What’s One To Do When Turning Sixty

By
Beth Tally

The staggering truth hit me right between the eyes when I renewed my driver’s license.  It used to be that this exercise occurred every four years, but now it’s every ten which is to say that the next time I ante up for keeping my mobile independence, I’ll be staring 70 years down.  Whoa!  Hold on.  What am I doing already knocking on the front door of “the golden years?”  If I didn’t have two grown daughters, I’d swear I was still in college.

A generation ago, my children probably would be prepping me for the nursing home.  But, times have certainly changed.  Instead of offering to tuck me into a rocking chair and bring me some hot tea on my 60th birthday, my younger daughter, Lyn, challenged me to conquer the 30-foot climbing wall at the James Island County Park.  I thought she was crazy, but I took it as a compliment.  Maybe in her eyes, I could do anything.  At first I declined, but my hesitation quickly evaporated when I overheard my husband declare “she doesn’t have the upper body strength.”

The Saturday before Christmas, we piled in the car and drove from North Charleston through town and out Maybank Highway.  We turned left just beyond the public golf course where the road meandered for quite a distance before coming to the park entrance.  I’d never been to the park before - didn’t even know it existed with its sprawling expanse of hiking trails, natural landscapes, doggy park, and lake.  The main boulevard was lined with fantastic holiday creations which lit up at night for the annual “Festival of Lights.” 

We finally came to the parking area for the climbing wall.  There was a short walk through the woods to the wall itself. I’d been pretty jovial up until then.  After all, how hard could it be to climb three stories?  With the first sight of the wall, my throat went pretty much parched.  It looked like a medieval fortress with multi-colored warts covering every side.  The overall effect was pretty intimidating.  The fact that children deftly maneuvered all over the rugged surface like a bunch of cutter ants didn’t help any. 

Lyn and I were fitted with harnesses and assigned a “belayer,” the person who manages your ascent up the wall through a rope attached to your harness.  After giving us some brief instructions, he asked who wanted to go first.  I decided to bite the bullet. 

He explained that the “warts” were actually color-coded paths up the façades with yellow being the easiest.  Wasn’t much to think about there.  Yellow represented the color for chickens, the faint-hearted - - - and me. 

The belayer tied me to the rope, carefully demonstrating the technique of the knot so I would feel more secure.  I positioned myself at the base of the wall where he instructed me to ask “Belayer ready?” 

He responded “Belayer ready.”  Then he asked “Climber ready?” 

I answered “Climber climbing.” 

At this point, I assessed the yellow route up the wall.  The protrusions where I was supposed to put my feet and fingers stuck out not even two inches, making it necessary to keep my body fully flush to the wall.  I was getting ready to learn the meaning of “toehold” firsthand. 

For the next ten minutes, I entered a world of “st’s” - gingerly st-epping, st-retching and st-raining up the wall; st-opping only to ruminate about where next to go.  Half way up I literally found myself st-uck.  My right toes rested on a bump straight below.  My left hand extended above my head grasping a hold to the left.  The next possible move appeared to my right, but not where I could reach it the way I was positioned.  With my left leg and right arm useless, I felt plastered to the wall and for a fleeting second thought about just letting go altogether and having the belayer pull me up the rest of the way.  But that would entail another “st” – st-ripping the skin off my face as it dragged up the craggy surface. 

Instead, the belayer yelled for me to put my left foot on the same bump with my right.  This would give me leverage to push up high enough to reach the next hold on the right.  Easy for him to say!  What did he think I was, a ballerina on pointe?  I had on tennis shoes for heaven’s sake.  Deliberately I moved my left foot to the bump and found what had to be the only remaining nanospot available.  I dug in with the tips of both big toes, thrusting myself up so my right hand could grab the illusive yellow target. 

By this time, I was trembling all over.  Every muscle in my body was rebelling, especially in the fingers.  I looked up to see about one third of the wall still to climb, but the way to the end was clear.  Scrambling quickly, I reached the pinnacle and finished with a slap on the yellow square marking the top of the route.  My belayer yelled for me to lean back and push against the wall with my feet as he lowered me to the ground.  The ride down took 10 seconds making me sincerely wonder why I couldn’t have started from the top to begin with.

To be honest, it did feel great to make it to the top.  I was proud of the accomplishment and particularly satisfied to prove my husband wrong.  I am wondering, however, what might be in-store for me when I clip 65 and 70.  The rocking chair and tea are looking mighty tantalizing.

Sponsor Links