regard and this week was to be no exception.

Beautiful rock formations and crystal clear seas

Matt warming up on Virgins Are Only Human (6a)

James wasn't happy just jumping off...

Sunset from the apartment

Next day Clare, James, Matt and Katy went to check out Cala Marcal, and I headed up to Cala Barques to meet Adam and the rest of a crew from the westway who were out. What a stunning location, with amazing climbing if I had the balls for it - the metrosexual wall looked pretty intimidating!

Heading round to the snatch area, I warmed up on the polished and uninspiring Fortuna (6a+), followed by Hercules (6c) - an incredible line for the grade, super steep on massive jugs. I got the onsight by the skin of my teeth, so decided to give it another lap before going back to the main event.

My first atttempt on the wall was on Bisexual (7a). Starting from a traverse in from the side of the cave, it's straight onto hard moves quite high above the water. With some surprise, I found myself holding a big scoop half way up the wall. Moving out right to another pocket, I knew I was supposed to put a left heel into that scoop, but I was too scared to have my feet up by my head. I baled out, didn't land all that well (getting a bit of a face-full), and swam to the side pretty annoyed.

Only one thing for it, I'd have to walk round to the top and do the jump. There was just one problem - I couldn't make myself step off. My legs had turned to jelly, so despite the shouts of encouragement from the crowd below, I turned tail and walked back down to the base.

I sat brooding at the side for a while. What to do now? I was hugely tempted to head round to the slightly easier routes of the Cova area to build my confidence, but that would feel like even more of a defeat. I toyed with the idea of getting on something much more difficult on the other side of the cave, the thinking being that if I was fighting with harder moves I wouldn't have time to think about failure till it happened - but again that felt like an easy way out, avoiding the issue.

I watched AJ taking a fall from the high crux of Metosexual (7a+), and when he got out he came over to give me some encouragement. I decided I had to man up and get back on the line. I pulled my shoes on, chalked up, and got to the start as fast as I could - trying hard not to think about the decision... it had been made.

A few deep breaths with my eyes closed to focus, and I swung out onto the starting rail. I made my way back up to the same point, and this time committed to the heel hook - once it was in and weighted, it actually felt really good. I made the next few moves to the lip of the cave, took a slopey but grippy right hand over the top, and reached for a slightly blind hold with my left. I got a desperate sloper at the bottom (I was later to discover this was the finishing jug if you get into the back of it), tried to pull on it, and was instantly off.

This time I got the fall right though - initially loose in the air, pencilling at the end - and hit the water perfectly. Swimming out, I really didn't care that I'd missed the send; I overcame the fear, committed, and took as big a fall as that wall was likely to produce, and I was well chuffed. Twenty minutes of rest in the sunshine later, I got back on and cruised to my first Mallorcan 7a DWS.

Cala Barques main beach

As nice as a place as it must be to sit on a yacht, there was much more fun round the corner...

Metrosexual Area

Mike warming up on Hercules (6c)

Approaching the top of Bisexual (7a). Photo by Clare Mains

Wednesday was to be a rest day, so we left the gear at the apartment just to make sure we stuck to the plan, and headed south to Cala Mondrago for a day of sunbathing, swimming, eating, and a few afternoon beers. Whilst there though, we decided to check the weather forecast and found rain on it's way... perhaps it might have been wise to check that first before creating the schedule!

Stunning beach...

... pizza...

... beer...

... and a bit of easy bouldering... perfect rest day!

Next morning did bring rain - so much of it that the westway boys were convinced even the Cova del Diablo would be out of commission. Their plan was to head for the steepest sport crag the area had to offer - the Castell de Santueri sector at Felanitx. This sounded like a good plan for me, but it would mean only one route was available for some of our crew to try. Still, everyone seemed keen for a go, and the location right under a 13th century moorish castle sounded pretty spectacular, so off we went.

The cave was indeed stunning, but when I failed to onsight the solitary 6c (Qwin Thomas), I began to wonder if I should have brought the whole team up - was I just giving them a crap day out so I could climb? There really wasn't any other choice of venue for that day though, and we had two cars so I wasn't forcing anyone to stay there.

Matt put in a very solid onsight, then I set about coaching James and Clare on it. Clare showed massive determination to dog it to the chains, and I think impressed everyone when, having grabbed a quickdraw out of fear, she decided the only way forward was to pull slack and jump... a maneuver straight out of the fear of falling textbook, and perhaps one that showed me up for not jumping the day before!

I had a go at a nice crack line called Munchescal (7a+) after that, but then decided I wanted to keep my powder dry for DWS, so I cleaned the draws off Qwin Thomas and packed up. The westway guys were still cranking hard though, so while the rest of the gang headed back down to Porto Colom with Matt, me and Clare hung around to spectate and get a few pictures.

