Not What I Expected

Every issue of urban climber seems to poke fun of the “no-shirt-knit-cap” guys at your gym. This doesn’t really bother me, and trust me I’m the shirt on kind of climber. My problem is with the “pictures-of-your-hands” kind of climber. We’ve all got burning-red hands, we’ve all got flappers, we’ve all got gross hands with more tape than actual skin. Suck it up and keep climbing.

I originally come from a cycling community. In that community cyclangelo said it best last year “the trick to becoming a better cyclist doesn’t have so much to do with our capacity to suffer. Certainly we suffer; the trick is not minding that we suffer.”

So climbers, lets try this one out, because when we’re all out surfing we’re not complaining about cracked lips and burned backs, when we’re cycling or running no one is chatting about burning legs and dry throats. Now out on the crag… if you’re hot go ahead and strip that shirt… if you’re embarrassed about your hat hair… keep that knitted cap on man… but put your camera phone down and lets go climb some shit.

Do you mean to tell me that you can now bear to pay a care or two to how I have been these past months?

…and how, my dearest, am I supposed to feel about that— after all this time.I’ll tell you how I’ve been, but first I’ll tell you how I feel.

Those months ago I loved you— at a time in my life when I made it a point to care for every human I came across— I loved you the most; and I loved you the best I knew how. It isn’t the same as those men who love you now, I may be incapable of their pithy romanticism but please never doubt that I did love you. I offered everything I had to you and all you could suffer to do was stand there, wordless and frozen in place… the world turned beneath your feat and my unceasing momentum drew us apart.

As for how I have been— I have been alone, hiking trails, climbing cliffs, wading through rivers, and swimming through cities. I’ve felt as old as the hills, I’ve felt as alive as the changing moon. I’ve been the fastest thing on the freeway, I’ve been the slowest in the urban foot race. I’ve driven from Vancouver to San Diego. I’ve jumped off of bridges and I dove off cliffs. I’ve written poetry of you while sitting on the sidewalks of Los Angeles with my feet in the gutter, and I’ve read it aloud to canyon walls with my feet cooling in a stream. I’ve told the story of my past love for you to faces in the bar, and whispered my regrets to my reflection in a finger of whiskey.

In these months My Dearest, it was quite clear to me that we have seceded, we failed, we have drifted apart. We have shared many starry heavens, sunny skies, and changing moons; but I have had many more upon those in lonesome reflection.

I feel now… that I love you as I ever did, a fact that I am quite sure you would much like to ignore.

——

Now, if I may pry My Dearest,

How have You been?

… and why the fuck are you here?