IN WHICH THE AUTHOR NARRATES ABOUT FREEDOM AND DEATH

What is freedom? Freedom is: not having to peak. As you may have noticed, I just love training. I've written so much about training and my love for it, on this blog, that it's not worth to repeat any of that again. Over the years, one of the biggest struggles in my sport "career" was to take rest days. I hate rest days, I've always hated them. Rest days are important though: it's in rest days that you grow stronger and you recover to perform. So, not having to peak in order to perform at the highest possible personal level in a specified occasion, is freedom. Freedom to train at will. And boy, did I train at will. A few days ago, while putting in some links on my board project (yes, I got sucked again in board projects, one thing that I swore I would have never done again), I realized that I've been training everyday for the last year. The last rest day that I took was September the 27th, 2022, after 67 days on. Now I wonder why I took that rest day. Let's define "training", in this matter. To qualify as a training session, it has to be some kind of muscular activity, done with a purpose, even if very short. For instance, every sort of weight lifting qualifies. Fingerboarding qualifies. Jogging qualifies. Well it would have, had I done it. Walking around doesn't qualify.If it did, I'd be probably a few years on. Uphill fast walking qualifies. Climbing qualifies. Stretching doesn't qualify. You get what I mean. So, over the last year or so, I managed to do some kind of training activity every day, sometimes twice a day. Sessions ranged from bodyweight squats in the bathrooms of courthouses, to 11 PM Tyson push ups before going to bed, to proper and regular sessions. I tailored a micro morning session that takes no more than five minutes, and that I can do whenever I want because it does not affect the evening session. I also tailored bodyweight sessions that I can do when traveling, if I can't access a gym of sorts. How was this project born? I sincerely don't know, I never had it as a goal. Just like Forrest Gump found himself running from ocean to ocean, I found myself training day after day. One thing I did: I never though it as a year. Days, there are only days. I wake up in the morning, and I think about when and how I'll be going to train that day, only that day. And that's freedom. The freedom that comes from not having outdoor projects (from not climbing outdoor at all, in my case), from not having to plan for trips somewhere. It is, sincerely, amazing. Et de hoc satis, about freedom. Death, then. Tragedy struck twice over Spring: in the brief space of five weeks, I lost two childhood friends. When I received the first message, I was snatching in the garage: Ghigo had passed away the night before, abroad, far from here, but at least in his house, surrounded by his wife and children. When I received the second message, I was climbing on my board: Gianluca had just passed away. He hadn't even told me he was ill, because he "didn't want to make me suffer." I have spent so much time with them, in different times and occasions: with one, long Summers at the seaside, cruising in his car - I could not drive yet! - with The Police blasting from the audiotape; with one, we basically grew up together in the block, we went to the gym together, we sat desk by desk at school. We were very similar, but then I changed a lot, and he remained the same: I guess I never forgave him for staying the same, and he never forgave me for changing. From time to time, we would bump into one another somewhere in town. In a small town like mine, every corner has a story ready to surface again when I walk around. I pass by one my friend's house every day, to go to work and back home, four times a day: morning, lunchtime, afternoon, evening. Every day I am reminded about him at least four times. My other friend had been living abroad for a long time now, but the sea reminds me of him, The Police reminds me of him, airplanes remind me of him, horses remind me of him. He was a very clever, very good, very unlucky guy. So, what do I make now of freedom and death? As of late, I have been delving into the majestic works of none other than Ernesto De Martino, ethno-anthropologist and religion historian. He knew death very well, and wrote a lot about death, especially in Death and Ritual Weeping (1958). He says, and I agree, that we need to "make the dead die again in us", to avoid his comeback as a persecutor, a haunting memory of pain and suffering, which visits us in our sleep or daytime, to curse our existence as survivors. How do we do this? First, through ritual weeping. Then, through, as he calls it, "the ethos of transcending the situation into the value". Training is my ritual weeping. When I got the news, not for one second I thought about stopping the session. I got to my knees and cried and wanted to yell, wanted to break things and curse. And I did some of that. Then I kept training, until I was so tired that I couldn't cry anymore. For each set that I completed, I thought "Another one for Ghigo.", "Another one for Gianluca." That's my prayer, the only one I am capable of. That's my ritual weeping. So, with my friends' evil phantoms now dead in me, I can recover just their good memories, purified. I keep them with me when I train, when I walk in town. When I get back home tired and don't feel like training, I think about them, I do it for them, I use their inner presence and good memories, to make my life better and with more value. It seems trivial, but it's not. It seems selfish, but it's only in part. If I allow their memories to haunt my life, to make me sad, angry and depressed, death wins: I lose the value. But if I manage to add something to my life that is important for me, because of them, then I add value to my life, and death loses. I gain in value, in human value. This is only a part of what I consider valuable, but it is a part, the only part worth mentioning on this blog. So, when I train and am tired, I think about them: I hear Ghigo saying "Turn up the volume Lore!" as when we were cruising in his car, years and years ago, and I hear Gianluca saying "Now gimme another set motherfucker!", as when we were training together, years and years ago. And everything seems possible. Even training everyday for the rest of my life.

