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esandcasg · 1 year

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Big A went to the Lake District and here is my blog

Overview

I’ll not give loads of details but I went as part of an annual trip my brother in law and some of his mates do. They’ve been going for years. Varying levels of fitness - three very fit (including my brother in law, regular walkers and cyclers), two in the middle, two slow.

The Walks

Three of them all told. The first one was about 23km - from Patterdale up over St Sunday Crag, across to Fairfield Peak, down and round Griesdale Tarn and then up to Dollywaggon Pike. From there we walked down the valley back into Patterdale.

Second one was I’m told about 20km - a walk from Patterdale round the east side of Ullswater to Pooley Bridge. Low elevation, mostly keeping to just above the water level.

Third one was from Patterdale up past Angle Tarn to High Street, then back down via the valley to Harstop and then Patterdale. Dunno how far as I’d left my watch at the airbnb but we were out for about 7 hours.

The Good

I survived.

Endurance-wise I was fine. My legs got pretty tired towards the end of the second walk, but by then I think I was as hungry as I was tired. More on that anon. But certainly even after the exertions of the first walk - including a direct slog up Dollywaggon - I still had plenty left in the tank for a brisk walk to the pub down the valley, getting there with the first group.

The last time I went I was very slow, and I wasn’t sure whether this was down to having had a stomach bug about a week before. I was faster this time, very much in the middle of the pack and, on flatter ground, able to set the pace or be in the starting group.

I didn’t get any blisters, and my karrimor boots continued to perform well; though the right one had developed a weird clicking sound which became the source of amusement.

The Bad

A number of things here.

Layering. I got this wrong on a couple of occasions. The first walk I wore no base layer on my legs and a wicking tee as a base on my torso, under a fleece and a shell. At the top of ridges/fells it was cold and very windy. Part of the trip was to launch the ashes of the father of one of the lads off Dollywaggon Pike in a firework, which was great, but involved much standing around. By that point I swapped my shell for an insulated jacket but I started shivering. I had my ME thick gloves on as well. Warmed up quickly on the descent, but still. Put on my merinos, top and bottom, for the next two walks; much better. BUT - I could probably make a reasonable case for investment in a) a new hat (the elastic has almost gone in my OR one) and b) a thicker fleece to carry around and whack on as necessary. A belay jacket would be good - maybe I could get one of those £60 down ones from Uniqlo that stuffs down to a small size.

Food. Did not bring nearly enough. I should have brought a lot of chocolate or other sugary/carby snacks. Didn’t. I can’t pretend it would have helped me be quicker or stronger but it would have stopped me flagging which became an issue particularly on day 3.

Knowing my own limitations. I worry about balance a lot. Exposure makes me feel a little uncomfortable, and steep downhills worry me. I constantly worry about slipping or losing my balance. I don’t know whether I have balance issues, mild vertigo, or am lacking strength in stabilising muscles, but this became a problem on the third walk. We came down a direct route from High Street to a valley and I slipped over 4 or 5 times. Only once particularly painfully, thank goodness. My legs were tired, my left knee hurt. I don’t know whether it was just a walk too far, or whether I would have struggled with anything steep. Anyway, it might be worth having a walking pole for such eventualities.

Uphill struggles. Anything vaguely steep slowed me right down. I had to do 30 steps then stop for breaths. Sometimes less than this on very steep bits. I think part of this is down to just not doing this sort of thing much. But I also think some is down to muscle strength.

In conclusion

Hmm. Am I the sort of person that is going to do this sort of walking on the regular? I don’t live near anything like this, not really. I don’t have the means to travel that regularly to somewhere like the Lakes. So I don’t know how much I need to put pressure on myself. I think I could realistically do a bit more. I could get out on my bike more. I could also do more squats. Leg strength probably wouldn’t be that much of a chore to develop.

Big A

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esandcasg · 2 years

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B Dog’s Training Update

Biking. In the words of a great Welsh philosopher reflecting on his surfing career - “I'm bloody over it”.

Over the summer I have slowly lost my motivation to bike. It started with deciding not to race in June - and to basically not bother with racing going forward - which was effectively like the air going out of an ageing and wrinkly balloon. I just couldn’t be bothered to invest the time into it when you can go for a run and achieve the same thing in about a quarter of the time.

It left me in a position where I wasn’t really sure what to do with sport and exercise. I did a bit of running, which was fine, but as always with running and me it is always a ticking countdown towards the injuries starting to roll in. Which they eventually did. As you both know, I am involved with music a lot, and I started to wonder whether I should just accept that that is my main focus now, and exercise is just something to keep me going.

But I couldn’t quite accept that. Heidi started directing me towards swimming. Sebastian is involved in the swimming club, so this could be a good thing to do together. But I wasn’t massively motivated. Then Lily started playing football a few months ago and that started me thinking about taking up football again. Whilst it is fun, I knew realistically that my body just wouldn’t hold up to football. I was injury prone enough 10 years ago, never mind after taking a long hiatus with very little football specific conditioning in that period.

But then on holiday last week, something happened. Or some things. I purposely took my goggles with me and started doing a daily training session in the pool. It felt great. One evening - beer in hand - I started looking at the times from the Norwegian Master’s Championships earlier this year, and tbh, for my age group, it is winnable. Of course, this is based on times that I swam in my teens, but I was a skinny runt back then, so surely a 42 year old Adam beats a 16 year old Adam. Right? Well, that is what I want to find out.

So armed with fresh motivation and positivity I went to my first training session last night. And it was such an uplifting experience. Sure, I was quickly fatigued, and not in particularly great shape, swimming wise, but it definitely felt like the right thing to be doing. Nice group of people, the coach was really positive, and it just felt like a good workout.

Part of the issue with racing is that I am competing against a younger and fitter self. This is something that T Man has managed to mentally differentiate well and accept, but I can’t do it. I feel like I have to be doing better and going faster, otherwise it is demotivating. Or maybe I should say that with racing there has to be a sense of being able to win. Realistically, I am not going to win a bike race, so the winning is winning against myself. Which isn’t going to happen because I used to train 10 hours a week in Stavanger and weighed about 10kg less. But with swimming I don’t have that feeling. Partly because it is 26 years since I last trained, but also because I do feel - judging by times - that I can be competitive. Not sure if any of this makes any sense, but there you go.

