Every day was the same. Up at four, an hour of stretching, 250 pushups, 250 pull-ups, 500 sit-ups. Exercises that don't require equipment - just an able body and willing mind. It had to be that way.

Breakfast was at 6:12 each day - rarely a minute early or late. Strictly vegetarian. He said it was for religious reasons, but the real reason was simple physics. Weight is of no use on the rock. At one time his six-foot frame tipped the scales at 190 pounds. Now he was gaunt by comparison; bones, veins, and strands of muscle clearly visible beneath his skin.

Ten minutes to eat, more stretching, then on to the finger work. For this he pulled on small steel bolts and rivets. Painful, but effective. John Gill had trained this way.

On every third day, he climbed. Only for an hour, and only if nobody was watching. It had to be that way. The wall was short - about 20 feet - but it was dead vertical and featureless. The kind of wall nature would never create. This was cinder block and mortar at its finest. They call it "buildering" these days. There was no obvious line, but if you studied the wall closely (and he had) weaknesses appeared. Just miserably small crimpers, but it was all there.

He would have preferred to work the problem on top-rope. But that wasn't an option. He would do it ground up - no rope, no pad, no chalk. Old school style. It had to be that way.

It was a typical day. The skies were gray and the air cold, almost bitterly so. He stood in a courtyard, surrounded on all sides by walls. Long ago, when he first started working the route, he couldn't even do the first move. Now the first 12 feet felt almost routine. And then there was the crux - an impossibly long reach on crumbly dime edges. Twice he had fallen and sprained an ankle. But he told no one. It had to be that way.

Standing at the base of the wall, he drew one deep breath. Nobody was watching. He moved through a precise sequence of nine moves, quickly reaching his high point. He examined the crux. The next hold - a shallow horizontal slot between two stacked blocks - had always been beyond his reach.

Left foot up. Shift weight. Flag the right leg. Extreme precision was required. A big reach. Two fingers in the slot. And just like that, the move that had eluded him for so long was done. It felt almost easy. Now he was in unknown territory, only four feet from the top of the wall. His mind raced. There was probably a static sequence of finishing moves, but he had no time to figure it out. It was do or die. It had to be that way.

He matched hands in the slot and moved his feet up, smearing on the gritty concrete. Two quick breaths, and he launched himself upward with absolute commitment. It happened in slow motion. Complete separation from the wall. Maximum extension. A hand slapping the top. An easy mantle. And it was over. 1012 attempts. One send.

He had no time to reflect on his four-year-old project. It was just a means to an end. He jogged across the rooftop and jumped into the main yard. He had been afraid that his journey would end here, ankles broken from the 20-foot leap. He landed hard, in pain but uninjured. He sprung to his feet and began sprinting across the yard. Open space was something he hadn't experienced in a long time.

The yard was empty. The others were inside. The fence was less than 100 yards away now. The first person to see him was a uniformed man. A man paid to keep an eye on things.

A siren sounded. Words were spoken on a loudspeaker. Still he ran. The first bullet struck him mid-stride, slapping him to the ground. As he lay on the ground gasping for breath, he considered his options.

If he remained still he'd probably live - at least for a few more weeks. Or he could end this right now, on his own terms. It was an easy decision. Death row is no place for a climber.

He struggled to his feet. Several uniformed men were now approaching. Standing upright, he tilted his head back and gazed skyward. And for the first time in nine years he felt free.

Shouts from the uniformed men. He returned to the present and locked eyes with one of the guards. He was shaking his head slowly from side to side - "Don't do it." And with a knowing smile, 159163 turned toward the fence and began staggering forward. A second bang, and it was done. A first ascent. A last ascent. It had to be that way.

Kevin's fictional narrative secures his grasp on this issue's Finish Hold. Maybe he has more short stories up his sleeve? If you want to get printed and hooked up with fresh threads from Ropegun, sharpen your pencils, put paper in your typewriter or boot up your computer and get to work!

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