ON OUR TIMES AND AGE

Hello motherfuckers. When I last wrote on here, I couldn't imagine that a far worse shitstorm than another broken meniscus was about to hit the fan. And I won't spend another word on this matter. Anyway, luckily I had sorted myself out with a decent home gym over the years, so the first lockdown was spent working from home and training, with my knee surgery obviously postponed. I had set myself the goal of training everyday, and so I did for the 61 straight days in which Italy was locked. I came out two kilos heavier at 6,2 % body fat. The highlight of this process was nearly completing my 30 moves board project, falling off with only two moves to the top. Then came the surgery, that went very well, but left again my knee quite tender and resulted in a very undesired switch between kilos of muscle and kilos of fat, courtesy of large amounts of food and wine. Autumn came and with it another lockdown. I started struggling for climbing motivation and started training again for the project, but to no avail despite some good progress. I could always climb it in two overlapping halves with minimal rests in between, but the magic never happened. On the other hand, I kept moving lots of iron. The days and weeks kept coming and going always the same, with a monk life made of work and training, but with less joy than usual and no particular progress. I didn't touch the board for weeks and weeks and I did very little finger training. When I started back, I found out - surprise surprise - that I was quite below par. At that point reality struck me: my idea of a continuous progress over the years, at 49 years old, was simply delusional. Hello motherfucker. Maintaining is gaining they say... I sincerely don't know how it happened, but I went back to the board. At first it's been very hard to keep getting back to it. I was used to feel in a certain way while climbing, and I had to let the thought that those sensations were gone forever sink in. Or so I thought. My fingers are still averagely strong I think: I last tested the Lattice Edge at around + 2/4 kilos consistently, and I have to take into account that I am more or less four kilos heavier than a few years ago. I can hang the Lattice Edge back3 two armed at + 30 kilos. On the board, I basically had to re-learn how to climb, and I realized how well I used to use my feet and legs on it: I was really a very good climber on that board. I learnt that I was playing it too prudently and I started pushing things a bit more, legs wise. I also started to plan my sessions according to my motorcycle riding: board climbing and leather gloves don't go along very well. Session after session I could see some little improvement, and I reckon I had the good idea of not going back on previous projects: without false modesty, some of them - that I did or nearly did - were simply ridiculous. I set myself the goal of setting lots of new problems, and I stuck to this idea: over the last few weeks I've done a dozen of new problems or so, while before I would set a couple of hard problem and work them into submission for weeks or months or even years. Obviously, being myself after all, I got quickly sucked into setting hard things that I could not climb, and there I was again, stuck in project mode. I have to admit that, during the very few occasions in which I climbed with a friend, it's been very, very hard to watch how stronger than me they are now: they've climbed things that I can't do, and it's very, very hard to digest. But. There's always a but. The other day, I had one of those sessions. I was physically ready, and mentally even more so. I climbed three problems that were feeling very far away the week before, and I went out with my girlfriend to celebrate with a few Vodka Martinis. The magic had happened again, both in terms of climbing something and in terms, in advance, of setting something that was right at this side of the limit. I have to stick with this. I understood - after a few years - that I can keep my pleasure in hard climbing, or climbing at my limit, playing with the concepts of "hard" and "limit". Every session is different, every session had its hard and its limit. I have to stay on that line. And the dream goes on, I am still the strongest motherfucker of them all. Ceteris paribus, innit.

IN WHICH THE AUTHOR NARRATES ABOUT KNEES, FINGERS AND IRON

Another year has passed, my dear reader, and I wonder who you could possibly survive the long wait for the - now - yearly Totolore post. 

My last one left you trembling, picturing Totolore waiting to fix his knee, in order to get back to high(est) level bouldering. 

This post finds Totolore again waiting to fix his knee, the only problem is that I already had the other surgery... and now I need another one. 

In June 2019 I had my surgery, which revealed cartilages that seemed having been chewn by a ferocious dog (a nice surprise, innit) and needed sorting out: for this task I had the pleasure to be the first patient to experiment a new tool, aptly named "vaporizer". 

I lay on the slab, watching on a tv screen as this machine ate my broken cartilages with ease. 

My medial meniscus was broken, but the cut didn't reach the surface. 

I was home that very evening, no pain whatsoever, just 30 fucking days on crutches to let the cartilages heal. 

After some time, with a right leg the size of my right forearm, I started training again. 

And the shit hit the fan. 

I might have sligtly overdone it, in any case my knee started aching, swelling and feeling generally tender and unstable. This went on for months, and then I finally had another MR scan, that revealed that now my medial meniscus was broken for good, with a complete tear, needing another surgery.

There you fucking go. 

So, from april 2017, when I climbed my hardest board problem, I basically quit bouldering. 

My elbow injury kept me busy until october 2018, then my knee, now my knee again. Given my rehab times in the past, I feel that I am facing a three years long climbing hiatus, that, at 48 years of age, surely will do me good. I plan to be - somehow - climbing again this coming autumn. 

In the meanwhile, I've hit the weights and the fingerboard. I completely sacked the board, despite a few problems climbed before my first surgery and getting back to a decent level of fitness, namely being able to climb my two reference problems with 8 kg on and using only one foot at a time. 

With my knee even weaker than before the operation, I had to take a completely new approach. I ditched heavy training and focused on longer efforts and complexes. I started training on the pull up bar with some routines that I borrowed from gymnastics. Nice stuff. 

On the fingerboard, I did some half arsed tests on the Lattice Edge, and mainly focused on flat edges and pockets. 

As of late, I sacked the pockets session because it's too long and I don't have enough time. 

I keep training on my 14 mm edge one armed and on the 9 mm edge with back 3 and front 3 hangs. 

With good skin, I can one arm the 9 mm edge taking 7 kg off for my right arm and 12 for my left. Make of that what you wish. 

A friend of mine has opened a big climbing wall close to here, I've been there a couple of times just for a chat while getting back home from a bike ride (motorbike, obviously), but it's too painful to be there, unable to climb. 

In recent weeks I slightly reduced my training volume and it did me good: my muscles are a bit fuller and I feel generally more powerful. 

I am eating like a pig. 

I don't even have anything to complain about the climbing world, because I completely stopped reading any news whatsoever or following what's going on around here. Whenever I check the local climbing news, the level of bullshit goes beyond my imagination. 

On a side note, I spent the last year attending a second level university master in criminology, that I completed last week magna cum laude.