See what happens! Midlife crisis, or a return to the glory days of swimming galas and trying to avoid a boner in my speedos? We’ll see.

B(oner) Dog.

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esandcasg · 2 years

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Its David Byrne's Birthday today

youtube

#Youtube

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esandcasg · 2 years

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B Dog’s Training Update

Just three weeks to race day.

Have I signed up yet? Am I ready? Both of these important questions can be answered in the negative.

Will I actually go through with this? Hm. Maybe.... Yes... we’ll see.

I actually feel in really good shape when it comes to climbing and shorter intensive sessions. There is a loop that I often do which incorporates 500m of climbing in just 20km, so really quite brutal. This is where I train a lot in the winter in the snow, and using a fatbike with thick tyres in the snow has ultimately led to a lot of strength.

There is a “summit” resting point which I usually push hard to, and if I can get there under 30 mins (in the summer) then I am happy. 29, 29.30 has typically been really good. Yesterday I managed it in 27 minutes.

So some form is there, but the issue I have is that I have not trained for endurance at all. By now I would have hoped for some longer, 2 hour sessions, but I just haven’t managed it for one reason or another (mainly life getting in the way). The race is only 55km, so it’s not like a 90km, 3 hour race like I often did back on the west coast, so I am sure that I can get through this, but it’s akin to someone training for a 10k and then suddenly running a half marathon. It’s gonna hurt!

We’ll see. I have biked a lot over the winter and put the effort in, so it would be a shame not to do it, that is my current thinking.

B Dog.

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esandcasg · 2 years

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esandcasg · 2 years

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B Dog’s Training Update

Don’t adjust your screens.

Where to begin!? I decided some weeks ago to commit to racing this summer. My winter - in terms of training - has been pretty decent overall. In the old days of biking in Stavanger I would tend to focus on endurance and aerobic threshold in the winter, trying to maximise time in the seat over any real intensive training, which would then begin early spring.

Since moving, that has become a bit more difficult. The winters here aren’t particularly designed for spending hours at a time out on the bike, and being honest, I am not sure that I have that sort of desire to take it as seriously any more. So my winter training has mainly been on the fatbike on the snow/ice/roads, trying to maximise hills as much possible and build strength.

Now that the spring has come and I have transferred to my racing MTB, I am focusing more on building speed endurance and have effectively bypassed that whole endurance building block. Of course, this will inevitably lead to perhaps less than ideal results in the summer, but the races that I will target early in the season will mainly be 40-50km, so it feels like I can likely get away with it, versus facing 80-90km races in May like before.

But coming out of the winter my form actually feels pretty decent tbh. I am quite heavy, so going uphill is not... tuned, shall we say, but in terms of general conditioning and motivation to go out and push some hard sessions I am in a pretty good place. Hence my decision to look at racing!

It will effectively be 3 years since I have raced. My last outing coming in 2019 before covid ruined such activities, and at that time I struggled with the transition of biking in Stavanger, which is relatively flat, to here, which is much, much hillier. Three years on, I do feel like I have adjusted, so have set myself the fairly easily achievable goal of beating my time from 3 years ago.

Two months to go still though!

B Dog.

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esandcasg · 2 years

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2022

Well, I’m not going to attempt to comment on 2021, other than to say that I hope 2022 brings health and happiness to my ES&CASG brothers, as well as to anyone who has enjoyed reading our pearls of wisdom/dodgy mountaineering writing.

Big A

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esandcasg · 2 years

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Epilogue – The Tunnel

For a moment I was home. Back on the veranda of my hut at dusk. Watching the sun go down over the tops of trees in the jungle. Hearing the sounds of the night draw in, sipping a glass of Laphroaig Quarter Cask, letting the cool breeze sweep away the day’s heat. I was at peace again. Every muscle in my body was relaxed, sitting in my bamboo rocking chair, totally alive. Totally at peace.

I watched as the lights came on in the village huts. My neighbours were cooking dinner, getting kids to bed, putting the dishwasher on, busying themselves with their evening routines. There was a strong sense of community here; I’d felt it for the six years I’d lived here. I resolved that tomorrow would be the day I introduced myself to everyone.

A motorbike engine could be heard, very quietly, somewhere far away. I focused in on the sound, listening as it gradually drew closer. I knew it was coming down the solitary road to the village and I knew whoever was on it was coming for me.

I finished my whisky, throwing the glass to one side. Although I was disappointed that it just stuck in the mud rather than break dramatically, I had no time to think about it now. I stepped off the veranda and onto the ground in front of my hut.

The sound drew nearer. I could see the light from the bike reflected off the palm leaves. I braced myself for whatever was to come, my hands balled into a fist.

“Andrew”

The voice came like a whisper from behind me. The noise of the motorbike roaring in my ears, I turned away from it and looked back onto the veranda at the figure standing there.

“Andrew,” Ifan said again. “Open your eyes.”

My shoulder was being shaken. As a result of it being attached to the rest of my body, I started to wake. The dream faded and reality – if that’s what this was – came back into focus. I slowly opened my eyes and remembered where I was. The corridor in the mountain. As I got to my feet, Adam moved away from me to a point further down the path we were on.

I couldn’t tell you how long we’d been here, walking. There was no way to know. A glance at my watch told the same time as it had when we stepped into the tunnel, and I knew that must have been weeks ago now. There were periods of time where we were awake, and periods of time where we were asleep. There were no days and nights, not anymore. The same dark path, once unfamiliar, now the entirety of our existence.

It was difficult to think back to that point. We both knew, Adam and I, that once we had crossed that line and taken our first steps down this path, that there would be no way back. We’d been looking for years now, and this was what we were looking for. If he was going to be anywhere, it was here.

The ringing was back. Or, rather, I was noticing it again. It was always there, in the background, but I had stopped hearing it consciously. The ringing accompanied that dull, ceaseless headache that I’d had for weeks now. It had become part of the fabric of the world around us. There was nothing but the path, the headaches, the ringing and us.

