The Art of Holding On

Climbing is just as mental as it is physical. For the past two days I've been in the roughest, most hardcore competition of my life: Divisionals. Held in Santa Ana, they spanned a total of about nineteen hours, a full bouldering gym of isolation, two boxes of power bars, and three routes. Saturday morning, my isolation started at 11:30. It was chillier than Arizona, but the heightening sun rendered my hoodie useless. I waited in line for maybe ten minutes before I could enter the gym with my friend Ivy. We walked into the "reception area" and got our tags and scorecards. Then, like the complete novice I was, I strolled casually into isolation. It was a complete nightmare. I was met by a shout of "Watch it!" as a competitor dropped off of a warmup climb barely a foot in front of me. The enormous bouldering area of Sender One was completely jammed with climbers, ranging from ages nine to about eighteen. The DJ outside of the isolation area played the music loud enough to set the walls vibrating with the heavy Dubstep bass. The kids were everywhere, warming up, chattering, shaking out their nerves, and occasionally walking out the back to use the bathroom (which was an outhouse). I targeted the spots of bright orange on the floor: my team's bags.
The running order was posted, and I was dead last. For my first Divisional competition, this wasn't what I had been expecting. It was louder, more crowded, and generally less organized than Regionals had been. This was also my first competition with a route preview. Our coordinator, Ashley (to whom I must give credit, because despite the staggering number of people, we still finished the competition on time with zero mistakes) began calling us out by group to look at our two qualifiers routes. The top ten people in today's competition would advance to Sunday, the finals.

My category during the route preview. Photo credits to Sender One staff.

Looking at the routes, I wondered why I was there. I wasn't ready for this. The first route, maybe 5.10c or something along those lines, looked long and menacing and disturbingly yellow against Sender One's blue and white walls. I felt sick. Moving on to the next climb, probably a 5.11d or 5.12a, I almost turned around and walked back to iso. But that would have been giving up. I reviewed the beta, over and over, thinking that I could not back down until I'd at least started.

My iso was over fast. I sat in the first chair, hard white plastic like at Regionals, and stared into the crowd, not thinking, not feeling anything but my nerves. The girl next to me, Elizabeth, had obviously sent the route. She was leaning back casually in her chair. I was shaking. There was no way I could do this. Not even the pep talk from my coach, Nick, could have prepared me for what I felt in that chair. I wouldn't have been surprised if I'd passed out.
"You have ten seconds remaining."
I started as something touched my shoulder. It was the judge, offering me the lead rope.
I took it and numbly tied the knot, lacing it through my hard points and following the figure-eight with trembling hands.
"Time, time. Begin your transition now."
The judge took my scorecard, then put his hand on my shoulder and guided me backwards. My eyes were still down. Breathe, Julia. Breathe. I looked at the route in my head. I knew I could do it... but under this much pressure, would I?
"Climbers, you may begin climbing now."
I turned around. The wall looked taller, more daunting, than I remembered it. The holds were smaller. I was smaller. This was impossible. I had to start climbing.
The second I laid my hands on the start hold, something changed. My shaking disappeared. All that remained was something colder and harder. Maybe it was adrenaline. I like to think it was determination. I picked up my feet and began to climb.
It seemed to flow. There were no breaks between the holds, I was in control, and it was some kind of freedom I hadn't known until then. The last hold was a jug. I didn't see feet, so I clipped the anchor dangling by one hand.
Returning to the chair, I wasn't elated, like maybe I should have been, but calm.
About eight minutes later, I turned on the second route like an attack dog. I had a chance now. If I could just make top ten, I could make it to finals. That was my goal. I could do it. Getting on the first hold of route two was different than the first time. I had a purpose in mind. All of the pink holds seemed to jump out at me. I whizzed by the first two clips, but then I started to worry. I could feel my forearms tiring and my grip weakening little by little with every move. Right before the fourth clip was a cruxy move. I looked at it once. It would be so easy to go for it, get positive movement, maybe usable surface...
But I wasn't here for the easy way. I wasn't here to give anything less than everything. I think I might have yelled while doing that move. I'm not sure. But either way, I did it. I clipped four and kept moving. I had to go fast. I didn't have much time left before my hands completely gave out. Finally, right on clip five, they did. I pulled rope for the clip with my left, but my right hand slipped. I fell to about three feet off the ground, almost hitting the belayer.
Was it enough?
The answer was yes. I came in sixth in sport for qualifiers, and later in the day, fifth for speed. That night was one of the more triumphant in my climbing career, even as I prepared for the stress of finals the next day.

The finals routes at Sender One. Mine was the black one on the far left.

Iso on Sunday was different. It started earlier. I was barely there for enough time to warm up. My route preview was too short, the route too hard, too long. It was slightly overhung, all black holds, and it looked crimpy, slopey, and difficult. I stood there looking at the route but reminding myself that I made it here and I deserved to be on it.

Before I knew it, I was in the chair.
The bass was back, and I could feel it everywhere. I shook so hard I almost fell off the chair. They were going to call me. Any second now. I think I tied myself in, because I somehow ended up standing with my back to the route tied into the lead rope.