It's finally good to write an entry after so much time, even if with a boring content. I feel very far away from climbing at the moment, both physically and mentally. Little time to train makes it very difficult to have a proper session, it takes too long to warm up for hard finger training or even system climbing, hopefully this will change as I'll get my knee sorted: maybe the feeling of having a functioning knee again will give me the kick in the ass that I need to put in the hours again. 

I would very much to climb a hard route. Boudering, I fear, is too hard on my knees, or just too hard. 

And with this final note, this thrilling post is over. 

IN WHICH THE AUTHOR NARRATES ABOUT ELBOWS, KNEES, IRON AND SEQUENCES

First of all, the news. 

One year has passed since my last post, that was about my elbow injury, and my toe injury, but also about The Iron, The System, The One Arm Hangs. 

Things more or less kept going that way for months and months, with the joyous monotony - or monotonous joy - of constant progress through The Grind. 

A sudden change happened under the form of a message from no other than Keith, Unclesomebody himself, announcing his months-long roadtrip with wife, 3 years old daughter, and 4 months old daughter. Priorities, you know. We agreed to meet in Val Daone.

With my medial epicondilitis giving small signs of capitulation, I thought I'd better pull my finger out, if I wanted to keep the slightest form of climbing dignity in front of Keith. The thought that I had been out of the game for almost one year, injured, and with a total of four climbing days in more than two years, remained confined to the deepest recesses of my mind. 

Dedicating myself to front-on lock offs on the system, one day, I felt a sudden blade through the medial side of my right knee. 

I quickly stopped the session. Well I didn't, but I switched to side-on lock offs. My knee swelled a little, and four days later I was climbing - or at least trying to - in Val Daone with Keith. 

I managed to climb something, but the real joy was being in a beautiful place, with beautiful rock, with beautiful people. 

Of course I am kidding. 

It was a nightmare. 

Of course I am kidding again. 

It felt really good to be moving on rock again, despite being taped up and clad in neoprene supports as if we were in one of those XXX movies. 

Keith showed no sign of the 10 years passed since the last time we met, in the Dolomites, with James. 

He flashed everything up to 7c and made well clear that some things and some people never change. 

I came back home to The Iron and The Edges, and my knee started improving. 

On an unforgettable day, months after, I realized that I had started forgetting about my right elbow. Fucking bingo. It was over. For almost one year, every fucking morning, upon washing my face, I would feel a sharp pain going from my elbow down through my forearm. Every fucking morning, as the very first fucking thing in the fucking day. A fucking reminder. Now I could start forgetting.

I could finally answer the board call with a light spirit. And a heavy body...

Fast forward a few weeks and I am at some friends' house, playing on the ground with my girlfriend's niece, Caterina. After kneeling down for a few minutes I stood up, and immediately felt something wrong. The following morning it was still there, that ugly sensation of having a tender, swollen and injured knee. 

You guessed it: I had broken my right medial meniscus. 

This story is quite short, I sacked completely the board (I can't pull with my right leg) and kept ironing things out, with some deadhanging and some system boarding using just my left leg. You gotta do what you gotta do. 

Now I've signed for the surgery and am waiting to be fixed. 

All the above has nothing to do with the real reason of this entry, which is the following. 

A few days ago I watched a video that made my eyes bleed. 

It was about a young hotshot "repeating" one of my problems. 

In order to do this, he used all the holds of my problem, and all the holds of the nearby problem. Then he obviously commented on the grade with smugness. 

Now then. 

Leaving aside all the possible discussion about eliminates, one thing really bothers me. People aren't interested in knowing what happened before them. And they aren't interested in knowing if their opinion could be right or wrong. 

Every problem I've put up in the last 26 years, have independent holds. 

So, my proposed grades takes this factor into accout. 

It's quite natural to me to act like this, because if you use the same holds of another problem, the second one ceases to be a different, independent problem. 

Moreover, I love sequences. 

I love to search the way of getting to the top of a small rock using independent holds, and as few of them as possible. I have applied this principle - of using only independent holds - not only to my first ascents, but to every problem I've ever climbed or tried to. Call me a fanatic bastard, an eliminate lover, call me what you like, because I don't care.

People are obviously free to use whatever they like, to get to the top. In the end, if they're weak it's not my problem. 

But, since they like to comment about grades with the presumptuousness of having The Grading Truth, they should get some info beforehand. 

Si parva licet componere magnis, I would like to tell a story that I think explains my thought. 

Years ago, a young, strong climber, started repeating all the old, hidden problems in the 7c+/8a range, put up by Fred Nicole in his home areas decades before. 

He then started commenting that the grades given by the man himself were soft. "How dare you?" surged a sudden protest from the climbing community.

Informed about the issue, Fred was interviewed about it. Being the person he is, he calmed the fuss and said: "Well it could easily be that my grades feel soft. That's probably because I'm not very good at finding sequences, and because, with those problems, I would simply see them and give them just a quick brush. Then I did them all flash or second go, so probably my sequences weren't very refined." 

Now, I am not Fred. But the principle remains. 

I think that when someone wants to make a statement, they should know what happened before them. 

It's quite easy to find every possible information about everything on the interner nowadays, so the question is: do people really want to know what happened before them? 

A CLASSIC TALE, OR: WHAT YOU SHOULDN'T DO, OR: WHAT YOU SHOULD DO

Yesterday I received a comment from my friend Martin Keller, a.k.a. The Silent Crusher, a modest - really, not in the hypocritical way of Jens Larssen of 8a.shit - guy with a regular job, who happens to boulder 8c. 

He complained about the lack of updates over here, and he was right. 

So, here's the news: the news are that I spent a lot of time with straight arms.

My last post was a gloomy one, with the black aura of lack of motivation and psyche looming over me. "Could be worse!" I should have thought. "Could be raining!" 