I stopped, watching Adam crouched down, staring at the floor, about fifty metres ahead of me. We’d been walking for hours without talking, as we did every day. I shifted my pack off my shoulders and down to the floor in front of me. Gritting my teeth through the pain I too crouched, taking out my bottle and drinking the water I was sure was slowly poisoning me.

Above the ringing sound I could hear a sound like a puff of smoke at regular intervals, like a steam engine running low on coal. I realised it was my own breath; laboured, failing.

The ground was warm beneath me. I had placed one hand down to steady myself, unsure of my balance in this place. The ground and the ceiling were the only physical constants here. The ground, like earth that had been smoothed over, and the vaulted red brick ceiling, polished and reflective, much like myself. On either side the same darkness, with whispered voices and unearthly sounds.

I put the bottle back in the side pocket of my pack, knowing that the next time I looked it would have filled straight back up, and stood up, trying to ignore the burning feeling in my thighs. Adam had straightened up now. He turned and walked slowly back towards me, holding something in his hand.

“Look,” he said. It was the first thing he’d said to me in hours. He extended his hand, palm facing upwards. On his hand was a small pile of dust, dark grey in colour. The dust seemed to move where it lay; a trick of the light perhaps, or a trick of my mind. “Look,” Adam said again, and swept the dust from his palm, leaving a small patch of dirt, just a few particles, sticking to his hand.

I looked. The remaining dirt seemed to be a different colour. It was duller, less vibrant, and it didn’t seem to move in his hand.

“What is it?”

Adam looked at the dirt, concentrating hard. Speaking seemed to come at great effort, requiring a huge amount of focus.

“This dirt… it isn’t from here. Everything in the place is strange. Off-centre. But this dirt… it’s mixed in with the rest. Just fragments of it. It’s not from here.”

I didn’t understand. “Where is it from?”

“A Ford Focus.”

I shook my head, trying to clear it and failing. I couldn’t quite understand Adam’s words. The meaning was there, but everything was enshrouded in fog.

The whispering seemed to be louder now. Involuntarily I glanced to the side, seeing nothing but feeling my skin crawl. I shivered.

“Ifan’s car,” I said finally. “It’s from Ifan’s car.”

Adam nodded.

“But how?” I asked? “How could it get along here?”

Adam shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied, betraying exasperation in his voice. “I don’t think this is… real. Any of it.” He paused, trying to remember something. “Do you remember when we were on that mountain? The one where we started seeing things?”

I shuddered, remembering the frozen faces of Korean climbers staring back at me. The memory seemed to be from a lifetime ago.

“I remember,” I said.

“We had visions. We each had visions. We were on the mountain but we were somewhere else as well. I think that’s what’s happening here. I think the ground is real, but everything else isn’t.”

I looked up at the red brick vaulted ceiling. It was no wider than a corridor. A car – even a car the size of Ifan’s – would have struggled to fit through a corridor of this size. But I knew Adam was right. I had known ever since we made the decision to step through the doorway into this tunnel that led so far away from everything we’d known. This wasn’t real. This was something else.

“So what does that mean? He came down here?”

“I think so. His car did, anyway. I don’t know.”

I looked down at the ground, lifting my eyes as I followed the path forwards into the darkness. I had no idea how long we would have to keep going, or whether we’d even find what we were searching for.

“Open your eyes,” said Adam.

My head turned to him sharply.

“What?”

Adam looked at me quizzically. “What?” he said.

“What did you say?”

“I said his car came down here.”

“No. You said…something else.”

Adam shook his head. “This place. It’s messing with our heads.” He walked back to where he’d left his pack and hoisted it back over his shoulders. “Come on”, he said.

But I didn’t follow. I stayed where I was, staring at the floor.

Adam turned and saw I was still standing on the same spot.

“What is it?”

“Ifan,” I said. “He’s here. Somewhere. I can feel it.”

“How do you know?”

“I just… I just know. He’s here. He’s trying to reach us.” I looked up at Adam. “Get some rest Pam,” I said. “You look tired.”

MOBY MUSIC PLAYS

To be continued…..

#Vertical Summit 2

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esandcasg · 2 years

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Chapter 16 : Call The Shots

“Was that it?” Asked Ifan, a question he’s been asked so many times over the years.

He barely managed to get the words out as lightning started flashing around us. The first strike came down just fifty meters away, and we collectively stepped backwards in surprise. Another strike hit the ground behind us. And another.

As the flashes continued, it took a moment to realise what was wrong. There was no sound. No crack of thunder from above. No crackle of electrical charge reverberating around the mountain top even. Total silence.

The lightning flashed around the mountain summit plateau in all directions though it seemed to strike the areas around the edges, never venturing too close to the centre where we stood. The sharp blasts of light illuminated the area around us, but the dark sky above remained untouched as if it was a black hole, devoid of any substance.

We exchanged looks between us.

“What the hell is going on?” Asked Andrew, his face intermittently lit up by the flashes, a moment that will look great in a George Lucas green screen production.

As suddenly as it started, the lightning flashes stopped. I had long ago lost count of the individual strikes, but I estimated that there must have been between two and three hundred flashes in total.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “But this doesn’t feel good.”

From below our feet there was a subtle sensation of the ground trembling. I looked down and could see small rock particles dancing around my feet.

“Yeah, I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” said Han Solo, who had suddenly appeared next to Andrew and which made as little sense as his arrival in Episode IX.

Fifty meters in front of us, where the first strike had hit, the ground started moving. Small, subtle movements at first, but then greater as rock particles were thrown to the side. The arms of a man broke through the surface. He crushed the rock around him to one side as if it was made of polystyrene, and climbed out of the hole that he had created.

He rose to his feet, head bowed, and stood facing us. He was dressed in a blue mountaineering down-suit, which had long ago seen better days. It was ripped in various places, and was caked in frost and snow as if he had just crawled out of a frozen tomb.

He raised his head slowly and there was a noticeable draw of air from myself and Ifan, whilst Andrew gave out of a scream. His face was rotten, the flesh partly gone or at least in the process of being eaten by the unforgiving force of frost bite. His nose and cheeks were missing, replaced with a black nothingness as dark as the sky above us. He smiled, revealing a set of death more crooked and black than Leighton’s.