Castell de Santueri

Adam cranking out a big move on Sex Cannabis (7b)

It's a route that doesn't let up.

Mike making hanging by your fingertips look easy

At the end of the day, it's all about the craic though

Ryan on Sex Cannabis

Friday started out wet again meaning none of the easier vertical DWS crags would be in condition, so we all headed back round to Cala Barques. The sea was looking a bit rough, and a few of the guys were walking out as we arrived having decided against it, but I sat across the other side with Adam watching a couple of climbers taking falls and getting back out. Although tricky, it looked OK if you picked your moment to beach yourself on the exit ledge, so we headed over to get involved.

I warmed up with a repeat of Bisexual, then got on to Metrosexual. This follows the same line as far as the big scoop then heads back left, with the rest of the line offering a whole different proposition - the straightforward moves on jugs replace with small pockets, crimps, and a dyno to a rail, as well as much less positive finishing holds. First go, I got to the crimp below the dyno and tried to go off the wide right foot I'd been given as beta, but got nowhere near the move. Second go, I stepped back inside for a bit of an outside edge, and nailed the dyno - thankfully the rail was indeed a sinker as I swung around 12m up on one hand... what a cool move! I was a bit pumped, but after a quick shake I made it over the top for a surprisingly quick tick. Time to join Adam and Liam Cook on Transexual (7b).

Although harder, this was a line that should suit me down to the ground. A steep, pumpy traverse with good rests, followed by a couple of hard moves to another rest under a roof, a strenuous reach around the lip, then wild moves on pockets to get the feet round onto the wall above. First go I got across the traverse fairly easily, but failed to make the rest below the roof. Second go I struggled a bit with the traverse (why is it so often the way?) , but then found a slightly different sequence that suited my small frame better and made the rest. I reached round the roof to the first pocket, but couldn't control the swing to bring my feet up.

By now I was feeling quite tired, but having reached the crux I couldn't leave without one more attempt... Unfortunately that ended at the same move - I didn't have the core strength left to get my feet up without taking a swing I couldn't hold. I did have the feeling it would go if I got back up there with more in the tank, but we didn't go back to Barques on this trip, so it's a nice one to look forward to when I return!

Sending Metrosexual (7a+). Photo by Clare Mains

Matt on Bisexual (7a)

Adam showing some fancy footwork...

... and sending Transexual (7b)...

... then doing a victory leap!

Alas, this was no victory leap... not quite sure how I managed to end up facing this way falling from the crux! Photo by Adam Brown.

Liam Cook took the biscuit though, with a swan dive from the top! Photo by Clare Mains

 
One of my goals for the trip was to get on a line at Cova del Diablo called Afroman (7b) I'd heard a lot about, so I was keen to get down there, but a bit worried about dragging people to another hard venue. I was therefore rather pleased when the guys started showing an interest in the more vertical wall at the east of the crag called White Noise. Although high enough to be pretty scary, it held some routes at amenable grades, so we all headed down there Saturday morning. Unfortunately, the sea was too rough so we got back in the cars and went instead to Cala Magraner, a beautiful beach-side sport crag with some really good technical wall climbing in the lower grades, and a hard roof sector a little way back from the sea.

I decided to have an active rest day and just be a concierge for Clare, scoping out and putting up the draws on 6a/b lines for her. Although a little polished in places the rock was superb, with awesome flowstone features and tufas between crimpy technical sections. She started the day with a good onsight of the very technical (and fantastic) L'amo de Baltix m'envia (6a), and put in another battling performance on a steep line called Asulla (6b+) - overcoming a fear of roofs and not coming down till she was bleeding for the cause.

The end of the walk in to Cala Magraner

Clare on Nautilus (6a)

Awesome technical face climbs...

... and plenty of scope for mucking around near the water.

Sunday morning I made my way down to Diablo again, with Clare and James. We warmed up on the quite brilliant traverse of White Noise (5+), then I headed round to the Lobster area. The crag was pretty empty, with just one guy projecting In The Night, Every Cat Is Black (8a) a little further round from Afroman, and his mate watching from the top. The seas weren't too rough though, so I decided to traverse in to the start cave anyway and have a go. It's a steep 6b traverse, and I was quite pumped by the time I got in, so I had to sit a while and try to chill out before I could have an attempt. As steep as it looks from the top, I wasn't prepared for the reality of getting up close - the start is practically horizontal and it was pretty intimidating sitting in the cave on my own, with the swell rolling in below. 