And rain it did. Not in Young Frankenstein's sense, alas I wish it were. 

A few months of weighted pull ups on a 1,5 cm edge suddenly took their toll under the form of a light niggle on my medial left elbow. 

"FUCK YOU LIGHT NIGGLE!" I smartly yelled, and proceeded to put in a good ol' one arm, back3 session on the incut BM rung. Boy did it hurt me. 

"FUCK YOU TOO, TWAT!" the light niggle yelled back at me, only now it wasn't a light niggle anymore, it was a green monster with eyes full of destruction. 

Cutting my losses I decided to avoid one arm sessions for a while, but my board project was waiting, and I thought it was a good idea to stick at it. Beautiful moves on front2 crimps and the compulsory Hubble-style match on a left hand undercling quickly let to big progress, of the green monster. He morphed into something like the Red Hulk, or maybe a cross between The Hulk and Silver Surfer: something everpresent and omnipotent. 

In just a month and a half I understood that board session were to be sacked. I'm surprised it didn't take me longer to get this complex axiom. 

I obviously stuck to the Iron. 

Session after session I learnt what was good and what was bad. Regular curls? Bad. Hammer-grip curls? Good. 

I took out my copy of Jim Wendler's 5-3-1 and applied its principles to my weight training. I bought an Olympic barbell that is a work of beauty. 220 cm and 20,2 kg of pure, shiny steel. I bought some more plates and started snatching and power cleaning. 

This is me repping 66 kg for 8. 

Ugly, I know, but just five minutes earlier, when doing recruitment jumps, forgetting that I had basic, hard soled shoes on, I landed badly on my right toe smashing it on the concrete floor. It hurt. It's now well blue and swollen. Oh well... 

One day I also found out that, if I keep a straight arm, I can also deadhang. FUCKING BINGO! 

So I went back to my trusty edges, the good ol' 9 mm and the freshly made, oldschool 5 mm. 

I found out that I can one arm hang the 1,5 cm edge, just barely with my left hand; with some kilos added (can't remember how much, I think 5) with my right. I set a PB of 5" on the 9 mm edge with 40 kg on, and did 5" on the 5 mm with 10 kg on. 

I aptly bought some Frictionlabs Unicorn Dust chalk.

Of course, I couldn't neglect body tension. I hit the ab-wheel hard, switching from power session to endurance ones with 2 sets of 50 or one monster set of 100. On the system board, I firstly regained confidence, then - with temps dropping - I went back to testing myself again. I worked hard on the full crimp with great benefits. 

Before hurting my toe, I was also doing foot on campusing with front and back3, front2 and mid2. Life is beautiful. 

Of course, my elbow still hurts a bit, but less than before, and in the meanwhile I got stronger. 

There you go. 

Take home lesson: you shouldn't be stupid. You should be smart. You shouldn't injure yourself. You should train around your injury.

HOW THINGS ARE: A REALIZATION

2017 had started in a very good way. On a freezing and sunny early January's morning, I found myself going to a new, for me, bouldering area. Eyes on the prize, I managed to climb a 7c in a few goes and split a couple of fingers. With a migthy 4° in full sunshine and a crimpy roof, things do not come much better. 

Fast forward a few months, in April I had climbed a four years old board project, something that I had sometimes thought I would never climb. Four years trying a problem that played to all my strengths, mean that it's probably quite hard and I felt it like a monumental achievement. Possibly the hardest thing I've ever climbed. 

Then I made a mistake. I went back climbing. High temps, baby skin, lower back pain and other trivial excuses couldn't make up for a generally terrible climbing experience. 

I repeated this mistake again and again until this past weekend, after which I decided to face the cold, hard truth: I have come to the end of my rock climbing career. 

I have an enormous desire, a need perhaps, to perform. Possibly, to outperform others in terms of strength and power. But mostly to outperform my own self. I've come to this moment thinking that I would keep progressing despite age, work committments, injuries. And to some extent I have, but simply not on rock. 

There is a gap, between what I can physically do in a safe environment, and what I can climb on rock, that is embarassing. 

But most that anything else, I feel that I've come - close - to the end of my physical potential. 

Two of my best weapons, that have granted me so many climbs, that is crimping and heel hooking, are no more such. 

Crimping has become quite hard to bear, and at times unbearable. My fault, obviously. You can't spend session after session on front2 full crimps on the small BM edge without being handed a pricey bill at some time. Not if you're 45 years old, anyway. After boning down on some proper crimps, the upper side of my index fingers DIP joints gets so painful that it hurts to do simple, everyday's life tasks like using a fork or a knife, or twisting a car key. It is frankly terrifying. I think that, simply, the connective tissue between the bones has gone. 

Heel hooking has become nearly impossible, for both the state of my knees and of my hamstrings. After a couple of serious heel hooks I start to limp, the pain becomes unbearable and I feel that, should I push on, something big and serious is going to break for good. After yesterday's heel hooking - four tries in total - today I can't bend my right knee past 90° without feeling a stinging pain and without the knee collapsing down. 

Luckily, as I said, I can still perform: only, in the safe environment of my board, where heel hooks are impossible. Full crimps are still a problem though. 

I need to get familiar with the fact that I can't climb hard on rock anymore. 

I have my board, my BM, my various one arm edges, the Lattice Edge and so may other toys to enjoy. And I can enjoy them at their full potential, with a long and boring warm up, fans and air conditioning to make the best of the given conditions and a plethora of paraphernalia that I simply can't have out there on ze rocks. 

Plus, physical problems aside, I don't know how to climb anymore. I've never been Mr. Technique, but fuck me, now things are ridiculous. I lost any movement fantasy and intuition, and all my climbing skills are: plant foot on small foothold; become a steel beam; get next positive hold. I can't move on anything else. 

