hours on my client’s manuscript Wednesday that it’s nearly four o’clock before it registers: If I want to make it to the gym this afternoon, it’s time to dash in order to catch the bus! All thoughts of the wild west fade away. Saloon doors slam closed, guns are holstered, and pies cool on windowsills while townswomen hang up their aprons. So sorry, folks. I’ve got to close up shop! Thrilled to have edited four full chapters today, I push my laptop closed. Time to hurry to get changed. Leggings, a sports top, and a high ponytail are an easy transition and then I slide sandals on.
I’ve printed out the bus schedule so know that it runs every forty-five minutes. Missing this round means waiting nearly an hour. Racing out the door with my loaded backpack, I blow an imaginary kiss to the Jeep parked in my garage and trek the block and a half to the bus stop. I’ve already done the calculations and riding the bus will save me a decent chunk of change on fuel. Plus, locals get an eight-dollar monthly bus pass, so there’s no time like the present to capitalize on that.
Hey, maybe it will be another adventure.
Sadie and the Bus Pass. Chapter One in the Single Sadie Chronicles.
I chuckle to myself. What a ridiculous idea. I haven’t ever written an entire book in my life. I probably just spent way too much time immersed in someone else’s novel today because I’ve got fiction on the brain. Still, the extra time spent on the bus could be a chance to plot ideas. There’s a department in my mind where crazy ideas just sort of lodge themselves. A self-filing system that is determined to keep life interesting. So even though I’m scoffing on the outside, there’s now a file labeled Single Sadie in the mental drawer. I will probably visit it again.
And since I’m often talking to myself (and my cat), not to mention quitting my job, throwing good money away on rubber shoes, and training for my very first indoor bouldering competition—it’s pretty obvious that there may be a screw loose within the Sadie who’s living out these single chronicles.
At the clatter of the bus chugging down the road, I hitch my canvas backpack over one shoulder and await its arrival. It lumbers into place and the door opens with a hiss. I board, scan the new pass, and take a seat. The rows are mostly empty, so it’s easy to stare out the window as the driver puts everything into motion again. I glance at my phone, catching sight of a new text from Britt. It’s the list of movie ideas she promised. I can hardly wait to read through the options, but seated up high like this, it’s an entirely new way to take in the sights of Gunnison Valley. Cute tourist boutiques line the main parts of town along with fishing and bike rental shops. There are quaint diners, cozy cafes, and the green expanse of the park. We pass the elementary school I attended as a kid. The bus stops every few blocks as people climb on and depart. I clutch the backpack in my lap, feeling the now-familiar lumps of my gear.
It’s nearly five when the bus pulls up to the stop closest to the climbing gym. The gym is open until nine, so there’s loads of time to practice. Can it even be called that? Maybe it’s more like learning. Experiencing. Growing. These are the qualities that are going to help me conquer the small goals I’ve set for myself and get to the top of the blue route that stumped me. I’d like to eventually try some V2s since those are part of the beginner category.
But when I finally check in and get shoed up, I’m shocked to discover that the infamous blue route is gone. Now it’s just a bare wall, empty bolt holes, and two men with drills. What’s happening? I edge closer, not wanting to be in the way. They’ve unscrewed all of the holds from the wall on this side of the gym. It looks like they’re arranging new ones. I feel like such a newbie for not having figured this out, but at risk of being a newbie a moment longer, I scuttle back to the front desk.
“Question for you,” I ask the gal who taught the beginner’s lesson. “Do they change these often?”
“Oh yeah.” She stands to rest an elbow on the counter. “They reset the routes about once a month. Not all at once, but they rotate through the different segments until they’ve done them all. It helps keep things different for all our members.”
“Oh!” This is good to know. “And for the beginner level? They’ll mark those again?”
She smiles. “Absolutely. In fact, yesterday they set some new V0s and V1s over by the weight room. If you haven’t checked them out yet, you totally should. They’re super fun. The one with the holds that are shaped like mushrooms is already one of my favorites. And then there’s another with these fun little crescents. I think you’ll like them.”
“Okay, thanks.” I retrieve my chalk bag, and even though I feel a twinge of disappointment for not having completed the route that defeated me, at least there will be new opportunities to keep trying. It makes it kind of like a game—a way for things to ebb and flow. Inspiration to try and keep up. Reach the top now . . . or forever hold your peace. I fight a smirk.
This is the first time I’ll climb with my new shoes and I can hardly wait to test them out. I hunt down the new routes, and I’ll be honest—they really do look like a ton of fun. I start with a yellow one that has the holds shaped like mushrooms. They’re super easy to grab and these shoes have a nicer grip than the rentals. As I rise, I’m climbing more gracefully than before. No struggle, just a smooth flow that takes over. Warmth hits my cheeks in a smile. What a way to finish off a day. Right here. Gaining more confidence, I hop down, landing on my feet with the thud of rubber soles hitting vinyl mats.
Great start.
