It was a crisp winters day, but on the horizon lay a foul grey screen, which threatened a break in the week long spell of blue skies. It wasn't a dark and stormy night. Perhaps it should have been, but that's the weather for you. The venue is Ilkley quarry. Rain will soon be drilling horizontally through the man made wind tunnel, sending the few huddling couples scurrying back to their cars. In the shelter of a huge overhanging boulder, the rat is bunched high on undercuts; his shoulders bare and blue. With the barely audible sound of splitting muscle the Rat spins on his one point of contact and muscle tissue hardens across his back, his swing slows and .... whammmmm. Stu (for it is he) is face first on the floor. Disgruntled, he pulled on a top and opened a magazine to be confronted with glossy photos of the south coast. Deep water soloing, the magazine said. The die was cast.
Summer '95. I'm now at Cambridge (it's time to come clean and write this in the first person). Despite plans for carefree sport climbing I've somehow found myself dragged along to the east coast of Portland for a spot of soloing. The east coast is littered with small crags with huge caves, the perfect place for a carefree days soloing.
Alas, the east coast also suffers from an array of very shallow splashdowns, keeping you just that little bit more gripped than you would perhaps choose.
After a few warm up solos I announced I was ready for the real stuff. It would have been much brighter to have kept quiet. He pointed me at a traverse line along the lip of a large roof. E5 he said, and I guess it must have been. All I know is halfway along I'm splayed wide on nubbins, 30ft up no way across and the sea below screaming for blood. Out right, however, a jug beckons. If I had a ten foot arm. Fuck it, I was up or off. After seriously considering it for a few seconds, I took a deep breath and jumped. Ten foot arm becomes no foot arm, gone too far, fuck it no! Left hand oh nice. The jug flashed past and I held it one handed to a chorus of shit! from those above. That was it, I'd cracked it, just had to keep pulling. But I was trapped in a vicious cycle, muscles working too hard for blood to disperse the lactic acid and all the while having to work harder as lactic acid builds up. Catch 22, I believe someone said. So I fall off. Two easy moves from release. I screamed like a pig when I fell. It was a 1/4 mile swim to climb out again, and I cut myself thoroughly on the rocks at the exit. The next day we all went sport climbing.
Question: How many bouldering champions does it take to change a light bulb?
Answer: Four. One to change the light bulb, and three to watch the move.