I get frustrated if I can't climb hard. And I don't like it. 

It's been good, even great, until it lasted. 

In the past, I had already understood that I was mainly a board climber and a trainer, but then I've had some good success on some hard things and this led me to think that maybe it wasn't over yet on rock. 

I was wrong. 

Climbing hard on rock now would involve so many complicated things that it's basically impossible: from the choice of a suitable problem, to the time to try it, to getting good conditions, to motivation. 

I am a bit sad, but not so sad. 

As long as I can climb, or keep trying, my board projects, progress on the dead hangs and move big amounts of iron, I am happy and I feel that I still have a lot to give. 

I can now dedicate my full self to the most useless pursuit of Strength. 

 

 

WHAT'S NORMAL?

It's Wednesday, it's half past nine and I've just finished my dinner. I am watching TV on my couch with my girlfriend, and everything's as usual. There's nothing special in this evening. Apart the fact that I've just climbed one of the hardest problems I've ever set on my board. Apart the fact that I'd been trying that problem for more than four years. 

It's Wednesday, it's seven o' clock and I've just finished my warm up. I am on the bed, recovering from the last set of the recruitment part of the session. This time I tried something new, and, dammit, I think I screwed it. Monumentally. Instead of feeeling fired up, angry and sparky, I feel tired and empty. My forearms feel a bit worked and they don't seem to be getting much better with time. My core doesn't feel ready either. I'm not sure about what I should do: should I go for it despite everything, or should I sack it and put in another training and refining session?

My last sessions had marked some incredible steps forward with this project: in one, for the first time I'd been able to climb the problem in two overlapping halves, twice. I also climbed the second part three times; in the other, I nearly did the problem.

The roots of this incredible progress are deeply sunk in the previous session. During the years I had tried many different options for the feet, to try and make the crucial section of the problem less problematic. Without success. To have a higher percentage of success on the two hardest moves, I should have used two footholds that made the previous moves very low percentage ones. 

So, I was stuck. 

There was no solution but to simply choose which moves I wanted to keep safer and which one I wanted to risk. This went on for months and years.

At some point, to try and have some kind of success, I - forgive me gods of climbing for I have sinned - added a hold. I decided to use a good edge just beside the left hand hold, to match on it with the right hand during the first crux of the problem, a hard swing from a small three fingers crimp. 

After some effort and countless sessions, with this added hold I managed to do this move for the first time in three years, and I was happy to say the least, as it shows.

Success was far though, because I still hadn't done the second crux of the problem. 

Fast forward a few months, and after many tons lifted and deadhung, one day, one magic day, I managed to do the move as originally set, without the added hold, just holding the swing from the small crimp. 

Another step. And another wall in front of me, the second part of the problem. 

More months, more tons lifted and deadhung, and I finally did the second half of the problem. I thought it was game on. How wrong I was... 

Success of each session was judged not in terms of climbing the problem, or even putting in good link-ups, but in terms of being able to do the single hard moves. Sometimes I would stick the swing move once, some other times I would do the second crux once, but most times I wouldn't do either. 

For weeks and months. 

Then, on another magic day, I managed to climb all the moves in the same session, and I felt like a god. 

This feat didn't happen again for more and more weeks. 

Temps in the low twenties, season was over. At this point, there was no reason not to try and prepare next season's efforts, by - maybe - finding new solutions for the feet. 

I dedicated an entire afternoon just to trying new combinations for the two cruxes. The problem was that I'd already tried them all before without success. Having better footholds for the following move would make the previous one almost impossible. 

Then, I tried the previously unthinkable. 

I tried to keep both feet high on both cruxes. I had tried this before, and it was beyond my imagination. The moves felt impossible. 

But now they worked. I could not fucking believe it. I could use these footholds. 

This time I was really onto something. 

This process of years had led to the infamous previous session, in which I felt closer than ever, nearly doing the problem, as it shows here.

And now it's Wednesday, it's seven o' clock and I feel tired and empty. 

It's Wednesday, it's a quarter past seven and I'm sitting here, at the bottom of the board. Hands chalked, shoes tight and clean, who knows what's going to happen. 

First move, from undercling to rounded edge: I catcht it slightly on the left side and have to adjust a little: a matter of millimeters. 

Second move, slight cross to a good edge, again, a little bit too much on the left. 

Third move, things star getting serious, right hand to a vertical pinch. I squeeze it and I feel good goddammit. It's on. 

Fourth move, quick move to the undercling. Positive edge, undercling, goddammit I love this hold. So many good problems pay homage to this hold. I feel strong and set my feet and body for the next move, the start of the first crux. 

Fifth move: to the small crimp. This hold is nasty. Three fingers, a bit less that half a pad, full crimp. Nasty. Why did I choose it? Because it's there, obviously. I catch it slightly too much on the left. Again. Motherfucker. For the whole problem I've been half a centimetre shifted to the left. Now. Now. Now it's time to be strong. 

Sixth move, the first crux, the swing. I set my feet up, I stay low and vertical under the crimp, I press on the footholds, just the right amount of weight, not too much or I'll jump out, not too little or I'll miss the next hold. I move, I land on the edge, still on the left side of it goddammit. I feel the swing, I feel every micron of skin on the holds, I reach the apex and start swinging in, and in that split instant I feel my right hand rolling on the hold, and before I realize it my feet are on the mats. God fucking dammit. When will it ever be over? I am brought back to weeks and months and years of failure. I kick this thought out of my mind, feast or forget. 

It's Wednesday, it's half past seven and I'm sitting here, again at the bottom of the board. Hands chalked, shoes tight and clean, who knows what's going to happen. 

First move, I get the hold even more on the left than the previous try. I adjust and I am not there at all. 

