Sometime ago I met an old man and he told me a story. The story of “Birthdate”.

* * *

The first time he stood on the base of “Birthdate” he had only been climbing for a couple of months. Back then, in the innocent days, climbing was still a vast ocean of exciting and limitless possibilities. There were no performance plateaus, no anguish of failure, no knowledge of upper limits. Everyone was a rock star in the making and his climbing gang was bursting with energy and testosterone, ready to prove what they could do, eager to throw themselves on challenges and best everything and everyone.

Standing below “Birthdate” back then, he couldn’t help but feel awestruck. He studied the impossible overhanging wall with a mixture of respect and impiety, an eagerness for future conquest and a timid fear of the unknown. He knew only too well that he was far from ready for it but he know that some day he would be ready for it. For that he was certain.

Seasons passed and he along with the rest of the gang made slow but steady progress through the grades. “Birthdate” came closer but not close enough. Occasionally he would watch someone cruising it (or so it appeared back then) with mixed feelings of awe, expectation and yes, a hint of jealously. Then he would go back to his clumsy climbing trying even more intensely, his effort fueled by his eagerness to improve, to meet the expectations of his grand climbing future.

More time passed and “Birthdate” finally turned into a realistic project. He and the rest of the gang started working on it and then one by one gradually, painstakingly, sent it. Everyone but him…

As weeks passed and others succeeded in slaying the demon, it became increasingly harder for him to keep the flame of desire lit. From the dark corners of the mind rose these bleak emotions occasionally felt by everyone but admitted by none.  The toxic feeling of inadequacy. The separation that comes from being the last man in a battle no longer relevant, of being the last suitor of a line conquered by everyone else. Few egos are able to withstand this test of confidence, few minds are strong (or stupid) enough to persist under such conditions. He was not one of these few.

So “Birthdate” was reluctantly abandoned, placed in the backlog of “shame” and reduced into a lukewarm open project. So it remained for ever, with the odd failed redpoint attempt thrown at it now and then, maybe once in every few months, before walking away from it again.

And so “Birthdate” never fell.

Years passed and he stopped visiting that crag. The gang scattered to the four corners of the horizon. Life became less climbing centered. Somehow though, he managed not only to retain but also to extend his climbing. Experience replaced enthusiasm. Time management became the key. Less was now more. New modern crags were found. Happily, new milestones were achieved. “Birthdate” was forgotten and gradually became irrelevant. He had become a better climber and knew that the route was comfortably within his capabilities. “Birthdate” no longer mattered.

Then, after all that time, he visited the crag and stood below “Birthdate” again. This was during a period of prolonged climbing downtime forced by life’s unexpected shit. Hitting some old rock, revisiting some classics sounded like a nice break from it all.

It was then when he tried “Birthdate” again, this time not with fear or cautious respect but with head-on insolence. He jumped on it expecting to send it with relative ease – despite the downtime.

After hangdoging every single quickdraw he finally clipped the anchors bursting with pumped agony and lowered in the fading light completely shocked and awestruck.

What the hell had just happened?

For one week he could not stop thinking about the route. This “agony” was something that hadn’t visited him for ages. The time he used to worry and bother too much about projects had been long gone along with the carefree days of his climbing centered past. Approaching the forth decade of his life he had learned that worrying too much about climbing was unsustainable for his grown-up lifestyle. And then suddenly, there was this forgotten route, this Sisyphian brainworm from the past that was keeping him awake at night again.

What the hell was all that about? What was so important in this mediocre route? Why suddenly he cared so much about it?

It took some long discussions in front of the mirror to theorize a plausible answer.  And it took some bravery to acknowledge the insecurities that surfaced with this answer. Insecurities well hidden under the rug of climbing achievement.

Like so many others he had invested half a lifetime in the pursuit of climbing. His identity, his perceived self-worth, his very sense of self were all interwoven with his record of personal achievements.  Achievements that might have meant nothing to an outsider but felt like jewels on his climber crown. Suddenly he knew that all climbers, from the humblest alpinist who never speaks openly and bows his head in respect to the mountain gods to the most annoying gym-rat / spray-lord,  were prisoners of the ego, bound by the chains of their insecurities to the shiny little beads and mirrors that they called “free ascents”. Failing on “Birthdate”, a route below his theoretical ability had suddenly shattered this hard-built sense of identity. To remain who he knew, he now depended on defeating that demon from the past. It shocked him and made him lose his sleep.

Then, he did something out of character. He returned to “Birthdate” and swiftly sent the route.

Funnily he felt nothing after the send. The euphoria of sending was utterly absent. The intoxicating feeling that follows a much worked and much desired route was not there. Nor was the feeling of triumph, nor the uncontrollable speaking, nor the relaxation and anticlimax that comes after the relief of the burden. As he lowered he could only feel emptiness and a faint feeling of re-ownership. The mist of self doubt had now been lifted. Recalling that feeling now made him feel silly.

He started to ponder what sort of fucked-up situation he had dragged himself into. In retrospect, this was the definition of a lose-lose arrangement. Fail and you prolong your misery. Succeed and there is nothing new to gain, nothing to learn or achieve. How did he get himself into this? Why did he drag himself into this?

Frankly, the answer lied inside him. This dark game of free climbing with its set of imaginary rules bearing more gravity than a black hole make it the perfect outing for camouflaging frivolous insecurities, for the blooming of broken egos in the form of ephemeral triumphs and little shiny redpoint mirrors.

Realizing all this he got to envy those happy few who finally broke free from the tyranny of the free ascent and ventured away for such cursed paths. He pitied the rest who shall keep toiling to escape or to keep collecting beads and mirrors and bone charms. And he? He probably stood somewhere in between.

* * *

Aftermath:  After I thanked the old man for telling me this story he honestly admitted that the telling was made possible only because it had a happy end. Like most published climbing stories this tale was subject to the tyranny of success. Triumph not secured, the story would have never been allowed to leave the dark arcades of his mind.