A half an hour short of the end of the competition, I was on the verge of a DNF — “did not finish.”
I was tired. I didn’t care. What I did care about: why I lacked competitive spirit.
I’d spotted the competition at the Boulder Rock Club — the last of the Boulder Climbing Series — the day before. That could be a fun distraction, I thought, remembering that my friend Jeff (an average climber like me) has had tons of fun doing the comp series at The Spot. I noticed my colleague Laura Snider was in the comp and asked whether she was going.
She was, and she enthused over how much fun it’s been. Anyone can do it, it’s casual, and there’s beer and pizza after, she said.
I said I was in.
Before the comp, a friend gave me a quick strategy talk: since the results are based on your three best climbs, make sure you complete three. People get caught up in trying hard routes, and the comp ends before they’ve completed three.
Despite my last-minute decision to do the comp, I thought I’d feel some competitive pull when I walked in the door of the BRC. I didn’t.
I’m not a very good climber. I didn’t know who I was competing against. (For some, that wouldn’t matter — I have friends who can’t go for a bike ride without trying to pass every cyclist ahead of them.) My strategy went out the window. The comp routes were pure fun… and I soon found myself about to DNF, having a great time but violating the one rule I was given.
The spirit
Still, I was a little irked because I know I can be competitive.
My friend Piper and I have been competitive about climbing since we met — so much so that over the summer, we deliberately chose different routes to work. But lately, our interests have diverged. This winter she’s planned ice climbing trips, while I’m trying to boulder more. There’s less opportunity for direct competition.
But at a competition, there’s opportunity. Was my competitive spirit lacking? Is this why I did a few bike races but never got into it?
Halfway up a comp route, I made a scary clip. Shuddering, I barely slipped the rope into the quickdraw before my grip gave and I whipped off. I’m not even sure the gate closed on the carabiner before I fell.
I heard a collective sucking-in behind me from onlookers as they gasped. I laughed nervously, embarrassed. Untying, I asked myself whether I would have done that if I hadn’t been “competing,” and I had to answer yes, because I’ve done it before.
It hit me: I didn’t feel competitive because I don’t need an organized event to be competitive. I compete with myself every time I climb or ski. I compete against that voice inside that’s nervous and scared — and to be fair, it’s the same voice that assesses risks and keeps me from killing or maiming myself. That internal voice is a vicious competitor who intimately knows all of my weaknesses. She’s tough to live with, and she’s always there.
With competition like her, the last thing I need is outside competitors. Rather, I need levity.
With minutes to go at the comp, I sought out a route easy enough to complete in one try, sent it, then dropped my harness and sought out food with Laura and company.
The cozy
That’s when I finally saw Laura’s competitive side. Laura had been nothing but happy and encouraging while we climbed. But when everyone was scarfing pizza and the BRC staff started raffling off gear and throwing Backcountry Access beer cozies into the audience, her eyes got steely.
Laura wanted a beer cozy.
She edged to the front of her chair. She’d won a pair of shoes last time. That was nice, but she wanted a beer cozy. Twice she’d been denied at previous post-comp giveaways, twice.
Three times.
When I caught Laura’s fall off one of the comp routes that could have scored her big points, she shrugged her shoulders and cheerfully asked what she could belay me on next.
But the beer cozy? That was a loss.
Jenn Fields’ Field Notes runs every Monday in the Colorado Daily.