Second move, I get it horribly wrong, miles to the left. I am shocked by how badly I'm doing. I loose concentration and tension and my left foot slips from the foothold. I am on the mat after two moves. I need to be strong now. I need to be as mentally strong as I am physically. 

I am calm. I am in the eye of a hurricane. I am a hurricane. 

I make a small tickmark on the second hold. I will get it there. 

It's Wednesday, it's seven and thirtyfive and I'm sitting here, again at the bottom of the board. Hands chalked, shoes tight and clean, I know what's going to happen. I am going to climb the problem. I've put the toothbrush on the mats and I've muttered to myself: "This is for later, I'll brush the tickmarks off after climbing the problem." 

First move: perfect. 

Second move: perfect. 

Third move, the pinch: perfect. 

Fourth move, to the undercling: perfect. The instant my left hand lands on the edge, I know that I'm doing great. It feels good and grippy. 

Fifth move, the small crimp: obviously perfect. I am exactly where I want to be. Three fingers covering all the good spot, thumb over. Now my control ends here. I am stepping off the charts on terra incognita. Hic sunt leones. I don't know what's going to happen in the next second and half, but there will be only two possibilities: I'll either hold the swing, or I won't. 

I land perfectly on the edge. Swing out. Apex. I feel my right fingers moving so slightly on the crimp. An instant of uncertainty. I swing in, kick the board and stop. I am still on. But the swing took a lot of effort this time and I feel it. 

Seventh move, haven't been here for a while. To a very good undercling, the start of the second crux. I breathe and adjust my feet. Right one low, left one high. The unthinkable is now real. 

Eigth move: the cross. I set up, inhale and hold my breath. "I'm going to fall here." I think, but my body doesn't listen, it's on autopilot and I am on the hold. I twist my body under it, my left foot is bolted to the board as if it were on a ledge. On a fucking bivy ledge. The right foot comes in and I am ready to match. 

Ninth move. Front two match. There's just enough horizontal space on the hold. Unfortunately it tapers just where you have to match.

Right. I had been here before. Three times. Once, a couple of years ago, I fell matching. Another time, a few months ago, I again fell matching. The third time, a few days ago, I fell on the following move. 

And now? 

I match perfectly, I feel the pressure on my index and middle fingers, I feel the texture of the hold running out where it tapers and disappears under my fingers. There's only so little to use. It's a hard compromise between left and right. You have to make each prehension equally good, or bad depending on how you see things, to make the move. If you're tempted by the sirens of immediate success, and you're lured into getting the hold too good, too deep, you'll easily twist your body under the hold, but then you won't be able to match and you'll fall. On the other hand, quite literally, if you think too long-term, and you sacrifice the left hand for a good match, you'll never get the match, because you'll fall twisting your body under. It's oh so subtle. 

But I am there, my fingers are exactly where they have to. 

My body is exactly where it has to. 

And then... 

Then I don't know. The next thing I know is that I've done the next move, I find myself on the following hold, not perfectly, but on it. Three fingers on, slightly openhanded. It's unreal. I am here. I am still on. 

I regain control. 

Eleventh move, to a very good edge on the left. Nasty shoulder move. I do it. 

Twelfth move, to the final jug. I get it. It's over. It's fucking goddammit over. 

I can't believe it. 

I slam the door open - I'd locked myself in to be more concentrated - and go to celebrate with my girlfriend. I jump around the house with arms in the air, and I can't believe it. 

It's Wednesday, it's twenty to eight and I'm sitting here, on the mats, and everything's normal. Everything's as usual. I take my shoes off, I brush the tickmarks off, I put everything to place: shoes, brushes, chalkbags. As always. I am ready for a shower and dinner. As always. Because everything's normal. Except for the fact that I've just climbed a four years project that I had deemed impossible until just ten days before. 

It took me more than twenty years to get to this point. And I'm not talking about climbing the project. I am talking about reaching this vision, in which the extraodinary is absorbed by the so called normality. Climbing doesn't entirely fill my life anymore, and my obsession is self-confined into precise boundaries. 

My climbing is all the climbing I know and care about, and it's just one part of my life. An important part, but a part, a fraction nonetheless. It's finally become just something that I do, I love and I enjoy. 

But having climbed that problem is still fucking awesome.

I AM STILL A CLIMBER SOMETIMES. OR: THERE'S A RIGHT TIME AND PLACE FOR EVERYTHING.

 Perfect.

 Perfect.

A little less than perfect. 

As I've said and said and said, I pride myself on being able to express perfectly every imaginable thought and concept, analyzing their deep essence and meaning. This time though, I'm struggling to grasp exactly what lies underneath the mere facts, so I'll stick to the mere facts. 

The first day was amazing, and I allowed myself the luxury of visiting a new sector. A new sector, new boulders in a place where you've been climbing for almost twenty years now, is really a luxury and fuck me, I absolutely reveled in it. Basking in the Sun and in the Glory of ticking every problem, I got seriously reminded about everything that's great in climbing. 

All alone with just my girlfriend, agonizing with anticipation during all the three minutes that were dedicated to the theraband warm-up, it's been great to feel my body adapting to the task, morphing from steel-beam rigidity and mobility to steel-beam strength. Or something like that. 

I found myself in a bulimic orgy of problems, with the main difference that it was nothing pathologic. For once, I didn't even think about grades. 

The desire to climb every problem made that thought superfluous. 

Pocket pulling a go-go, sun on my back, chocolate and protein shakes, nothing else comes close. 

An amazing prow at 7b+ refuses to surrender under my assaults, so I'm forced to use all my four limbs, trying to actually put some weight on my feet, and it goes. I am the best. 

At that point I decided to try a problem in a roof, that was still marked "project" in the guidebook. I immediately had a sequence, that involved skipping at least three pockets. Unsurprisingly it didn't go. 

Campari Sprits and food followed, both in inhuman amount. 

