The Truth

This past week I was in Red Rocks Canyon climbing during spring break. For me it was a week off from work and also a week off from my training. Even as I was recovering, this project—and more specifically the idea of truth—was on my mind.

At the end of my freshman composition class, I ask each student to look at how he or she did on each of the individual skills that we studied during the trimester. For example, when it comes to sentence fluency, they need to consider whether they exceeded, met, or did not meet the standard. Meeting is a B. Exceeding is an A. They were also asked to look at the aggregate of the various scores for the individual skills and determine how they think that they did overall. There were quite a few students who said that, although they did not exceed on many traits, they thought they deserved an A because they tried really hard.

My buddy, Andrew, and I attempted to climb a 2,000 foot rock climb called Epinephrine while we were in Red Rocks. On the third pitch (out of about 17) I led up what I thought was the route. The climbing got significantly harder and more dangerous than I thought it should. In struggling with the thin crack and lack of feet, I busted open my finger tips. Blood was everywhere—on my gear, the rock, my hands. I continued up, placing very insecure gear hoping for something to change. It didn’t. Eventually I wedged a chock in the crack and lowered off back to the belay. From there I started up a wide and difficult to protect chimney. I climbed up…then back down. I searched out on the face and deep in the cold recesses of the crack for a way to make passage. Ultimately I failed to make it to the next belay station. That section of the route is graded only 5.6, which makes it—in theory—easy enough for the most novice climber. But I failed. There was no way around the fact that although I tried—the wounds still adorn my hands as evidence—I was not successful, was deeply humbled, and was more than a little humiliated by my failure.

The harsh truth is that trying does not equal success. This is one of the things that I respect most about climbers. They understand that there are no points for trying. You either ascend the route, or you don’t. They comprehend this cold dichotomy in a way that many of my freshmen don’t. It is true that effort is to be acknowledged. Without effort, there is never growth. However, one should never assume that effort always results in growth and effort itself is not growth; it is only output.

Too often we are willing to lie to ourselves and live in the land of delusion because we don’t want to know the truth, which is that we failed. Climbing punishes self-delusion in a way that few other sports do. Death, paralysis, or broken bones can be the result when the climber does not look honestly at himself and the situation. As for my freshmen, I understand that they are just barely teenagers and have long way to go in terms of developing the ability to reflect honestly upon their strengths and weakness, but as a teacher I will not be one more person patting them on the back with a generic “Good job!” and sending them down the line. At a certain point they will come face to face with reality. Perhaps that moment will come when they are sitting in a final exam during their inaugural college year. The platitudes that inflated their sense of self-worth will evaporate leaving them exposed to the truth of the situation. What might they think of me then?

I am a month away from the ultra-marathon, which is my thesis defense. Passing the 26, then 35, then 40 mile marks are the penetrating questions. Did I learn to hydrate and balance electrolytes? Was the hill training adequate? Have I learned to control my head when the task becomes more psychological than physical? Whether I exceed, meet, or fail, it is incumbent upon me to face the truth. I cannot claim what I did not earn, yet I can celebrate what I was truthfully able to achieve.