I was in no doubt that the figure standing in front of us was the body of Fred Viesturs, our hero saviour who had sacrificed himself on Kangleong almost ten years ago. He had somehow come back to life.

“Fred?” I asked, disbelief etched in my voice.

From all around us came movement, as rock was pushed to the side and other mountaineers started climbing out. All were missing skin on their faces. Some were missing body parts.

All were dead.

The only visible difference was their clothing. Some wore modern and bright coloured down suits. Some wore more traditional attire from mountaineering expeditions from over a century ago.

It took a moment to realise that every lightning strike now represented a dead mountaineer, as if they had somehow been transported down into the rock. There were hundreds of them and we were completely surrounded.

Viesturs started walking towards us, arms outstretched and growling, like Ifan when he clocks a free buffet. His progress was slow as he staggered over the summit plateau. He was missing a foot as a result of the serac that had crushed him and ultimately taken his life on Kangleong.

“Fuck this!” Shouted Ifan, who dropped his daypack onto the ground and took out his M134 Minigun. He loaded the roll of 7.62mm high-caliber rounds, lifted the gun, and aimed towards Viesturs.

The mountain up until now had been quiet, but there was an eruption of noise as Ifan opened fire. His aim was shit as he struggled to control the vicious recoil. The ground between us and Viesturs erupted into thousands of shards of rock that exploded into the air, but eventually Ifan got a handle on the force and he cut through Viesturs in one blast. It was as if he had swallowed a grenade as his body instantly turned into chunks of dead flesh and he was thrown backwards onto the cold rock.

With that the other mountaineers were in motion, some walking, some staggering, some running. But all with one thing on their mind.

“Snap out of it, guys,” shouted Ifan between blasts of the Minigun.

It sparked Andrew and I into action. I reached behind me and grabbed my M-41A Pulse Rifle from Aliens. Andrew drew his Special Johnson laser blaster from 6th form physics.

We instinctively stood with our backs to each other in a triangular formation, taking aim at and systematically destroying the encroaching monsters in front of us. The noise was deafening and gun, laser and pulse smoke filled the area, threatening to limit out visibility.

Chunks of dead mountaineer flew in all directions. I occasionally pumped the grenade launcher chamber and aimed for a group of mountaineers that we close together.

We never stopped to think about who these people were, or what they wanted. We instinctively knew that it wouldn’t end well if they got too close.

“I’m out!” Shouted Ifan, dropping the M134 to the floor. He reached into his daypack and drew another roll of ammunition. But he was too slow. There was a shout as a mountaineer landed on top of him and they fell backwards onto the bare rock. The mountaineer was dressed in a red down suit that was split open in his crotch, his ding-dong underneath shriveled and black as if he’d been to Bangkok for a stag do.

“Ifan!” Shouted Andrew, grabbing the mountaineer and wrestling him off Ifan. He aimed his laser and with a single blast removed the mountaineer’s head, which rolled along the floor towards us.

“Fuck you!” Yelled Andrew, as he kicked the head with as much force as he could manage. It sailed through the air, missing Jimmy Hill, and went through a window.

There was a groan as Ifan got to his feet. He inspected something on his left forearm, a look of concern etched on his battle-scarred, yet handsome face.

But I didn’t have time to consider what this meant. By now there were only around fifty mountaineers remaining, but they were closing in.

“Come on, let’s finish this,” I said. I helped Ifan reload the Minigun and watched with concern as he avoided using his left hand. Instead he impressively picked the gun up with his right hand and once again unleashed fury on the targets in front of us.

As the final mountaineer fell, silence descended on the mountain summit.

“Is that it?” Asked Ifan once again.

From behind us came the sound of clapping, two big mountaineering mitts banging together. We turned around to see Craven standing twenty meters away.

“Impressive. Most Impressive,” he said. “You surprised me. But that was just part one of today’s adventure.”

Andrew raised his laser towards Craven with the intention to shoot. Craven extended his hand and suddenly the laser was dragged out of Andrew’s hands and flew through the air to Craven, as if it was attached on a piece of rope. Which it was. He cast aside the laser and wiggled his finger at him in a disapproving manner, like the T-1000.

I dropped my gun onto the floor and kicked it away. No way did I want Craven’s finger. Ifan looked interested, however.

Craven took a step towards us. We instinctively took a step backwards.

“You know my plan all along has been to put an end to mountaineering[1]” He said. “Those dead mountaineers were every single person who has died on Kangleong since it was first attempted in 1902. 247 people. A majority still slowly rotting up there. Gone forever yet never mentioned. Not one word written about them in mainstream literature like Vertical Summit. Young men and woman and Koreans whose families still mourn them.”

[1]This is likely made up.

He took another step towards us.

“This ends today. Mountaineering will end today.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And the journey for either you or I will end today.”

He rolled up his sleeve to reveal a control panel, not too dissimilar to Ifan’s. He pressed a series of buttons and slights started flashing, similar to when Ifan does it. A beeping noise started that was barely audible where we stood. That bit was a bit different, as Ifan’s appears to have a greater built in speaker.

“The countdown sequence is initiated. You walked into a trap, my friends.”

Andrew turned to me. “I told you it was a trap.”

“Shut up!” Shouted Craven. ��This is the final reckoning,” he said, his voice booming now as he grew in excitement. “You will choose the test. You have one hour to pass. Otherwise mountaineering dies… and so do you.”

We looked at each other, confusion etched on our faces. But there was something else. Fear.

“What? Mountaineering dies? How?” Asked Ifan.

“This mountain is connected to every single mountain the world through a series of complex tunnels. Once this one detonates it will reduce them all to a pile of rubble. And mountaineering dies. People will no longer mourn lost loved ones lost to the Gods.”

I struggled to grasp the sheer physics of this plan. Was it possible? But I had seen Craven’s weapons in action. There was surely no doubt.

“So choose!” Shouted Craven.

“Choose what?” Shouted Andrew back.

Craven smiled. “Your greatest mountaineering challenge.”

I turned to Ifan and Andrew. “This is like Ghostbusters with the marshmallow man. Don’t think of anything otherwise we’ll have to scale K2 in an hour. Keep your minds totally blank, okay?”