The second day was still amazing, but I woke up feeling as if a freight train loaded with cement blocks had run over me. 

Back to the new sector, I did nothing apart from repeating a few problems for the camera and spotting my girlfriend. And eating chocolate, bread and honey sandwiches and protein shakes and protein bars. At some point I went back to the supposed project. To be truly honest, I couldn't believe that it was really a project: there were holds, and I know that there are many strong climbers that climb there. So I imagined that there could be some ultra-deep low start. The only problem was that it was a boulder bridged over two boulders, forming a small tunnel, so there was no deep start. I then imagined that the start could be on the opposite face of the boulder, then you would basically downclimb and join what appeared to be the logical start. I tried this, broke a few holds, hit my head twice on the nearby boulders and understood that it was no go. I decided to start one hand movement lower than I'd started the previous day, and fuck me it made a difference. 

My body was quite stretched and serious pulling was needed to stay put and not touch the boulders on which the roof sits. 

After a couple of fumbled goes, I did it, as the magnificence of the picture above shows. Best photo I have, possibly. 

So, with the new sector basically ticked I went to visit and old friend. A long traverse in a roof that I'd been after since 2010. It was dry, and I remembered all the moves perfectly. I was terrified, they were hard. The following day was going to be the day. 

Again Campari Spritz and food in unjustified amount. 

Even the third day was amazing, but my mental skies were full of grey clouds, the grey clouds of uncertainty, doubt, and pressure. I woke up at 6:40 and couldn't go back to sleep.

The roof was my target for this trip, and with Winter approaching I knew that this might be the last chance of this season. I had taken the chance to avoid the project with the excuse of the new sector and its chanting sirens, but now I had only one option. 

I believed I'd done this problem in 2010, as this video shows, and as I wrote in this blog entry. 

Anyway, I was wrong. After long hours spent on the internet and speaking to one of the guys who regularly climb there, I discovered that the problem shown in the video was in fact a first ascent, and that the original problem I was after laid a few meters on the left of the roof, and it was a much more serious proposition.

Back to the drawing table... 

In the Summer of 2015, with all the new info, I managed to climb one of the coolest problems I've ever done, as I wrote in this other blog entry. This problem also constitues the first half of the original traverse that was starting to feel like a hidden treasure to me. 

Then in September 2015 in was back there again, as I wrote here.

From that weekend of 2015 until a few days ago, every time I would do my theraband warm-up my thoughts would go back to the problem that had smashed my shoulder, to the project in front of which I was now stood. In 13 months I'd done a lot of theraband warm-ups and I'd thought to that moves a lot of times... 

My last session, one year before, had left me not only with a painful shoulder, but with a bitter taste also. The moves had felt hard, I couldn't repeat the 8a and I also couldn't link the second part on its own. Summoning all the hypocrisy I was capable of, I blamed the torrid conditions and tried to forget about it.

Now, I was feeling a coward for leaving the project to the last day, I knew that I should have dedicated all my available time to it, leaving the last day for the new sector. But the damage was already done, and there was no turning back. 

I took it very easy, spotting my girlfriend and eating, I even tried to have a nap in the Sun. I couldn't sleep, but it helped me a lot, at least in terms of a cool tan. 

And finally I am here. All the holds are dry, a couple of ones are a bit humid but I brush this thought off. 

I don't have enough pads for the whole thing, so I ask my girlfriend for an even more accurate spot, to avoid being impaled by some sticking tree branches or crushed onto some rocks. 

First go, all the bad memories of the last session disappear in an instant. The sloper feels good, and forgetting all my past errors, I perform every move perfectly and complete the 8a part, then I enter the proper roof. Months of snatches, weights and training have made my shoulders bigger and more powerful and the crux move goes down without a problem. I struggle on the reach though, a long sideways reach to a blind, distant undercling. But I get it nonetheless. I cut loose and using momentum I paste my feet on the slopey holds of the back wall. I am horizontal over some big rocks put in circle to be used as a bonfire, and I mutter "Spot me very well here." to my girlfriend. This thought breaks the magic and the thought of falling off onto the rocks enters my mind. I still do the cross move to the other undercling, but then I fuck the feet placements and I am back on the ground. 

I pant and pant and can't get enough air to fill my lungs and fight the effort. I am spent. By just one go. 

I find myself in a mist in which I am happy for what I've just done, yet disappointed because only four moves were left. Happy because I had retroflashed the 8a, disappointed because I had let a negative thought make a big damage. I was so close. 

And now I am exhausted. I am over. It is over. I have to wait another year, soon it will start snowing here. I can't wait any longer. I don't want to. I won't.

One more go. My forearms are the size of a balloon and I take off my thermal that compresses them too much. After a few minutes collecting my thoughts, every other second that I wait feels unbearable and I must go again. 

I am not rested enough and it feels. 

I fumble the first two feet placements and in anger step off and start all over again. 

This time it goes better, but still not perfectly. I do the first part again, but then the next moves are a bit precarious and I waste energy. I'm at the shoulder move and as I start compressing my right foot slips off the hold. A gigantic hold. A hold so big you could lose your shoe in it. 

I swear and swear and swear and now I'm sure it's really over. 

Or maybe not. I force myself to rest forever, I put on my down jacket and try to make blood leave my forearms. It's a long task. 

After what seemed an eternity I am there at the start. Should I take my thermal off or not? How will it affect my forearms? I keep it and go. 

I immediately feel incredibly well, I feel the rubber squeak onto the rock. I am so comfortable in this storm. 