I lined up for my first go, climbed up to the top of the cave, made a move out to a big side pull, and tried to cross through to what looked like a decent crimp. Looks were decieving - it was no where near deep enough to be any use at this angle of rock. I tried to go again to a better looking hold, but couldn't make it. A nice landing and an easy exit up the in-situ rope made me feel a bit better about the situation though, so I rested up and went for another attempt.

I tried to go straight for the second crimp this time, but no matter what I did with my feet, I wasn't able to reach it. I took the plunge going all out for it, and climbed back up again. Then, as I sat drying off wandering what to try next, something a little surreal happened.

First a pair of feet swung into view at the roof of the cave. Someone was campusing down Afroman??? Then the smiling face of Chris Sharma dropped down to say hi. He casually campused into the cave, and stopped for a chat. I particularly liked the introduction "Hi, how you doing? What's your name?... I'm Chris", like there were loads of guys he'd meet at a crag who wouldn't recognise him.

Before swinging back out onto Hair Bear (7c+), he gave me the beta for Afroman (a cheeky undercling move I'd totally missed) and wished me luck. One of the many things I love about this sport is the fact that no matter who they are and what they've done, everyone's just another climber when you meet them at the crag.

Next go I made it through the bottom section and fell off the crux. It began to rain, so I swam round and climbed out the "easy way down" as I didn't want to leave Clare sitting around the top of the crag in the rain while I had my fun. As we drove back, I was telling myself that it didn't matter if I wasn't back the next (and last) day of this holiday, the rock wasn't going anywhere... but inside I was desperate for another crack. That evening, Clare insisted I should get back on my project for my last day (the rest of the gang were staying on for one more), so I texted Adam, who I knew had unfinished business with Afroman himself, to get down there for a team send.

James on the Crux of White Noise traverse (5+) - a bit trickier and much more fun than the grade suggests!

Clare on the crux

Clare on the overhang near the end of White Noise

Chris Sharma playing on the wall, while I try out the beta

When I arrived back at the crag mid morning, none of the other westway guys were around yet. I decided to just use the traverse in as my warmup and get straight on it. Sitting in the cave was one of a bunch of Swiss climbers who'd been at Felanitx the same day we were, also having a go at Afroman, so I enquired about the crux moves and then went for a burn. The crux starts with a long move up from a rail to a crimp, from which it's a case of sorting feet, moving along a break on a couple of not very positive holds, and then round to a finishing jug. My first attempt of the day, I was a couple of inches short of hitting the crimp. Sitting in the cave, I began to regret my shortened warm-up as I felt the (unfortunately) familiar feeling of a strained A2 pulley in my left ring finger. Ah well, last day of the holiday - nothing else for it but to wrap some tape on (for all the good it'll do), and keep cranking.

My next go, I hit the crimp, but couldn't quite stick it, and the following go I held the crimp long enough for a quick look at the next couple of holds before peeling off. I hit the water badly this time - slapping my balls hard enough that for a second I thought I was going to vomit - but after the initial nausea wore off this didn't matter, I was getting close!

Climbing out for a proper rest, I met Adam at the top. Things were going well already, but it was good to have a partner around to bounce the psyche off so I went over to grab some food in a confident mood - while he went down to warm up in a more sensible manner than I had done!

We traversed back in, and as I sat down to de-pump for another attempt, a strong South African climber who'd been crushing at Barques a few days before turned up to have a go. He got very close to the onsight - making the last hold before the finshing jug. This was quite handy, as I was able to quiz him about the final moves before I went for another burn. Latching the crimp more comfortably this time, I got my feet sorted and reached for a little slopey pinch for the left. I tried to match to a side pull below the pinch, but came off in the process of dropping my weight onto it. Adam crushed the lower wall - although he didn't latch the crux crimp, it was good start.

The South African strong man sent it second go, and then the Swiss guy got his send. Adam had another crack at it that finished much the same as his first.

Lining up for another attempt, I knew it was on. My heart was pumping as I stood up to go, and I was a bit worried about sending fever, but after a few deep breaths I managed to get focused.

Pulling out onto the lower wall was starting to feel well drilled and easy. I reached the rail feeling fresh, shook out, and nailed the move to the crimp dead - no adjusting to get into the best part of the hold. Taking the pinch, I tried again for the side pull, but it didn't feel balanced, so I changed plan and went again with my left to the last difficult hold. It stuck, but I was a bit off balance, the hold was slopey and polished, and my arms were fading fast. I adjusted my feet to get them under my centre of gravity and reached over to match with the right hand. For a split second I thought I was peeling, but as soon as I got the right hand on, I knew I was good. One more foot out left, and I reached for the finishing jug. From there, I still had the small matter of some easy climbing to the top, but with a sit down rest beforehand, I wasn't dropping this one now!