“But you just mentioned scaling K2 in an hour, so it’s probably that now,” pointed out Andrew.

“Actually, you can drive up K2 in about fourty minutes now since they added the camp four bypass, so I think that’s probably okay,” said Ifan.

“Okay,” I said, exasperated. “Then don’t think of anything else. Okay?”

A few seconds later, Craven spoke once more.

“The choice is made.”

“No!” I shouted back. “We didn’t choose anything.”

But clearly I was wrong. Fog descended almost instantly, engulfing us. We could no longer see Craven. In fact, we could barely see each other, even at a close proximity. I looked at Andrew and Ifan in turn.

“What did you guys do?” I shouted. “What have you chosen?”

Suddenly Ifan collapsed onto the floor, groaning. We watched as colour drained from his face.

“Ifan!” Andrew and I exclaimed in unison, squatting down next to him. He had his head in his hands and looked seriously unwell.

“What is this?” I asked.

Andrew looked proud. “I chose. I chose the world’s 14 smallest mountains.”

“No,” countered Ifan. “It’s not that. Even Craven wouldn’t get that idea. It’s something else… it’s my fault… it just popped into my head.”

Andrew and I could only look at Ifan.

“What then?” I eventually asked.

“Think back to 2007. The Lake District.”

Oh no. I felt my jaw physically drop as the realisation dawned on me.

“You mean…”

“Yes, I have to descend Scafell with a mother fucker of a hangover.”

I let out a sigh of relief. I thought for a moment I had to climb the flower pots again.

I grabbed Andrew and walked him some meters away so that Ifan couldn’t hear. Even at this short distance we couldn’t see our broken friend through the mountain mist.

“He needs serious help or we won’t make it,” I said. “He needs Alka seltzer. Do you have any?”

Andrew could only give a shake of the head.

“Fuck!” I exclaimed.

We walked back to Ifan. “Come on, mate. We need to do this. The longer we sit here the less time we have to get down.”

Eventually he got to his feet and started staggering down the slopes of Scafell (I actually had to google lake district highest mountain to remember what it was called). Andrew and I set off, though this time we refrained from just blitzing away and leaving him to his own devices, instead half carrying him down as we jogged, the constant click of Andrew’s ankle somehow representing the seconds ticking away.

“I figure we need to get back to that campsite to complete this,” I said. “So we need to set a fast pace.”

After thirty minutes of exertion we arrived at the carpark. Ifan dug into his bag and went to hand me the car keys.

“I don’t think that will work this time,” I said. “I think you need to drive.”

Colour seemed to drain from Ifan’s face even more. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Sure you can, you never know, you might like it.” (I might have used this particular Point Break quote in previous chapters, in which case I apologise for my unoriginality, which has been flawless up until now)

We all climbed into Ifan’s Focus. It was a joy to be back in the old beast.

He set off down the country lane at a slow pace. I felt my frustration rising, like each time I am passenger when Heidi is driving. I nervously checked my watch. We didn’t have long left. “Ifan, we need to step on it, mate.”

But I knew it was useless, he was swerving all over the road and appeared to be struggling to concentrate. Then came the immortal words.

“Oh no, I think I am going to be sick...”

It was Brenda and Eddie’s special day. One that they had planned for over a year since Eddie had proposed, and one that Brenda had dreamed of for years.

The ceremony had been perfect. They left the church to the sound of applause and confetti flying through the air. The church bells rang.

Brenda stood at the top of the church stairs and looked over all of her friends and family, everyone she loved in one place. It couldn’t get any more perfect…

Suddenly there was a screech of tyres as a Ford Focus came abruptly to a halt in the church carpark, just meters from where they stood. A muscular man sporting a Mountain Hardware T-Shirt with a stupid logo onit, biceps bursting out of the arms, piled out of the driver’s seat and collapsed on the asphalt besides the car.

At once the man started throwing up. Massive waves of brown vomit that never seemed to end.

All the guests stopped and stared, open mouthed. Brenda began to cry.

I jumped out of the Focus and ran around to Ifan, sliding over the bonnet like a bad ass, but careful not to scratch the paint and therefore preserve the resell value of the Focus.

I crouched down beside him. “Come on, Ifan, we need to go.”

I checked my watch. Just a few minutes remained for us to get back to the campsite, and truthfully I had no idea how much further it was.

“I don’t think I can go on,” said Ifan. “It’s over, Craven wins.”

Suddenly Andrew appeared next to me. He gingerly picked his way through the lake of beer vom.

“I think I know what this is about he,” he said, producing the infamous pot of couscous. “I think you need to eat this to end Craven’s game.”

Ifan, like the wedding guests, could only look in horror. He reached out and took the M&S pot of lighty spiced rolled wheat, garnished with chunks of cucumber and pepper.

Just one minute remained. He gave out an audible gulp.

“It’s now or never, Ifan.”

Like the legend he is, he tilted his head back and poured the couscous into his mouth and swallowed…

We were briefly engulfed in fog once more. As it cleared I looked up to see Craven standing in front of us.

“You have surprised me once again, my sons. But it won’t save you.”

Andrew stepped forward. “You said that this was the deal.”

“I am altering the deal, pray that I don’t alter it further,” he said, for the second time in this book. Once again lightning started flashing around the sky. We all feared for what was next in Craven’s little game.

As if he also sensed this, and fueled by couscous, Ifan was in action, charging towards Craven. He caught him unexpectedly and they both crashed into the ground. Suddenly it was like a scene from the Matrix as Ifan unleashed a series of blows to Craven’s torso at such a speed it was almost impossible to see with the human eye.

*Cutscene to the Nebuchadnezzar where we see blood spray from Craven’s mouth. Trinity wipes it away.*

Ifan pulled out his sidearm and placed it against Craven’s temple.

“Turn off the fucking bomb, Craven.”

“Nah, you turn it off.”

“No games, Craven. Turn it off right now, or I blow your fucking head off and turn it off myself.”

“That’s the only way it’s going to happen, my friend.”

Ifan tossed the gun to one side and grabbed Craven’s wrist. He started pressing buttons. The beeping that had been a constant one second interval up until that point suddenly sped up.

“Oops,” said Craven, in a mocking manner.

