Early this year, I found myself waking up to the task of writing about the benefits of participating in sports, something that had very little personal relevance for most my life. To my surprise, I finished this write up within half an hour of starting. And during that half hour while typing away lines like “the cultivation of focus and discipline” and “lessons of perseverance and humility along the way” on my laptop in sleeping clothes, the clear voice my mind conjured was primarily E’s. It’s been a steep learning curve the past half year, thanks to you, I said to him when I eventually showed him the write-up.
It had started with being shown videos of him climbing crags during a work break in a café. I nodded along at the jargon he used as he described climbing to the total novice that was me at the time, noting belatedly that this was the first time someone had bothered explaining to me the ins-and-outs of the sport. Later, I had yielded to his invitation to go for a 3-hour indoor climbing session despite my various half-hearted remarks made prior to conceding. Little did I know, that first visit together would lead to many others. Once, I had been overwhelmed by his sudden segue into the latest drama surrounding the Lakers while everyone was listening to Tame Impala in the car after a long day of hiking. Months later, I would find my curious self tagging along to the basketball court, leaving my book on the bench to learn how to shoot hoops. I finally understood what fantasy football was all about, and sounds from EPL video highlights in the morning slowly ceased to be grounds for complaint. What I have come to accept as part and parcel of his being, became interwoven in my everyday too.
My initial reluctance stemmed from the self-belief that I would always be lagging behind at any kind of sport. I cited having terrible hand-eye coordination and being a klutz so often, it became a well-rehearsed self-deprecating joke among my friends. In hindsight, what contributed to my abysmal rates of participation were the lack of encouragement and opportunities from my immediate environment. The first time I joined a top rope climbing class, it felt impossible. I was unaware until a year later that it was common for beginners to find the routes at where I started out too difficult. All I knew was how easy it seemed for the rest of my friends who were present in that same session. My sense of inadequacy quickly dimmed as I went on to share the excitement of my ex-partner who discovered how much he enjoyed climbing after said session. He started to visit other climbing gyms, but these were plans that never had much intention on including me. Regardless, I was happy to hear that he was on his way to develop a healthy hobby outside of stressful work demands. I just did not know how much happier I could be if I were properly encouraged to participate alongside, instead of being seen as some dainty being who should stick to more feminine activities.
Assumptions I made regarding my own physical capabilities started crumbling as I began to join my eager personal private trainer in various sports, primarily indoor climbing. I think I am scared of heights, I told him. We quickly discovered that was not the case; I was immensely afraid of falling instead. I felt comfortable going up all my routes, but once it was time to let go of my last hold on the wall – I was paralysed. Fear flooded my brain whenever I knew I could no longer hold on to anything, causing me to take a ridiculously long time before I would finally allow myself to fall. My next few climbing sessions were filled with trepidation simply because of this newfound fear, but I was heartened to learn that I could manage decreasing the time spent being afraid with every new route I took on. I also initially believed I would never be able to tie safety knots accurately when he casually asked me to replicate a figure 8 knot on my own after his demonstration. I now see that these automatic thoughts of mine echoed the same thoughts I had nearly ten years ago when I watched a Boy Scout from school flaunt the different knots he could make. This time, the person in front of me was not trying to show off. He was guiding me to become more independent. Repetition and consistent practice made me better. Improvement seemed minuscule each time, but it was progress regardless.
This was the first time in the longest while I was learning something so hands-on from the ground up. It was different from acquiring a new language or picking up a new way of writing. Where do I begin? By just angling myself towards a different side or shifting a foot to a hold I thought was not there until someone pointed it out, I could reach another higher hold. Problem solving on the wall was simultaneously a mental and physical challenge. Despite being in a territory so far removed from my usual comfort zone, these gym visits were never truly uncomfortable. This was largely due to the patient guidance of my personal climbing instructor, and the supportive climbing community around us. Many of the new faces and names that I came across in the past year belong to this community, who were often generous in sparing encouragement and helpful climbing advice. Allez! One of my shaky legs would finally find the strength to straighten, making another hold materialise within my sight. Despite my many fears, I knew I was in safe hands whenever I climbed. Routes were also rendered less intimidating with people I trust at the bottom of the wall alternating between loud, motivating cheers and suggestions on where to move my limbs next. And suddenly, I have manoeuvred my way to the top – adrenaline quickly replaced with fulfilment and relief.
The year before, I told myself how lucky I was that my body was pristine from bruises. It was at most a shove here and there; I was not hurt in the end despite how much anger there was in every argument. How I self-deluded with my ideas of safety and security then. When I pointed out the patches blooming on my legs after my first outdoor climbing session, my friend looked in horror. On the other hand, I was fascinated by the physical evidence of spending a whole day climbing actual rock. Gone were the colourful holds I was so accustomed to at indoor climbing gyms, out there I was free to find my own footing in the crevices of limestone. I had never felt more alive. Previously, I had associated the whole experience as something only seasoned climbers do. But there I was, managing at least three outdoor routes on my first attempt, a far cry from my initial expectation that I would not finish any and end up being there only to spectate. These bruises on my legs reminded me less of being a klutz, and more of little victories against self-imposed limitations.
In the early days of the pandemic, I exercised only to achieve an enhanced physique, yearning the validation of an ex-partner who seemed more pleased when I lost weight. However, as I became more physically active, I focused less on appearances and more on the strength I can gain and the refinement in my technique across different workouts. I was becoming more comfortable in my own skin, even when weight was regained and I could no longer fit a size 2 or 4. Seeing my improvement in climbing – an activity I never thought I could master also stoked my curiosity to attempt other kinds of sports. Instead of associating sports with failure and embarrassment, my renewed perspective saw them as platforms of learning and play. Never mind how many cuts, blisters and bruises I have collected along the way, or the pulled hamstring that took months to recover after too many hours of badminton and ping pong. As I allowed myself to engage in more childlike play, I felt less self-conscious about the skills I have yet to hone, freeing up more capacity to enjoy these experiences. Oh, the heady thrill whenever I received positive comments on improving or picking up a new skill quickly. The wonder and joy at learning how much my body can achieve if I just set my mind to try. Just try.
a/typical catharsis 