It was a fantastic send for my last climb of the holiday, so I headed down to collect my gear and cheer on Adam's next go, and then went down to the main beach at Porto Cristo with Clare for a swim. The day was rounded off when Adam texted to let me know he'd got the send too.

Adam Brown lining up the crux move on Afroman (7b)

Sticking the crux crimp. Photo by Clare Mains

Looking relieved reaching the finishing jug! Photo by Clare Mains

This was my first visit to Mallorca, but it certainly won't be my last. It really is hard to think of anything that could be more fun than pulling wild and hard moves on steep limestone above the sea... I think Mallorca in September may just become the first entry on my annual climbing calender!

The importance of variety

Two weeks ago, I was down to Anstey's Cove with a friend (who shall remain nameless in this instance to protect the guilty).

After a warm-up, we had a go at a technical little climb called American Express. It gave us a few more problems than it's sport grade of 7a+ might have lead us to expect. My friend went first, and pulled through the bottom OK, which was slightly fierce and fingery, but then above the second clip ran into a balancy slab where the hand holds disappear.

I had a crack at it, and had much more of a struggle on the bottom section, but eventually found myself staring at the same problem. A big hold lay up and right, but with a finger in a mono somewhere by my crotch and nothing obvious in between, it seemed a long way away.  Adding the fact that at this point both feet are above the second clip, it felt rather precarious.

There were loads of foot holds around, but with nothing of note for the hands staying balanced on one foot to move the other was a real challenge. To begin with I was a bit sketched out, but after a couple of falls I started to relax and was able to try out some options - however nothing seemed to work so my first go ended with me returning to terra firma, the third bolt still unmolested, and rather painful feet.

My friend's second go ended much as his first - completely stuck, seemingly unable to grasp the idea that the mono must be abandoned before the feet get too high, and trust placed in the friction of the rubber and balance. Although a very strong all-round climber, when it comes to sport climbing he's very much a steep limestone man - and here it showed.

My second attempt I got through the bottom section clean, then started falling again. It took a while, but eventually I found a sequence of small foot movements that got me high enough for a delicate little tip-toed stretch to the good hold, and that third bolt. From there the route was pretty much over, so now I was thinking of the redpoint. On the way back down, I tick marked all the necessary footholds, and began explaining the sequence, but my friend had decided it was time to abandon this lovely little line and head for his main event - a first look at the fiercely steep 8a, The Cider Soak. He knows my opinion of this tendency to over-specify in one style of rock, so there was no point in haranguing him, but I was muttering to myself about cul-de-sacs and engrams as I followed him up the hill to belay.

My friend did a very good job of his first crack at The Cider Soak, working out a sequence for the bottom half and aiding his way to the top to have a look at the rest. I couldn't help thinking that unpicking the lock on American Express would do his climbing more good in the long run though.

I went back down the hill for a redpoint attempt, but fell off the crux. Not only that, but after a rest on the rope, I still couldn't repeat the move. I was absolutely baffled. I knew exactly where my right foot had been as I leaned over it, stretching up and right to the good hold, but now I was two inches short. How could this be? After a few goes, I unlocked the sequence once more. I'd been concentrating on my right foot (this was after all the main pivot point for the move), however lifting my left foot up another couple of inches changed my whole body angle and allowed me to reach over to the hold.

I was tired and the crux was still a little tenuous, so although I had another couple of attempts I didn't quite manage to pull it off - but that didn't really matter, I was happy to have worked my way through the problems and come up with good solutions, and those tricky little moves are always the best to work out, because you know it's going to help you somewhere else down the line. In this case, it was going to help me out much sooner than I realised.

This weekend, I was down in Berry Head to sneak in some deep water soloing before my trip to Mallorca. After doing the Magical Mystery Tour with Clare, I headed over to join the end of a train along the Rainbow Bridge. This was my first attempt at the route, and after an entertaining start where I almost blew it on a wet hold on an easy section, we got to the rest before the 7a+ pitch. Alex gave me an excellent blow by blow account of the route, and I watched him climb through the crux before I left the sanctuary of the ledge.

A relatively straightforward start led to a technical series of small crimps, followed by the crux Alex had described - reach over onto one sloper with the right hand, match, take a second sloper, then go again to a big jug. I was pretty boxed, but I managed to take the first, and slide my weight underneath to match. Shuffling the feet along to some more glassy little holds, I took the second sloper and lunged for the jug. Yes! I had it. I was still on poor feet though, so I looked over to where a large tick mark lead to what was presumably a hidden undercut. I reached for it, but was a couple of inches short. Shit. The jug wasn't feeling so juggy any more. I tried to shake out, but I was so pumped I couldn't hold on long enough with either hand to rest the other, before the fingers started to peel. Surely to fuck I wasn't going to blow it now? Alex saw me struggling and offered some encouragement. I looked desperately for something further round for my right foot to get me across, but there was nothing in reach. Suddenly, I remember the crux on Amercian Express. I looked back towards my left foot, found another hold a couple of inches up, purposefully pushed a toe into it, reached out with my right hand, and latched the undercut for my second ever 7a+ flash!

