Blimey, this seam is thin, I’ll just hack my foot up onto this hold and. . . “oh no”. A dull cracking sound, like a pencil being snapped underwater, precedes a sense of foreboding gloom, there is no pain right now, only instantaneous grief.
Skip back a few days.
Rhoscolyn DWS from Guy Van Greuning on Vimeo.
I had plans on going back to my home town so had to duck out of a bank holiday trip to Wales, I consoled myself with the fact I’d still get 2 days climbing in the beautiful weather the peak was currently having. Home was good, my mum had bought me a headband from Norway, grit chic. Due to a lack of licenses Jon and I were going to catch the bus over to Millers dale and if the tor was a furnace walk the nice walk over the cheedale. Wake up on Sunday morning at 8am, pack bags and grab some food. Walk up the hill the bus stop, 9.43am Jon rings from further down ecclesall road and says the bus just went past him without stopping, full to the brim. Next bus at 2pm. Fuuuuucccckkkkkkkk. Semi-Contain adult tantrum and decide to catch a bus to Matlock. 1 hour 30 minutes later we arrived in the town and walked over to Long Tor, admired the admirable High Tor. “it's ok I’ll climb there tomorrow” I told myself. At the crag Jon brushed his way up the 6c+ Jade. Pulling the ropes I headed up after him, two moves in and. . .see top.
It’s most certainly the A2 pulley on the ring finger of the right hand, bog standard injury. Your time has come, grab a ticket, get in line. I don’t have an ice pack at home and the peas aren't working so I freeze the tomato purée tube and wrap it round my finger. I know what’s needed, I've read enough online. I need an ice cube tray and diligence