The first few clips blurred by. The holds were textured and new. I was only lightly pumped, and I was confident.
The crux for me was not actually the crux of the climb. It was a powerful move from a good side pull sloper to an in-cut pinch. I pulled off the sloper once, but only made it halfway. Part of me said PANIC but the other half said "stop." I relaxed on the sloper. It was good. I hung straight-armed for a moment. Repositioned my feet. Breathed. Then I jumped. It wasn't a true jump, just a solid lunge, but it felt huge. I made myself grip it, hard. I was crushing it. In that moment, the climb was not physical. I could not have kept that hold with physical strength alone.
 I cruised the next section. My last crux was at clip five. I had a good heel hook, but I was shaking. Badly. I forced myself to keep my hands closed. I looked at the fifth clip, hanging in my face, and the rope. I remembered I'd fallen before clipping fifth at qualifiers too. I looked at it and said, out loud, "I will not fall here again. I will not." I grabbed the rope and clipped as fast as I could before snapping my hand back onto the wall. I moved for the next hold, grabbed it for a second... then fell.
But I was okay with that. I'd given it my all. That's all I could do, right?

I flew home that night with a fifth place ribbon for sport, a fourth place for speed, and an invitation to Nationals. I watched Orange County glittering below us on the plane, feeling oddly light. It was a city of dreams to me. I'd left everything I had to give on the walls of Sender One, and I was more proud of that than I was of any ribbon or certificate I'd received.

I'll see you in Atlanta.

Half of our finals category getting our results.

"Cruise That Part"

Breathing deeply helps with the nerves. I sat in the white plastic chair, the hundred-foot climbing rope on my lap, about ready to throw up. The cheers of the crowd washed over me with deafening volume, and from behind me I could hear the snap of the rope clicking into the draws as my competitors ascended the competition routes. My blank scorecard rested in my shaking, chalky hands. I had white smears covering my black leggings from my warmup, and the chalk war paint I had smeared onto my cheeks was ever so slightly itchy.

This competition was huge for me. Held in New Mexico, it drew hundreds of climbers like me from Arizona, Utah, Colorado, and the outskirts of Texas. The top seven climbers from each of the ten categories would advance to Divisionals, held in Chris Sharma's gym, Sender One, in Santa Ana, California. I'd never qualified for Divisionals before, but this year, with all of the hours of extra training I'd done, I'd thought I had a solid chance.

Coming out of isolation at Regionals 2014

The most commonly asked question when I tell people I climb competitively is, "Is it judged on how fast you get up the wall?" The answer is it can be. There are two sections to the Regional, Divisional, National, and World competitions. The first is called difficulty. In the official format, called on-sight, the climber goes into "isolation" before the competition for a period of up to three or four hours. When the climber is called, they go and sit in the "on-deck" chair in isolation. After four minutes there, they have thirty seconds to move out of isolation and sit in their first official "on-deck" chair. They are facing away from the wall and they will not see their climb until their climb time. After four minutes in that chair, they have another thirty second transition, during which they hand the judge their scorecard, chalk up, get tied in, and the previous climber gets untied and sits in the next chair. Then an official calls, "Climbers, you may begin climbing now." The climber then has four minutes to look at the route and climb it. If they are still on the wall when the four minutes are up, they have to come down. I compete with lead (like all competitors 13 and older), where the rope is attached to the harness and you clip into the wall as you ascend. This cycle continues for all three climbs in the competition, and then the scorecard is turned in and you're done. It's judged primarily on the number of climbs you "send" (or get to the top of). Then, it's the number of holds you made it to, and finally the minuscule tiebreakers such as positive movement and usable surface, which is whether or not you made an effort to go for the next hold before falling and then if you touched it and fell off. The other half of the competition is, yes, speed climbing, where two contestants get on the same route at a time, they're timed, and the lowest time wins. 

At a local on-sight competition

"Transition!"

I stood up, my shaking intensifying. The judge took my scorecard from me, and I turned around and walked where she pointed me. I still didn't look at the wall. The cheering was pushing me forward. My hands shook so badly I could barely tie myself in, and I had to redo the knot twice before getting it right. I looked up at the belayer. He checked my knot, his hands steady. He looked me in the eye, but I was afraid to look up and risk disqualification by seeing the climb.

"You're good. You've got it," he said.

I just nodded. The gym quieted as I began to zone in on my goals--try hard, get as far as you can, and don't miss clips.

"Climbers, you may begin climbing now."

I looked up.

All of the holds on my route were green. The route itself didn't look difficult to me, but I knew how my nerves and adrenaline could bring me off the wall as easily as a bad hold. I examined the route, conscious of the ticking clock in my peripheral vision. Since the walls here were fifty feet instead of thirty, we had five minutes instead of four, but it still didn't seem like enough.

Thirty seconds down.

Come on, Julia. Get on the wall.

"I'm ready," I said.

The belayer nodded as I approached the first climb.

I just remember laying my hands on the wall, then bringing them in to the first hold. It was a moment in time that felt like it lasted a minute. I was deaf to the crowd, to the screaming, and to everything but my coach's voice in my head. "Julia, the first part will be easy. Cruise that part. Don't tire yourself out for the end."

This competition marked the first time I'd qualified for Divisionals, in either sport or bouldering. In difficulty, despite a mistake resulting in a fall on the third climb, I pulled seventh. In speed, I got fifth.

In the long run, I'm satisfied. My dad told me that if I really truly left nothing behind on that wall, if I gave it everything I had, I should be happy. And I am. 

I'll see you in California in a week. 

My ribbons and Divisionals invitation