Super psyched, I angle toward the next route. It’s in use by another climber. He’s halfway to the top, and trying to stay clear of the fall zone, I take a water break. The guy advances toward the top carefully. Methodically. His skill is practiced and patient. He climbs the way I wish I could. Pausing midway, he reaches to his lower back and slips one hand into his chalk bag, while he grips the hold with his other hand. He repeats the motion on the other side. I can tell this route is technically too easy for a climber like him, but I recognize now that the more advanced athletes use sections of the wall like this to warm up on. I wait until he finally makes it to the top. Once he downclimbs, he turns and sees me for the first time.
“Oh. Sorry. Have you been waiting?” He uses the hem of his beach tank to wipe sweat off his brow.
“Oh, it’s not a problem. I’m in no hurry.”
He gestures toward the wall. “Please. It’s all yours.”
I nod an awkward thanks, and when he moves only a few feet to the nearby bench, anxiety rises. He can totally see me. Panicked by the idea of an audience, I force myself to recognize that an advanced climber like that would have no interest in watching a beginner like me. Deep breaths, Sadie. He’s not paying attention to you. Still, my ears feel hot as I reach for the first holds. I try to act like I know what I’m doing, but two moves in realize I started in the wrong position and downclimb. I don’t really have a plan for good beta—basically my own climbing method—right now.
There’s the sharp sound of Velcro as the advanced guy unfastens his shoes behind me. Ugh. He’s still there.
I begin again and make a better go at it. Partway up, my hand slips and I fall solid, hitting the mat with a thud. Stunned, I take a moment to rise. I’ll think about this one a bit longer.
“That’s a tricky one,” he says behind me.
I nod, still paying attention to the wall and hoping he’ll go away. Then I stop myself. No sense in projecting my insecurities onto someone else. Yeah, he’s a super good-looking guy. Also talented. Clearly on the friendly side. Usually I turn my mind to autopilot so as to avoid interacting with the opposite sex, but I don’t want to risk seeming rude. With a settled resolve, I turn to ask him if he has any recommended beta. He practically leaps to his feet. His long legs cross the distance in a flash. “I’ve seen a lot of people have success by using this one here as an undercling.” After whipping a small brush from the loop on his chalk bag, he cleans the hold for me—a tiny puff of chalk floats away with the breeze from the fans.
I examine the wall, trying to see the move he’s hinting at. “Can you explain that?”
“Yeah.” He slides the chalk brush back into its loop at his waist. “It means you’ll grip it from underneath instead of trying to put your hand on top.” He approaches the wall, his tall, lanky limbs demonstrating the move with ease.
He makes it look so easy. Hopefully he won’t watch my own attempt. “Oh. I’ll try that, thanks.” I try not to focus on his pleasant blue eyes.
“Yeah, give it a go.”
After attempting to apply the move he just demonstrated, I start the route with way more ease. With his technique, it’s suddenly almost simple to bring my left hand around, then my right foot up below. I grip the undercling the same way he did. The rough, chalky surface is surprisingly easier to hold this way. Amazing.
I’m halfway up the wall when the guy chuckles. “See what a difference it makes?”
Knowing I can work on topping this route later, I hop down and thank him.
“No problem. Have fun with it.” His smile is sincere but he angles away just as a woman bounds out of the locker room. She’s stunning, with dyed purple hair and a gray bodysuit that accents a figure that could grace the cover of a modeling magazine. She probably is one. The climbing guy and this woman link hands and start looking for a climb to do together.
And this is why I’ve conditioned myself not to feel anything more than a fleeting awareness of men. It’s so much safer that way. Hard, but with just enough practice, I’ve learned how to protect my heart. At least I can do it about 89.7 percent of the time. I am still human after all, and that’s probably a good thing. There’s a rhythm to the process, regardless of the outcome. It goes sort of like this:
First, is acknowledging a man’s presence. That’s pretty straightforward.
Then, the noticing when they’re single. Following that, I decide if I should interact or not. All the while draping the situation in the mental and emotional padding of trying not to feel too much excitement. During this stage—whether it takes minutes, days, or even weeks—I assess the situation.
This time around, the guy has a girlfriend. That’s often the outcome. But he was just being polite and I don’t want to hold anything against him. Not anymore. I’ve gotten so much better at adapting to doing the 1-2-3 with guys. Notice, experience, assess. I’d so much prefer finding out that a guy has a gorgeous girlfriend bounding out of the changing room over the man who tries to hide a relationship altogether.
As for me, I study the yellow route again and get to work. It takes me three more tries to finally make it to the top, and when I jump down for the final time, there’s a satisfying sheen to my skin. Chalk graces the thighs of my leggings where I keep swiping my hands. Exhausted, I lay back on the mats to catch my breath and pull off my shoes. From my peripheral vision, I see a male employee moving one of the industrial-sized fans closer. I sit up, catching a glimpse of a tanned wrist and a corded bracelet. The fan has been running the whole time, but now the air hits me full on. I close my eyes at the heavenly sensation.
