Rock climbing. Much more complicated than I thought it would be. There's a lot of rope knotting stuff and something called belaying, which in essence is where a short arse like me ensures that a fella built like Thrud doesn't crash to the floor if he slips and lets gravity do its worst. This in my opinion is the hardest part about the entire event. It's tough hoisting yourself up an 11 metre wall holding on to lumps sticking out of the wall, in some instances these hand/footholds appear to be no larger than a weasel's ear, but the thought that someone else's safety relies upon your grip on a smooth rope makes my mouth slightly dry.
When said big fella comes back down the wall it takes a lot of effort to keep your feet planted on the ground, well that and a 30 kilo sandbag attached to your waist harness to keep you grounded. It's tough on the hands, the shoulders, the knees and to be fair pretty much all of you really.
I mentioned my mouth was dry; arid like a desert. My armpits, not so much. The room was cold and yet I was humming like a Detroit diesel. Was it fear? Who knows, but week two will see me investing in some industrial strength deodorant. Returning home with the smell of polecat in my nostrils will only happen once.
Verdict after week one at The Foundry climbing centre; great venue, good instructors (thanks Ross), average finger and shoulder strength, mediocre deodorant.
I shall return for week two, hopefully the dead muskrat in my sweater won't.
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