It has been a heavy lifting week in the shed with Lisa. As part of the wonder of Apps, which fuels our desire for numbers and information, she keeps track of her progress in quite some detail. Both for individual exercises and overall session statistics. Can’t say I’ve been dragged into that world, and hopefully will steer clear of it. Quite simply it is not my bag, but I can see how it helps keep Lisa motivated. She loves it. Our first session was all about legs and core. Full of delightful plank exercises, amongst others, that resulted in tree trunk legs:
Plus making our stomachs feel like we had done a hundred sit-ups, even though we hadn’t done one. The next session that I joined her for was upper body, more of a free weights thing. Lisa was pretty chuffed when we finished stating that all up we had both lifted over three tonnes. I only partake in two session a week, whereas she gets in the shed four times and is going in right now as I type this. As I said she’s a bit of a machine. My body is starting to get used to this types of exercise, so I recovered from the first session pretty quickly:
However, the second shed workout crept up on me over a few days. My biceps and triceps complained more and more. Hair of the dog could be suggested for such a situation. Yet another quirky English expression, and one mostly related to having a drink in the morning when your head is thumping after a big session the night before. Not something the medical profession advocates, but I’ve read that the expression originated from a medical situation. And comes from a method applied to avoid catching rabies, after being bitten by a rabid dog:
Supposedly, hair from the dog that bit you was placed in the wound. This medical miracle cure dates back to medieval Europe. Not surprisingly, and just like the usual modern day application of this phrase, it didn’t work. Not put off with such thoughts of whether it was a good idea or not to climb, and with a slim window of opportunity, I headed out early. I had a plan in my head of which lines I would hit, but was also keen just to watch the world wake up. The images show it was, as mornings so often are, a great time to be up and out:
I didn’t hang about too much, and the first line was gobbled up in no time. I had to start on that route, as yet again it has come under the microscope as to how much of a sandbag it may be. I knew the answer before I jumped on it today. The description Adrian gave for the crux sequence he used included eight tricky moves on mostly marginal holds. Compared to how I, and many others, climb it in three not too hard moves all on good holds. It all came down to reading the rock, which can be hard here, and he definitely misread it on his first encounter:
My next line however felt really tough. I knew it was more technical, sustained, and overall pumpy. The hair of the dog trick wasn’t playing game on this route, or had I bitten off more than I could chew. On occasion I found myself doing what I tell others not too, slapping for holds. Unable to physically or mentally control myself to work out another way, even though I knew the route so well. Fortune was on my side and somehow I managed the self-imposed requirement of two ascents, clean. After which I felt it was time for a change of tact:
Abandoning my original plan, as I would have ended up climbing like cabbage. Spending more time hanging in the rope than on the rock. While I have drifted a long way from my British climbing ethics of traditional climbing with ground up ascents, I still do not enjoy floundering about working routes. Wanting to enjoy being out, I picked lines hard enough to make me work, but not so much that I wouldn’t be having fun. Also allowing me to be far more productive than the works on the bridge at the base of the dam, which used to be the way I would drive in. No works have started despite the bridge being closed for nearly four years:
Sandbagged 