I tap my left hand on my trousers, the sloper feels amazing. Feet are perfect and I am easily at the hole. Instead of cutting loose I instinctively keep my left foot on and heel hook with my right. I feel the difference and I know that I'm climbing perfectly and I congratulate myself. With the left foot on, I am a bit further away from the next hold and I'm not prepared to this. I struggle to identify it from the new position, but then I dig deeper and get it. I feel the difference again in my body position and I know that I have to pull harder to avoid a lethal swing. So I pull harder and I avoid the lethal swing. I keep motoring, everything seems different. 

The left hand hold, instead of frustration, gives me confidence and I do the next moves with a sense of pleased surprise. I must be doing good. At the shoulder move. My right foot is sunk so hard that it hurts this time, and my position is so perfect that I can match without putting so much pressure; I can even briefly let go with my left hand to recover a little. 

The reach. 

The reach is still hard, I feel my left hand sliding a little but I don't care, I get the undercling. Paste feet and push as if I were to break the rock. I feel extremely solid. I am over the rocks, the thought of asking for a closer spot comes and goes and remains a thought, because as soon as I realize it I am eyeing the right hand pinch and before realizing that I'm eyeing it, I am reaching it static, and then the sensation of it being much better than it ever felt reaches my brain and shocks me. I am three moves away and I'm feeling powerful. I cross over with my left hand to the final pocket, toe hook still bolted to the rock and I go to the blind edge behind the small prow. 

And I miss it. 

I had missed it the day before on a quick rehearsal and I had thought about how hard it would be, if I were to miss it coming from the start. And now I'm coming from the start and I've missed it. 

But I am so solid that I stay calm and search for it, then grab it. Everything feels good, I cut loose in control and one second later I am at the final jug with my left hand, then I match and jump off. 

I gasp for air once again, and in between gasps I keep repeating "I can't believe it." Again and again. 

I lay down on the mat and keep panting, I ask for a hug. 

I know how hard it is to be with an obsessed climber. 

It's over now, I've done it. 

Year after year after year, a story that goes back to 2010 has now come to an ending. The happy ending. 

I still can't believe how well I climbed and I still can't believe that I climbed it. I am so happy. I take my flask and sip some whiskey that my girlfriend brought from London. Before leaving for this trip I'd filled my flask again because after all I was sure it was going to be gorgeous.

Tomorrow we'll go back home. Tomorrow it will be sunny and clear again, but I don't care, because I've done it today. 

Later on we go for a walk, then we go visit the nearby LaSportiva factory for some bargain sales. It's packed with climbers buying stuff. They're all clean and branded. I am a mess of patched jeans, tape and blood stains. 

I look around, and wherever I turn I think "I am the strongest one. Noone else is as strong as me." 

And I feel like Jerry.

 

NOTHING NEW. OR...

The rule of the part time blogger is that after a hiatus, one should immediately renew the enthusiasm of the followers, by announcing exciting news, a strong resolution, or a mega project finally hammered into submission. 

Not in this case. 

I have nothing special to tell, but I want to start again with some good habits that I had to put to one side in the last months. I spent the entire Summer working and studying, and now I am finally free. 

Belive it or not, I climbed a new problem in May, in the only couple of hours that I've spent on rock in ages. 

This problem is cool, it's always been there, at one of the most frequented areas around, and it was never cleaned. The most essential line of crimps on the lip of a roof, for the most elementary of all traverses. Not. 

While the holds were all there, in their glorious and different forms, from majestic, grainy slopiness to pointy teeth, or plain razor blades, the sequence was far from trivial. 

With a brainless enthusiasm I got to work and after five minutes my skin was already thrashed, but I had a sequence. Torrid temps were suggesting to let it rest for a few months, but that would have been too easy. 

I don't know how I managed, but I climbed it. Pulling as hard as I possibly could, surely must have helped.

I called the problem "Animali Senza Tempo", which means "Timeless Animals", and it's a reference to sharks, crocodiles, and few other beasts that are almost exactly the same as they were at the beginning of evolution.

In a few years time, this problem will be "discovered" by someone who is sure to be the first boulderer to set his or her eyes on this line - because he or she is sure that bouldering didn't even existed here before their arrival -, it will be "freed" with all the possible cheating techniques, brushing holds out of the soft rock, eliminating spikes and blades, not sticking to the lip, all in the name of climbing progress, all in the name of shameless self promotion. 

These ridiculous individuals have all my pity, compassion and sympathy. Only, I have no pity, no compassion, no sympathy at all. 

I wonder how one could possibly believe that nothing existed before them. I wonder why people aren't interested in knowing the facts, the history. They revel and bask in ignorance, in name dropping, in being servants of the local starlet, in shining of reflected light. 

People are uninformed, they love to be uninformed, so that they can believe what they like to believe without having to stick to facts, but then when they make public statements, being uninformed, they misinform others. 

I could go on forever on this. I won't. 

But you could ask why I don't face this issue, why I don't face these people and thell them how things really are: that they haven't invented anything, exactly as I didn't; that problems X, Y and Z were climbed ten years ago; that they cheat on routes and boulders. 

Well, there are many reasons. 

First of all, I don't care that much at all. Knowing the truth, what is false doesn't affect me. 

Second, they don't deserve the truth. To quote Jack Nicholson in "A Few Good Men", they can't handle the truth. Truth is not for everyone, not for those who want to be the first ones, the unique ones, the rebel ones, the pure ones. Truth is democratic: there's always someone else who's been there before, done that before. We only need to widen our views. 

Third, I don't want to cause a stir, and if I speak, there will be much more of a stir, there will be a Maelstrom that will suck them all. 

Finally, being a bastard, I take great pleasure in seeing how they all make fools of themselves in front of my eyes, and in front of the eyes of those who have been around for a while. 

It's fun, I started this post wanting just to reacquaint myself, just to post a couple of pics, and look what I've done. 

But I left the most amazing news last, the most incredible of all news: I want to rock climb, I'm going rock climbing tomorrow.

Now tell me if this isn't really unbelievable. It is.