Yesterday was My first day out climbing since, I think, November. This has been due to bad things such as injury, weather and illness in the family, and the good things that having a family of three wild boys brings.
By 1130 I was stepping out the car, strapping on the gaitors and a pad stack and stomping up to
Dyffryn Mymbyr. The goal was
this, which in my mind has become
Big Bad Bari. The snow was very patchy and generally avoided, but those bits I had to tussle with were of unpredictable depth and firmness. All good adventure. I stopped at the Mighty 'Tashe to warm up. This was lovely and warm in the sun and apart from a drippy philtrum was bone dry.
However, its extreme slopeyness meant it wasn't that great for a warm up. maybe back when I was a feidr fw devotee I could have lapped a few things. But I'm soft. Like Feta. Shame too as the snow had made a great platform under the crux section of the traverse.
I repacked everything and slogged up the snow encrusted heather to the main event. Good news; it was dry and snow free, and all it took was a little light brushing to return it to condition.
With my Borrowed pad, I had enough encouragement to give it a proper try. The first tussle commenced, or rather would have commenced if I could have seated the initial stack properly. Soft hands along with a soft body, not enough fighting, too much playing. A tighter fist and an enquiring eye, lock thumb against extensors and rotate. Feet are up and
Wales is upside down once more.
Thrust legs deep, crunch the flabby core into action, hands grapple and crush untempered holds, but the memory of ability kicks my abbs back into gear and hands back into action. Lungs and Lactic, however, drop me to the pads.
Promising, I pant for a while and flex wooden digits, water and cake imbibed I bury my limbs into the duvet jacket.
I Wait.
Round two. Stack and kick, keep the stack and pike thrust deep. Dangle and reset, clamp, thrust, shuffle, release, flick. I've got the pinch on the Chock.
Nice moment, pause, hooray..(small h)
Time reconvenes. My gut is taking a punching, lead legs swing and stab, a constricted upper cut gains a pinky bar. crap. Flailing fists gain flared pinky first cup jams. Rubbish, stab, crunch, swipe..
Splat.
Well that was interesting, the pinky bar was just an inch below a proper pinky jam, The game changer was just out of reach that attempt. I wait, raw hands throbbing under the duvet. Extend, retract, repeat. Flush out the lactic and lymph, slow the breathing.
Round three. Couldn't lift my legs in.
Knock out.
Bruised and Battered, I grinned my way back down the slope, wading the drifts and skidding over the weepy bogs, my head now throbbing with all familiar exertion, (no puking this trip). Deep breaths over the pass and off to bed, an hour sleep.
Next time I hope to catch Bari. a bit more sleep beforehand, a lack of lurgy, and maybe some more effective fitness and I'll flipping 'ave 'im.
I've realised looking back on past endeavours how much of an effective training ground Feidr Fw was, I was nursing pulley injuries at the time and was seeking jamming as a distraction, so nearly all the climbing I was doing was out here rather than indoors. I spent a lot of time up on the hillside, So much that a friend rang my missus worried that I'd disappeared as every time he drove to work at the Brennin, my car was in the same place. A lot of effort, but my futile return trips to try problems I did at the time has shown it certainly toughened me up, like its
Vedauwoo namesake, I think I'll be making more regular trips there now, to see if it will redo its magic.