Bring on Mallorca, and vive la différence!

The world's scariest warmup

My anonymous friend pre-clipping as far as he could reach on The Cider Soak

Examining the route

And having a go

Time for tea

An Anstey's snail

More Anstey's flora and fauna

Yachts mooring up to enjoy the sunshine

Battling the alps and global warming (Part 2)

We got back to the flat in Courmayeur from the failed Mont Blanc attempt around lunchtime. I headed upstairs to try to get some sleep - it took a while to doze off but in the end I got about three hours shut-eye before it was time to grab a quick shower, re-pack my rucksack, and head down for dinner. We took it easy for the evening and left for Pont around 11.30 with an air of expectation in the car - I felt determined that this time I wouldn't be turning the group around.

Leaving the car about 12.30 am, we headed a short walk along the road to where a track began to zig-zag up a steep hillside. Andrea strode to the front, and I automatically tried to match his pace. It didn't take long to realise that I wasn't going to keep that up easily though, and with the rest strung out behind there wasn't much point, so I eased back to a steady plod.

We reached the Rifugio Vittorio Emanuele II (2,735 meters) around 3.00 am and sat outside for a while eating breakfast, until someone wandered in and discovered the staff were already up preparing for the guests to arise, and happy to make us a coffee.

One latte later, I was feeling pretty good as we headed out back onto the trail. It didn't take long however till I started to experience the first signs of gastro intestinal distress. Soon, I was farting about every 10 steps - clearly there wasn't much blood flowing to the upper intestine so I was already struggling to provide my brain and muscles with the required level of oxygen. This didn't particularly worry me though; I've been through it before in training for long distance triathlon so I figured as long as I kept the pace steady I'd be fine. The rest of the guys slowed to my pace and we kept a steady plod up through the darkness, the head torches of the first guys to leave from the hut twinkling below us. A little later on, I started to notice my breathing getting worse. I couldn't drink from the hydration pack without stopping while I sucked on it, and even then I had to take a few breaths before I was ready to resume walking. Nevermind - I wasn't going to let myself be the weak link again tonight!

Around 3400m, as it was getting light, we reached a point where the route dropped down towards the bottom of the glacier to our left. Nic had been scoping further up the ridge we were on however, and found a shiny new via ferrata in place. All I had with me for protection was slings, and I was acutely aware of the danger this presented in the event of a fall, but the ridge looked a fairly gentle angle so I reasoned a factor 2 was unlikely. I was feeling wobbly enough not to really trust my judgement by this point though, so I asked Słavek and Fats (who were coming behind me) to just keep an eye, and yell out if I did something stupid.

The climbing was a pretty straightforward traverse so I was able to forget my discomfort at climbing on slings (and even grab a couple of pictures of the other guys), up till the end when it turned up a set of ladders on the wall. For the first time I began to doubt the sanity of carrying on - if I didn't trust myself to climb a ladder any more, what was I doing up here? But I looked over my shoulder to the summit and thought "Fuck that, we're too close for me to pull out now", took a rest for a short while to gulp down some air, and climbed out. Sitting down to put the crampons on and get roped up for the slope to where we would re-join the main route, I started to feel a little better.

For a short while I had the feeling it was all going to be fairly straightforward to the top, but then the breathing difficulties got worse again. I was on the back of a three with Nic and Andrea, and moving so slowly we were almost stationary. The guys kept turning to offer encouragement and ask if I was OK - I stopped speaking in response, and began resorting to a thumbs up and wave to carry on up the hill. I couldn't waste precious breath on words any more. I remember thinking to myself "What the fuck is going on? This isn't fucking everest, why are you walking 10 steps and taking a breather like you're up in the himalaya?" I'd been to this height by ski lift many times in the past without issue, how could it be so difficult now?

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I had tears welling up in my eyes. I fought them back down and wondered where they were coming from. I was suffering but I didn't feel particularly emotional, in fact I was settled into one of those comfortably numb states I use to get through long hard bike or run sessions - switch off and keep putting one foot in front of the other. The tears came again, and I pushed them back, but when they came for the third time I thought "Fuck it, let them go".

