Ah yes, too bloody long it seems.
When I was 8 years old I can recall the humiliation of watching each and every one of my then classmates shimmying up the rope in the school gymnasium, whilst I sat firmly on the mat working on the theory (not yet ready for the actual practice) of the forward roll.
When I left junior school I was confident in the knowledge that the future corporate life I had mapped out as a millionaire linguist would have nil requirements for me to ever need to attempt a rope climb again.
After 37 years of evasion, the shitty rope finally came back to kick my ass.
I stood and watched as my pals one by one took to the rafters. Like featherweight monkeys they pushed and pulled their way along. The critical point being that they managed to move in an actual upward direction. She who cannot be named (Julie), who was clearly raised by indigenous Amazonian tribesmen went up it like Tarzan on a bloody vine. If there’d been a bell she’d have sodding well rung it.
I stood feeling increasingly jealous and a tiny bit angry with myself. Come on you silly cow.
My finest attempt saw me actually scissor the rope between my feet, push up and hang on. A bit. The second attempt to scissor didn’t quite go to plan. Like a rat on a greasy ship’s mast I slid, still clinging as if my life depended on it, until I could step neatly on to the mat from which I had just ascended.
Bollocks. Back in the remedial class.
Looks like I have another goal to add to my list.
turningtroglodyte 