The alarm I had set on my phone played its usual crass yet rousing tune, ushering in yet another day at the coal face. My eye lids struggled to understand the concept of opening on both a physical and theoretical level; with a little encouragement, revision and close tutoring they eventually peeled back and my pupils surveyed the day. The scene framed by my bedroom window was close to perfect, egg shell blue sky, a slight breeze lazily playing with the trees and evidence of frost at the edges of the glazing. It was on. The hours of pouring over Google maps, pictures and online topos the previous night would be worth it. I was heading for the first fully sunlit after work session of the year and my heart was filled with joy.
I headed to work buoyed by an unfamiliar
feeling, instead of the usual dread; I was excited at what to come after the
final throws of the working day. I felt untouchable, the master of my world.
The usual stream of work related negativity shot at me simply rolled off the Teflon
coat I know wore, woven from the slippery strands of hope and expectation
created from pure psyche. Tasks were completed, wrongs were righted and the day
passed in a blur.
This was not going to be the usual relaxed
climbing session, the sun was due to set at 18.05, this meant that I would have
to get to the crag of choice no later than 16.00 to make sure a worthwhile
session would be had. This session could not be left to evolve; it
needed to be structured, military
in its execution. If all of these
elements fell into place then it would be a fine two hours of climbing in the
early spring evening. Passions were
running high.
I flew out of work at 15.00, my destination
on the western edge of the Penines less than an hour away. Liverpool, St Helens, Windes, Warrington gone
in the wink of an eye. These industrial
towns marooned in Merseyside, land locked by the un interesting flatness of the
Cheshire plains held no interest for me now, I was headed to loftier places. I started the climb up to the moors. The light, like the landscape softened; glowed
almost. Grasses ravaged by a wet winter
swayed in the gentle breeze. Time seemed
to elongate as the expectations of perfect conditions and dry rock created its
own reality and serenity in the car. Yes
this was a mad mission, yes the climbing would need to be frenetic, but the
soft evening light that flowed through the deep Pennine valleys, skipped across
it rounded hills and caressed the water of its reservoirs made it all worth
it. As I drove along ever uphill it almost felt like I
was ascending from the work based nightmare of public service into my own mini
Nirvana of movement and freedom……Perfection if you
will.
It was at this precise moment of serenity
that I hit the jam. Not any jam,
no. This was the mother of all traffic
jams, a jam so intense it tested every fiber of my being. I was less than ten miles from my
destination, caught between motorway junctions with no means of escape. I could see my chosen crag between the hills, dry and
accommodating, it was so near I could almost touch it. There was hope. It was 15.45; I started to watch the
clock. There was no movement amongst the sea of steel, rubber and chrome that spread before me. I no longer measured my journey in terms of
landscapes, rather the perpetual passing of seconds; seconds that would force
me into a decision. 16.00 my expected
time of arrival came and went, but I still felt I could salvage something from
the evening, I was so close. 16.30 approached and disappeared into that
bottomless immeasurable pit that we call the past, I started to worry. 17.00 arrived
and I had to make a decision. For an
hour and a quarter hope and fate had battled over my future, for an hour and a
quarter I had nailed my colours to the flag held aloft by hope. For an hour and a quarter hope had blinded
me, allowing me to believe that a future moving across rock bathed in sunlight
could be a possibility. Fate won out. I would not climb on rock tonight.
I was forced to make a
decision, I would, at the first opportunity, turn round and head home; back to
Liverpool, back to the wall. I was
consumed by rage, a rage that was shared by the thousands of souls around me
cast adrift on a motorway of misery. At
that moment of realisation, the moment that my dream evaporated in the
beautiful evening light, I could have killed; I could have run from the car,
ripped out the hearts of innocent woodland creatures and used their blood to
paint profanities in the sky. I wanted to strip to the waist, douse myself with
petrol and set myself alight, ready to run between the cars; a physical manifestation of my frustration that might restore some natural balance to the world which had
suddenly gone very wrong. It took me another half an hour to reach a junction
and turn around, half an hour of fading light and impending natural darkness; a
darkness eclipsed by the darkness of my mood.
It took for ever to
get back to Liverpool. I had to battle more busy motorways, rush hour and my own
wounded self. I eventually arrived at The Hanger at 19.00 - four hours after I had set out on my adventure after work.
Four hours to complete what is normally a twenty minute journey from work to
the wall. I arrived in poor humour, but
coffee, camaraderie and a little perspective helped me to get over myself. Let’s face it no animals were hurt (but it felt close). One
thing I can say though is, that night, my session was definitely worse than yours.
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