Within seconds I was sobbing... and then suddenly I felt a second wind. "It's now or never" I thought, and picked up the pace to what felt like a sprint - but was in reality no more than a normal walking pace. I must have looked a sight, tears streaming down my face, snot and dribble coming from my nose and gaping wide mouth as I gasped for air like a fish out of water. With about 100m to go, my throat began to constrict and I developed an asthmatic wheeze, but I figured if I stopped now I might not be able to start again, so I kept going.

This last push was the hardest thing I've ever done - finishing the half ironman was a walk in the park in comparison. I arrived at the queue for the last few meters of rock an absolute wreck. I couldn't speak for a couple of minutes, but as I began to come back to reality I realised just what I state I was in. I had massive pins and needles - my hands and feet felt like balloons. There was a bitter metallic taste in my mouth, and the world was slowly rotating around me.

After a bit of a break, we began scrambling up the the statue of the madona on the very summit. My balance was all over the place, and I really though I was likely to topple off. I considered untying from the rope to avoid taking anyone else with me, but in the end it seemed like too much hassle... better just to do my best to stay on the ridge.

Eventually we made it up to the statue, grabbed a couple of photos, and got back down to the top of the snow field. I remember musing to myself that I should be feeling elated, but was mainly relieved that the ascent was over, and dreading the walk back down. Now that Nic had realised what a bad state I was in, he was keen to get me down as quickly as possible. I wanted to wait at the top of the glacier for Fats and Słavek (who'd been quite a bit behind us to the summit), but he was insistent we should get moving after just about long enough for me to catch my breath and cool my head in the snow. At the time I felt critical of this decision, but with hindsight he was absolutely right - I was not just exhausted, I was ill and staying at that height longer than necessary could have had serious consequences. Even lying still in the snow I was struggling a bit for breath.

Going back down by the normal route there were a few crevasses to get across, and it was hard going in the sun softened snow, but we made it down the glacier without incident. Nic headed off down towards the hut, and I waited with Andrea for Fats and Słavek to arrive. The break was welcome, and for the first time in about three hours it felt like there was enough oxygen in the air.

We took our time down the rest of the way to the hut, where there was a welcome freezing lake for weary feet, and some hot food. On the way, I began to think about my behavior on the way to the summit. I have a very stubborn streak under pressure, which can be very useful in an individual pursuit such as a long distance triathlon, but in a team event such as this it was not fair for me to hide my condition from the rest of the guys. You need to be able to make an informed decision on the hill, and I witheld that information from the people who would have had to look after me had things got any worse - they should have been allowed to fully understand what continuing upwards meant for us all. Arriving at the hut, I apologised to Nic for this, and resolved not to let it happen in future.

The last steep slope seemed so much longer than it had in the darkness the night before, but eventually we arrived back at the car, a full 19 hours after we had left it.

The day after I noticed I had very swollen ankles (peripheral oedema) and for the next couple of days I felt quite short of breath - both in Courmayeur and down in Turin, but by the time I landed back in London I was back to normal again.

At the time, I was immensely proud of myself for pushing through to reach the top (OAPs and children on the summit not withstanding - it was a personal battle to get there). Looking back now though, I realise it was foolish. I didn't really understand the potential consequences at such a relatively low altitude. Since I survived to tell the tale I'm kinda glad I proved to myself I could do it, but in future I think that level of commitment at altitude shall be reserved for when my survival - or someone else's - depends on it. One thing's for sure though... any time from now on I think I can't do a last few lengths of the pool, or another lap of Richmond Park, I can think back to that day and know that I bloody well can!

The glacier we skipped on the way up

Andrea on the via ferrata at 3500m

Slavek and Fatima

Nice views

Nic and Andrea just below the summit

From the top

The queues for the very summit

On the top with Andrea, photo by Nicola Ciancaglini

Battling the alps and global warming (Part 1)

A couple of weeks ago, I jetted off to Turin to join a cosmopolitan team of would be Alpinists in Courmayeur. Nic and Sławek were to be our guides, having a fair bit of alpine experience between them, but I'd never climbed anything outside the Scottish highlands, and Andrea not even that - although this was to prove to be no hindrance to the machina! Completing the team was Philipino cranker extraordinaire (and Słavek's better half) Fatima.

The weather was fantastic when we got there with the sunshine splitting the trees. Too fantastic in fact - the snow and ice were melting rapidly, making conditions difficult. The initial plan had been to take the normal route up the Grandes Jorasses, but after consulting with the local guides Nic informed us they were no longer taking clients up there due to the ever widening bergshrunds - it wasn't particularly dangerous, just becoming increasingly difficult to negotiate. So it was decided that after an acclimatisation trek to the futuristic Gervasutti hut, we'd make make an attempt on Mont Blanc the next day, before conditions deteriorated any further.