“Shit!” Shouted Ifan, turning briefly before swiveling back and delivering a monster blow to Craven’s temple, knocking him unconscious.

“What just happened?” Asked Andrew.

“I’ve fucked this. We’ve only got one minute before the bomb goes off. There’s no time.” Panic filled his voice. “Fuck, I knew I should have updated to the latest software.”

Something didn’t make sense. “But where is the bomb?” I asked.

“Craven is the bomb,” said Ifan. “More machine than man now, remember. This was always going to be his last stand. The finale. And when he goes off it is over.”

“Do we have time to run?” Asked Andrew. “It worked for Arnie.”

“Craven still wins.” I pointed down at my leg. “Anyway, my knee…”

“Yeah, my Achilles,” said Ifan.

“Fair point, my hip is a bit tight too,” said Andrew, doing his football hip mobility thing.

Ifan rolled up his sleeve and pressed some buttons on his own control unit. A few seconds later the C-Max arrived. “Help me get Craven in.”

“What is this?” Asked Andrew.

But Ifan didn’t answer, he was already at the still unconscious Craven, trying to pick him up. I ran over and grabbed his legs. Andrew used the opportunity to ring Suzanne and say goodbye.

“There’s only twenty seconds left,” said Ifan, “come on.”

We maneuvered Craven into the backseat of the C-Max, which was easier thanks to the sliding rear doors, which I had always disliked but now saw the benefit of.

But then it dawned on me what was about to happen.

“But Ifan…”

He looked at me and held my gaze for a moment, like the moment we met on the football pitch back in sixth form. Then he broke eye contact, reached down and rolled up the sleeve on his left arm. I saw a human bite mark on his forearm, and realized that it was this that he had been hiding for the last hour.

“That mountaineering thing got me. I don’t know how much longer I have anyway.”

By now Andrew had rejoined us. “Suzanne didn’t want to talk. But Ifan, you don’t know that. It could be nothing.”

But we knew. We could already see frost developing around the bite mark. He was turning into a frozen mountaineering corpse. Or it could just be frosting from a donut he had hidden up his sleeve.

“It doesn’t matter now. Someone has to do this.”

Eighteen seconds remained.

“But is there enough time to get Craven far enough away?” I asked.

“You forget that this baby is a time machine. I will take him into the past, into the history books, where this arsehole belongs.”

I turned to Andrew and gave him a smug smile.

“But there has to be some other way…?” said Andrew.

“Don’t make me say it,” said Ifan.

“But, Ifan…”

There was a pause for dramatic effect.

“This is the way,” he finally said. “Okay, I need to go, we are out of time. There’s only seventeen seconds left.”

“Wait,” said Andrew, “there’s always time for one last ceremonious cup of tea.”

He got his snow melter out and proceeded to brew a pot of English Breakfast, using a willow wand to stir.

Ifan finished his cup with a final slurp before throwing the dregs onto the floor.

“Vaia con dios,” he said, before jumping into the C-Max and flying off into the dark sky. He turned towards us, aiming to do one last fly-before heading back in time.

I suddenly thought of something. I jumped up and started waving my arms, trying to draw attention. It worked as he brought the C-Max to a stop, a few meters above where Andrew and I stood. The door opened and Ifan leaned out.

“What are we thinking?” I cried. “You’re in a time machine, we can just travel back and stop Craven, like I originally sugg…”

But I didn’t get to finish what I started. The C-Max was hit by a bolt of lightning. Sparks rained down on Andrew and I, and we both instinctively turned away to shield our faces. When we looked up again the C-Max was gone. Sparks continued to float down from the sky, but that was all that remained.

It was over. We had finally defeated Craven.

But I was struggling to gain any joy. We had won, but it was a hollow victory and one that we ultimately didn’t deserve, much like Max Crashtappen’s win in F1 yesterday.

I sat down in a heap on the floor, dejected. Ifan was gone.

I never even got to mention his bald spot in this book.

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esandcasg · 2 years

Video

youtube

I like the sound of this. Dunno when they’re releasing this album but it sounds like my cup of tea

#big a's music video postings that get ignored by T-Man and the B Dog.

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esandcasg · 2 years

Text

Chapter Fifteen - The Way Up

As I fell, emergency parachute billowing out behind me, a series of images played out in front. The same three questions haunted me. Would we ever be free of Craven? Will I ever be satisfied with the guitar pedals I have? Could they really not make a better film than The Rise of Skywalker? The last one had troubled me, consciously and unconsciously, for some time; I was only beginning to realise how much now. The incoherent plotting, poor characterisation, lack of originality and unsatisfactory culmination of what used to be a tight, focused, gripping story with themes of family, redemption and solidarity with furry dwarves had been too much for my brain to process on anything other than a superficial level. Now, slowly circling the col below, it was all I could think about.

The wind lazily buffeted me to and fro, my face occasionally scratched with snow, ice and insufficiently prepared Korean mountaineers that whipped past me in the air. I looked down at the ground reaching up to welcome me and realised that something had changed. It was me; I was wearing different boots.

I tried to land as a superhero would, with one knee touching the floor, but shattered a kneecap in the process and needed to have reconstructive surgery and an extensive two year rehabilitation program before I was ready to proceed with what would be the final* battle. I rose from the ground and stood, Michigan-style, each foot firmly planted with a layer of mushroom compost over each to add nutrients and block weed growth.

But where was I? In a nameless valley somewhere, on a pristine, untouched, icy glacier. Not that you get a non-icy glacier. Anyway, I was alone, that much I knew. In the fall from the drone Adam and I had been separated somehow (can’t be bothered to think of an explanation, sorry). But this didn’t seem to be anywhere related to where I had been previously.

I looked up. I could see, high above me, running from west to east, a mountain ridge line, slowly rising in altitude, until it was lost in a dark, swirling cloud, within which I could see flashes of lightning. I knew where I had to go. Spoiler alert: it was up there.

