Little Climbers
Newton law of universal gravitation states that two objects have a gravitational pull on each other that is proportional to their combined masses. This means that the Earth’s gravity has a stronger pull on a Volkswagen than, say, an apple. Though, I have yet to see the force of gravity on a Beetle –and I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to– I’ve seen that downward pull on other things. Like me. And I’ve seen others that gravity has no effect on. Like gaggles of tiny rock climbers.
I’m a member of an indoor rock climbing gym in Berkeley, and during my time there I’ve been able to make some observations. One that I find odd is the demography of the other climbers. In general, they fit into two broad categories that have no similarity to each other. Most of the clientele are white men in their late 20’s to early 30’s, just like me. But then there’s the other group: 8 to 15 years old girls. I’ve been struggling to understand this since I first walked in the door.
Please, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not questioning these kids’ abilities. They are shockingly capable; doing things that force me to question my lopsided relationship with gravity. I’d like to think that I can finagle my way out of some tricky situations, but at no point am I able I forget that I weigh 190 pounds. I am, after all, bracing myself on only the tips of my digits. When I climb, there are moments when I have to contort my body into some spring or pretzel-like shape to finish a route up the wall. Despite that I share the same set to problems with the tiny girls, I look like a cat trying to claw its way out of a bathtub, while they look like spiders scaling the side of the Guggenheim. One task should be effortless, but to watch, you’d think it was impossible; the other looks like an impossible task made effortless. I am definitely not the latter.
When I prepare myself for a climb I stand in front of the wall, playing out a variety of routes than will take me to the top. I also have to consider how much energy I have; the mechanics of how I will move my body; the shape of the hand-holds, and whether or not I could maintain my grip; how much pain I feel in my feet –the shoes are less than comfortable–; ways that I can maintain or lose my balance, and, should I lose my balance, am I going to fall on top of someone? The girls don’t worry about any of these. They walk up to the wall, scramble to the top, jump down to the ground, find their friends, run around in circles, and then finish another route. While that happened, I was trying to put on my shoes.
My father introduced me to climbing, and each year we make an attempt at a different summit. In order to reach the top of a mountain, he had to teach a few things. How to cross glaciers, jump over crevasses, lower a person over the edge of a cliff, or how to make it to the top with enough energy to make it back to the bottom. These are lifesaving skills in a dangerous sport, and I learned them from his example. He isn’t Charles Bronson, but he’s tough in his own way. Now, that I’ve taken up a different sport, I look to those with the most skill to teach me how to be capable. I reflect on this often, and I can’t help but laugh when I do. I have many new mentors. Most of them are less than five feet tall; they’re all too young to drive; and the only job they could get would be selling cookies. But they are able to defy gravity and death better than anyone I’ve seen wearing a harness. I wonder what Newton would have to say.