The warm up got roughly as far as the first stream we had to cross... I sat down to get my boots off where the path crossed the water, and when I looked up a couple of the team were heading up the hill. Presuming they would come back to the crossing point if there wasn't something more suitable close by, I carried on and forded the stream, then turned round to see if anyone was going to need a hand across. Except everyone else was now climbing directly up the wrong side of the water. Ah well, I figured it would be best to just follow the path and keep the same height as the rest of the group until such time as they found a crossing point and came to join me. I was chuckling to myself as I watched them struggling up the scree whilst I wandered up a nice firm path, and enjoying myself in the sunshine as I sat down to have some lunch, when I got a call to say "trip abandoned, we can't get across, we're going back to the car". This pissed me off for two reasons - first we were missing out on any sort of acclimatisation (and the chance to properly test my new boots) before heading for Mont Blanc, and secondly I was annoyed at myself for not getting a map of the area we would be walking in, so I could carry on solo. Although the path was marked out with yellow paint dots on the rocks and there wasn't a cloud in the sky, I've seen conditions change and paths look different on the way back down often enough to know it's not worth being on a mountain you don't know without a way to locate yourself. So off I trotted down the hill fairly disgruntled. Lessons learned though - always carry a map whether you're leader or follower, and if the group does something strange go back and join them - even if it means a bit of extra fucking around in icy water. Anyway, with good weather, food and company in Courmayeur, it's hard to stay disgruntled for long.

The scree slope that defeated us

Next day we started out on the Italian normal route to Monte Bianco. This involves a day's fairly flat trekking up the Miage glacier to the Gonella hut at 3072m, and an early start up the Dome glacier to join the much more frequented French normal route. The first day went fairly well, right up till the last half an hour. We'd taken a fairly gentle pace to save ourselves for the next day, but all of a sudden I found myself struggling for energy with the end in sight. I was also ducking for cover from the sun at the slightest patch of shade, this should have been a warning sign - I've suffered heat exhaustion on several occasions before (and twice I think developed into heat stroke), but for some reason it never registers it's happening again.

Moraine on the Miage Glacier

Approach to the Gonella hut

Arriving at the hut I felt awful, but I didn't want to ruin it for the others any more than I wanted to abandon my own attempt, so I decided to keep it to myself until after dinner - giving me time to recover and giving the rest time to firm up their plans for a summit attempt before I announced I would pull out if it came to that (although there had been a couple of patches of snow on the way up, they were pretty flat and had very clearly defined crevasses, so there was nothing that wouldn't be easily negitiable on a solo descent).

Fats and Słavek on the snow plod below the hut

In the meantime, the news from the hut staff wasn't good - apparently everyone who'd left that morning had phoned to say they would be going down the French side and getting a bus back to Italy - the conditions on the glacier were not good, and with the freezing level at 4,600m they weren't going to get any better before the next morning.

The Dome Glacier, where the route was apparently getting a bit dicey

I went upstairs and tried to get some sleep. I dozed for a while, but every time I woke up the room was spinning slightly, my head was pounding and and my heart was racing; I checked my resting pulse rate - 104! It was another sign of heat exhaustion that I missed - I assumed I was reacting badly to the slightly thinner air. I did find this perplexing, having spent hours at a time skiing above 3000m in the past. Struggling to just rest at that height didn't make a lot of sense, but in my dazed state it seemed the obvious culprit nonetheless.

I headed down for dinner hoping that would sort me out, but I found it difficult to get much down, and it made me feel worse - I could now add nausia to my list of symptoms. So I dropped the bomb to Nic - I'm not fit to go for the top tonight. There was already some unease at making the attempt in the group, with half the teams in the hut having decided to abandon their attempts and the rest still debating, but despite insisting I was happy to go down on my own, I couldn't help but feel I was the catalyst for the subsequent change of plan - half an hour later we were all coming back down in the morning. I could see Słavek was disappointed, and I felt responsible. I sat outside watching the sunset, feeling pretty dejected despite the stunning surroundings.

As the temperature began to drop, I started to feel better. I thought "Shit! I bailed out too soon!". Even then, it wasn't till Słavek said "you were probably just cooked" that I realised what had been going on. I started checking my pulse - it was already below my earlier resting rate whilst wandering around, and steadily dropped throughout the evening to around 80 - the same is it is now sat at my computer. But the decision had already been made, and declaring my fitness and willing to have a go was not going to make a difference. The fact that retreating was probably the right thing to do didn't really help - I felt we were abandoning for slightly the wrong reasons, and that if I'd just kept my mouth shut a little bit longer we might have been going for a few hours sleep before breakfast at midnight.