There’s no time to thank whoever that worker was. At the sound of kids approaching, I sit up and shimmy out of the way. A boy and girl who probably aren’t more than ten years old fling themselves at the wall, crawling up with childish energy like spider monkeys. It’s a wonder to watch. When they reach the top, they high-five and leap down with just as much spring in their steps. There’s something about the fearless way kids jump right in and have fun. The pair of them scurry off in search of a new section of wall to conquer.
Beyond the windows of the massive gym, a Colorado sunset brilliantly lights the distant buildings. The sky is ablaze in shades of pink and yellow—glowing across the window panes like a halo. The view is so gorgeous, I sit and soak in the sight, absorbing its beauty, while the pulse of the gym keeps a steady rhythm of music, camaraderie, and even laughter.
As I return to my cubby to top off my chalk bag, the receptionist is striding over. I sit on the bench and adjust my shoes.
“I’m glad I caught you!” Catching her breath, she tosses her long blonde braid behind her shoulder. “I wanted to let you know something.” She plops down on the bench beside me like we’re old friends. “We have a full roster for the competition, including the beginner level.”
“Oh cool.” I try to sound upbeat but am actually terrified that this is really happening.
“Do you see that woman over there?” She points toward the emergency exit where it’s quiet. “In the green leggings?”
I nod. The woman’s hair is draped by a black head scarf which must be for cultural or religious purposes, and it only makes her more intriguing as she scales the climb I was just struggling on.
“Her name is Eleni and she’s been coming for about two months. That’s one of the women in your category. She’s super nice and since you’re both new, I wanted to point her out to you.” The receptionist smiles and I’m kind of regretting that I never thought to ask her name. A shimmery name tag near her right shoulder says Cassidy. Why did I never notice that before? I’ve been so focused on what I’m here to achieve, that I hadn’t thought to try and make friends. The realization has me taking this gal’s suggestion to heart. She’s thoughtfully pointing me in the direction of another beginner.
Cassidy continues. “The other female in the V1-V2 level is a teenager named Justice. She comes in the mornings with her mom so you might not have seen her yet, but I hope you do. They’re both super nice and I think you ladies are all going to do great.”
That’s honestly really neat. “Thanks for telling me this. I’m glad to know. I’ll try and say hi before I leave today.”
She flashes a bright smile, then when a new customer taps the bell at the check-in desk, she dashes off. “Good luck!” she calls behind her.
Glancing back across the gym to the stranger, I bite the side of my lip. Ten seconds ago making new friends was all in theory but now it’s kind of real. Am I brave enough to just walk over to someone and say hi? Then again, I’m getting more accustomed to stepping outside of my comfort zone. Why not go over? There’s no time like the present.
I start that way while the woman uncaps a bottle of water. The drink she takes gives me time to approach and I slow, not wanting to be awkward. When she lowers the bottle, her warm eyes are curious, friendly.
“Hello.” I point toward the front desk. “I was just told that you’ll be in the competition next month. I am too, so wanted to say hello. It sounds like we’re both beginners.” I smile, and when she smiles in return, the worry starts to fade.
“Oh. It is so nice to meet you.” Her English is slow but flawless. “My name is Eleni.” She reaches out and extends a hand toward me.
I shake it. “Sadie. It’s really nice to meet you.” I gesture to the wall. “You look great up there. How long have you been climbing?”
“Only a short while,” she says with an elegant and gentle air. “My husband. . . he comes to work with the weight machines. I got tired of watching and one day decided to try and climb the wall like the others.” She grins, flashing white teeth set against bronze skin. “And I make it to the top on first try! I was even in dress pants.” With long, lean fingers, she indicates a flowy motion around her ankles. “And he was so stunned that he took me same day to buy exercise clothes.”
I giggle. “Good for you.”
“Would you like to take a turn?” She sizes up the wall again.
This is the section I’ve been struggling on. But hey, that’s the point of all this. To learn. “Sure, thanks. I might need some tips.” Dipping my hands into my chalk bag, I sift through the silky coating and brush off the excess.
I start at the bottom, flowing smoothly enough until the halfway point when every position feels strained and sketchy. Doubt and embarrassment kick in. But to my relief, Eleni cheers me on. There’s a wholeness to the moment that floods me with calm. My powdery fingers grip a decent-sized jug—one that feels as natural as holding a doorknob or ladder rung. I need to trust this move. I know how to do this. But my right toe seems so unsteady. If I lift it, the lack of balance could send me plummeting.
Eleni calls up for me. “Try and place foot closer to the right.”
When I do as she advises, it allows me to gain just enough balance to keep going. A few more seconds and I’m nearing the top. I grip both hands on the finish hold, making sure to count for two seconds so that it’s an official finish, then twist away from the wall to smile back at Eleni. She gives a fist pump and the gold bracelet on her wrist catches the light. I beam down at her.
After descending, we laugh about how we both struggled on the same move. “Thank you so much for your help,” I say. I gather up my chalk bag, knowing I’ll have to head off now in order to catch the bus. “I hope I’ll see you around here again.”
“Me too. We can help one another.”
“I’d like that.” I give a wave then head off to change into street shoes, my heart more full than it’s been in a long, long time.