Discarding all bar my 400L daysack I began to climb directly up the slope, trying to get onto the ridge as soon as possible. I found myself wading through five foot deep drifts of snow, my crampons biting into hard ice beneath them. How far beneath the ice was the rock? I couldn’t tell, and it was probably a question just put in to bulk out this paragraph anyway. There didn’t seem to be any obvious route to follow; the slope was pockmarked with the usual shit; seracs, crevasses, rail replacement buses, anti-vaxxers. At a prominent rock feature which I snappily christened ‘The Third Chamber of Akhenaten’s primary temple of worship to the Aten (or sun-disk) at his capital city of Amarna/Akhetaten’ I found an aluminium ladder which the Chinese – it’s always the Chinese – had fixed to the face with blu-tac in 1978; gratefully I ascended its metal steps, pausing to admire the view down the glacier, resting my water bottle on the head of a Korean climber who had frozen to the ice many years ago.

I fixed rope through the more difficult sections; one on a stretch of loose, overhanging, brittle rock, too sheer for ice to cling tightly to; the second on a short ice field which I decided to climb whilst simultaneously patting my head and rubbing circles on my tummy. The day was eerily quiet, but then I’m fairly sure I’ve described every day like that up to now, so I was pretty used to it at this point in the narrative.

After eight months I reached the ridge line at an altitude of sixty thousand feet. I could feel the lack of oxygen in the air as I drew in short, painful breaths. I looked up at the route rising to what I presumed to be the summit, hidden within the ominous cloud that I knew was the elemental incarnation of Henry Craven. About two hundred metres ahead I could make out what looked like a small, two-man tent, precariously anchored to the mountain. I trudged slowly upwards, and as I approached I saw it wasn’t a tent but more a complex of yurts and portacabins, along with a communications tower.

As I stealthily approached the camp, doing my best to set off as few avalanches as possible (difficult in the conditions), I saw a head pop out of the nearest yurt, thankfully followed soon afterwards by a body. There was no mistaking the muscular, compact, sexy form of Ifan. He was the same as I remembered him, except with a beard, flecked nobly with grey, which hung down to his knees.

“The hell have you been?” he asked.

I took off my gloves, warming my hands against the fire and helping myself to a haloumi skewer.

“Conditions were tough,” I said. “Where’s Adam?”

“Packing,” said Ifan. “We’d almost given up on you.”

“Yeah well I had a problem with my knee…” I began but I could see Ifan wasn’t listening. I dumped my bag and headed over to the shower block. I undressed and let the hot water run over me, until one of the Sherpa working there told me I was actually standing in the kitchen, not the bathroom, and kindly directed me to the right place. I washed my hair and body, generously applying the mineral scrub I’d found in the shower cubicle, realising this would be my last chance to exfoliate for some time. After making sure I’d used up all the hot water, I stepped out, towelled off and made my way to the massage tent to oil up.

By the time I’d had my full body bamboo massage, pedicure and Turkish shave, it was evening. I donned my now dry-cleaned mountaineering gear and joined Ifan and Adam who were standing at the eastern end of the residential complex. We knew we needed to be off by 10pm in order to be at the summit before 2pm the next day. You’d think it wouldn’t really matter in a story like this, but there you go. Up ahead we could see what looked like the beams of headtorches in the night, flickering like glow worms, until we realised they were actually glow worms.

“What happened to you?” I asked Adam. I’d last seen him falling towards a lake before the gulfstream winds had blown me far, far away.

“Oh don’t worry about that now,” said Adam. “We’ve skipped past that bit. What matters is that we’re here, all together, ready to face the final countdown.”

“We’re leaving together,” said Ifan, by way of confirmation. “But still, it’s farewell.”

I looked up for about the fifteenth time this chapter, along the ridge up to the summit. I don’t know what I was expecting to be different this time. The six lumen strong beam of my headtorch lit up the first few hundred metres of cats eyes Ifan had laid the previous day to guide us upwards. The ridge was long and treacherous. There were, I could see, three distinct paths upwards, with long, deep crevasses either side of the middle path and sheer drops on one side of each of the outer paths. Snow blanketed each of the three paths, making it almost impossible to tell where the crevasses were covered by snow bridges.

“We’ll have to go single file.” I said. “Each one pick a path.”

After we all picked the left hand path, we spent forty-five minutes arguing over a process of deciding who would go where before we realised time was ticking onwards and we needed to get going. In the end Adam headed up the right hand path, Ifan the centre, leaving the path on the left for me, a decision I was initially jubilant about until I realised that poking out of the first few feet of path were the frozen bodies of eighty-six Korean climbers. Trying not to think about what my crampons were doing I inched forward as fast as I could, walking as if I were Andre Agassi between points. To my right I could see Ifan and, beyond him, Adam, doing the same, although they were just walking normally.

For a while we walked in silence, save for the sounds of the snow falling away beneath our feet and my ankle clicking repetitively.

Then something changed. The air was different, hazier, foggy without cloud. Everything became blurred. Instinctively we all stopped, waiting.

Suddenly everything changed. I heard a warning cry from Adam and turned to look at them both. I could see them, but only just. It was as if they were ghosts, outlines of who they were, reflections in a window. The mountain had changed and I realised now we were very much on separate paths. This then, was how it would begin. We were together but separate, fighting our way up a ridge that was different for each of us. In his mind’s eye, Adam saw the serac strewn ice field of The Sill where he’d gone snow blind years before. Ifan saw the terrifying, vertiginous Pyg Track on Snowdon, with its eighty thousand feet drops on either side. And I saw Brooklands Way, the street on the hill I had to walk up every morning to get the train from East Grinstead station that was always a bastard on my thighs at that time of the day.

I watched Ifan and Adam each facing their own personal torment, realising that they couldn’t help me now, and I couldn’t help them. Truth be told, I had my own shiz to deal with so I’m not sure I would have helped, given the option. I had to find a way up on my own and trust they’d be able to do the same.

I turned my head back to the ridge. Gritting my teeth I placed one foot in front of the other, alpine style, keeping my head down. I focused on individual landmarks; just get to that rock; just get to the empty can of fosters; just get to that patch of urine near the bus stop. Each landmark brought me closer to Sainsbury’s, where I knew the hill started to level out. I wondered if Starbucks would be open yet and salivated at the prospect of getting a pumpkin spice latte before remembering this was all an illusion and I was actually on a mountain I’ve been deliberately vague about describing or even naming. In a sense it didn’t really matter where we were. Were we on K2, Craven’s last bastion? Were we on Snowdon? Were we back on Kangleong? Were we just on some mock-up of a ridge with those wrap around video screens like they use filming The Mandalorian? Who knows? I don’t at this point, certainly.