Sunset from the Gonella hut

On the way down the glacier the next morning, Nic announced a plan to get us a 4000m scalp. He was going to head for the Gran Paradiso car park that evening and do an all-nighter to the top. Whoever wanted to come was welcome. I hesitated initially, not wanting my weakness to get in the way of another group attempt, but reasoning that we'd be climbing in the cool of the night so even if I wasn't fully recovered any problems with the sun would occur after the summit, I threw my hat in the ring.

The fun was about to begin...


 

Why?

"What the fuck am I doing this for?" was pretty much my first thought this morning - when my alarm woke me up from a kip in the back of the car, in a car park down a country lane somewhere near Swanage, at 5 am. One breakfast, a drive to the town and change into tri-suit later, I was still thinking pretty much the same thing as I brought my bike down to transition. Once everything was set up, I had my numbers drawn on,  and I'd queued for the pre-race lightening of the load in a portable toilet ritual, I set off across the sea-front to the start area for the sprint swim. As I looked out across the sea at a beautiful sunrise, I remembered what the fuck I was doing it for.

Seeing the town before it wakes up, getting in the sea as the sun rises, and then sprinting out onto the bike to make the most of the country roads before the traffic gets on them.

It all started just a few days ago, when Ramon said the guys were going deep water soloing in Lulworth for the weekend, and asked if I'd like to come along and do some easy stuff. As tempting as it was, I didn't trust myself not to push to hard on the still mending finger, so I declined, planning to stay in london for one last weekend. On second thoughts, I needed something else to do to get me out of here. A quick look on the web revealed the swanage classic sprint triathlon - just 17 miles down the road from where they were. Totally under-prepared and under-trained, it would surely be enough activity to tire me out for the weekend, and the rest I could spend on the beach watching the guys freezing and/or hurting themselves.

I haven't really done any open water swimming in ages, and not much in the pool either, so standing with the 50-odd people in wetsuits that comprised wave 2, waiting to jump in for a 750m swim across the bay, there was a lot of nerves mixed in with the excitement. In the pool, I've been working to increase my stroke rate recently, but in short sets so I'd told myself I must drop back to my old pace... but as we bombed out into the sea all thought went out the window, and I went out way too hard. For a while I thought I'd got into a good rhythm, breathing every second stroke and cruising along quite nicely, but about half way across I suddenly realised I was close to vomiting. I eased off the pace, but I wasn't relaxed and it kept creeping up again when I wasn't looking. In the end I made it through the swim, but it was with wobbly legs that I ran up the beach, down the road and into T1.

The bike leg started out with a long slow hill climb, and again I went out a bit quick. Fortunately this time I realised it early on, and dropped down to my lowest gear for a while and just made it to the top of the hill. A couple of guys on road bikes went past me, but that was fine - I'd recce'd the bike course and I knew there was a nice flat section coming after (with great views down to Corfe Castle) so the tri bike would soon take me past them again. After that it was a technical descent, followed by rolling hills the rest of the way round. I settled into a good cadence and made it round the bike course fairly uneventfully, if not blisteringly quick. Coming into T2 I was feeling pretty good, but that was about to change.

I'd gone with the vibram five fingers shoes for the run, and my calves were not happy with the transition from bike to bare-foot style running. I hadn't done a recce of the run course, but as it turns out that might have been a good thing... I may have got back in the car and gone somewhere else. A kilometer or so in, just as my legs had loosened and I was starting to pick up the pace, the signs pointed us off the road and onto a track that went straight up the side of a hill. There were stone stairs in place, and after running the first third of it I was forced to back down and walk the rest. Coming over the top, the path then continued down a wide curved ridge, with stunning sea views - or at least they would have been stunning if I wasn't in so much pain. As soon as I'd started running again I got a massive stitch. I tried to run it off, but soon I was bent double, so I went back to a walk for another couple of hundred meters. As I cranked it up again we were approaching the steep descent, from the bottom of which it wouldn't be all that far back to the waterfront, so I resolved to grin and bear it - thankfully I didn't have to test my resolve, the 200m walk had done it's job and the stitch was gone.

I was really pleased to finish the run in better form than I'd started it, in the end coming down the road to the line at quite a good pace, overtaking four people in about the last kilometer and probably the closest to a sprint finish I've ever done. 1:54:08.48 wasn't quite the time I was hoping for, but it got me 37th out of 108 entrants (and 11th out of 20 in the Male 35-39 category), so all in all I was pretty pleased. No doubt tomorrow I will suffer for my over-enthusiasm in the face of ill-preparedness, but that'll be worth it... it's great to be back racing again!