Each step was more difficult than the last by a factor of ten. I could see parents with buggies coming towards me and with a gargantuan effort I stepped aside to let them past. In some distant part of my mind I knew that they weren’t parents and buggies but massive collapsing seracs and wondered whether Ifan and Adam were facing the same obstacles. I couldn’t look at them now, there was too much to concentrate on; the ground underneath me had become slippy and my crampons struggled to get purchase; to my mind it was as if the street had not been gritted yet in winter and patches of black ice decorated the pavement. I daren’t move too far to either side as I still remained the drop on one side and crevasse on the other; I knew whatever happened I had to remain on the pavement. I hope you’re all following me at this point, the pavement isn’t real, it’s all in my mind.

Another set of parents, another buggy, but this time a double buggy. I knew I couldn’t sidestep this one. I stopped in my tracks to try and figure out an avoidance tactic but the parents had now let go of the buggy and were laughing hysterically as it careened down the hill towards me. Moments before it hit I jumped, drawing out the rope I had coiled round my shoulder, attached it to one of those three pronged hooks, hooked it to a lamppost, tied the other end round the handle of the buggy, performed a triple somersault, tied my shoelace, then landed back on the ridge. The rope had secured the out of control buggy to the lamppost as the parents’ laughter died in the wind, but my footing was not as secure. As the ground swayed beneath me, the mountain came back into focus and my illusion disappeared.

I was teetering over the edge of the northern side of the ridge. I flapped my arms pointlessly which did nothing to help me balance and felt my weight carrying me down into the abyss. Desperately I dug in the front point of my crampons and much like Michael Jackson in the Smooth Criminal video, leaned forward whilst inexplicably keeping my feet flat on the ground. Then, in one ridiculously smooth movement I leaned back and righted myself on the slope.

I looked over at Adam and Ifan. It was clear their own paths had taken a toll. Adam stood upright but looked like he’d been walking through an icestorm. His clothing was ripped and a dreadful cut ran down his cheek. Seeing me looking at it, he pulled his pants up immediately and tried to retain some dignity. Ifan was lying on the ground, weeping, which had the unfortunate effect of freezing his eyes to the ridge. After a few minutes chiselling, however, he was free.

“Is that the worst you can do?” He yelled. I thought he was talking to me; my chiselling had indeed left a lot to be desired, but Ifan was raging at the dark cloud which was only a few feet away now. The three paths had converged again and started to level out. Somewhere ahead was the summit.

“Are we doing this?” I asked.

Adam held up his ice axe. “For Frodo.” He said. Then, with one last glance back at us, he ran in slow motion into the cloud.

Ifan yelled incoherently and followed him. For a moment I considered just leaving them to it, but only for half an hour or so, before I too charged forward and let the cloud envelope me.

Immediately I was surrounded by deep, damp fog. The ground beneath me was flat, barren rock. I edged forward carefully, drawing my ice axe, looking around me for signs of anything.

“ADAM!” I shouted. “IFAN!”

No response.

I kept inching forward, swinging my axe around me. The blade cut swathes through the murk but the space filled instantly. I could feel it suffocating me, crawling over my skin, in every pore.

And then suddenly I was standing in the middle of a flat, featureless expanse of bare rock, encircled by the grey cloud. Almost immediately, Adam and Ifan stumbled into the arena from separate directions.

“The hell are we?”

“This must be the summit,” I said.

“Of where?”

“Dunno,” I said. “Snowdon?”

“Where’s the gift shop?”

“K2”?

“Again, where’s the gift shop?”

From the cloud came a low booming voice.

“Sub-creatures! Craven the Craverian, Craven the Destructor, Volguus Zildrohar, the Traveller has come!”

Ahead of us, the cloud parted to reveal Henry Craven, but not the old, greying explorer we’d seen in history books and a five part documentary on Disney+; this was a younger, darker Craven, with long jet black hair and trendy stubble. He drew a long, curved ice axe from behind his back.

“We’ll take him together,” said Ifan.

“I’m taking him now!” yelled Adam and raced towards Craven, his ice axe raised. Adam swung his axe but with lightning speed Craven parried with such force that it sent Adam crashing backwards into me. As I struggled to get to my feet I saw Ifan too attempt to best Craven, and he too was sent flailing backwards. By this time Adam had got off me which left me free to cushion Ifan’s fall.

“This isn’t going to work,” I said.

“What do you suggest?”

“Well,” I said, finally back upright. “I have a radical idea. The door swings both ways, we could reverse Craven’s flow through the gate.”

“How?” asked Adam.

“We’ll cross the ice axes.”

“Cross the ice axes…” murmured Ifan.

“I don’t get the reference,” said Adam, “but I’m happy to give it a go.”

Thankfully all of this was said in a low register so that Craven couldn’t hear despite only being a few feet away. Anyway, we stood close together, our arms outstretched, our ice axes held high, and moved them closer together until the blades all rested on the others. There was a crackle of electricity.

“Wha…?” began Craven, beginning to understand what we were doing; but it was too late. Our walk had turned into a trot, our trot into a run and the run into a sprint as together we brought our collective ice axes down on Craven’s head.

There was a blinding flash of light and a silent roar. I felt myself wrenched backwards by an invisible force and landed painfully on the ground.

Then silence.

Gradually I opened my eyes. I was still lying on the same surface I’d been on moments before, the hard, grey, featureless bare rock. Looking up, I could see that the grey fog had gone.

I got to my feet. Beside me, Adam and Ifan did the same. The cloud had lifted to reveal we were standing on the summit of a mountain, but not a mountain I knew. The summit plateau was wide and featureless, the size of a football pitch. All around us the night was inky black. There were no stars, no features to pick out.

“Was that it?” asked Ifan.

Almost in response there was a low rumble, the sound of a far off storm getting closer. And we knew then this wasn’t it. We knew then we were in for the fight of our lives.

*unlikely, let’s be honest.

#Vertical Summit 2

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