STARTING HOLD - #23 > JUNE/JULY 2008

L.A. (Lowballs Anonymous)

“Meet me in Canche Aux Merciers. I have a beautiful traverse for you to try.” This is how our day started. Jo Montchaussé was on the phone, eager to show us one of his favorite traverses. Our logic was such: Fontainebleau is his home. He’s probably touched every single nook of every single boulder. In fact, he opened many of Bleau’s most classic climbs. And if he still gets giddy about something after 34 years of climbing there, then you best believe we’re going to check it out.

When we arrived, Jo was sitting in the dirt with one of his Bleausard friends, staring at this 4-foot high, 40-foot long overhanging boulder with a lip and a top as smooth as linoleum. “It’s called Le Grand Nez. It’s a 7b+, but wow, very tricky,” he said as he slapped his shoe with the ghost head. Thirty seconds later Jo was floating this thing, smoothly sailing across the lip, hand over hand over foot over heel over hand, his body just 12 inches off the deck. He’d slap a knee bar, rest and shake out before ducking beneath the Nez (the nose) and popping out the other side for the finish. Looked fun. We put our shoes on.

I’m not going to lie, fancy footwork and me just don’t go well together. Sure, I’ve got my bag o’ tricks, but the whole tick-tock precision thing that Fontainebleau’s famous for sometimes throws me for a loop. I like to bite down, burl, throw a heel, and, as one of my compadres bluntly put it once, I like to “wrestle” with the rock every now and then. I can’t help it. It’s just what I do. I’m not wafer thin like some of you, and I have the flexibility of a dead cat. What I’m trying to say is...the damn traverse felt impossible. I couldn’t do it. Hands up, washed clean, just couldn’t do it. Jo, who wasn’t unfamiliar with my lack of grace, pointed out an alternative problem on the boulder, better suited for the beefy. Another 7b. Very simple: Tuck yourself underneath the nose, reach out to the lip, match, throw a left heel and rock out. For me this would be a cakewalk.

Fast forward to 3 hours later. The inside of my heel is bloody and my left hamstring feels like it’s hiding in my butt-cheek. My chest cavity is sore from taking blows from a blunt edge repeatedly, my neck is twitching, the meat of my leftt palm is pins and needles, and my family jewels are wondering what gives. For the life of me, as easy as it looked I couldn’t even get myself to beach up on that boulder. Forget stylin’ it. The problem was that my right leg just stayed locked below the roof, and at no point would I ever get that balance to rock in

my favor — for the topout. I was stuck. Continuously. Stuck. But, no way, no how was I letting this little 4-foot tall monster whoop my ass. No way. I was dirty, sweaty, bleeding, pissed off, and shamed. I already surrendered on that traverse. I wasn’t going to pull the white flag again.

I worked and worked the death out of that thing, each time failing to eek it out. God, it was aweful. What’s worse is when I get something like that in my head I obsess with it. I won’t rest. I won’t climb efficiently. I won’t talk to anyone. I get all angry and literally throw myself to the problem at hand. Not really a wobbler. It’s more like I’m trying to diffuse a bomb. I don’t recommend it. I’m sure it’s not healthy, but sometimes it works for me. In fact, this time it did.

I finally got my right leg to come out from under the roof and I managed a side toe hook next to my left heel. I would’ve pressed that boulder into a panini before I let go. I wasn’t coming down. Sure enough, I finally found myself standing high on top of my mountain of glory, yet only a couple heads taller than my friends looking on. It felt as good as any send I’ve put work in for. And it was inches from the dirt.

Say what you will about my super-agro-lowball- meltdown, but I know for sure you’ve got one of those in you, too. No question. The thing is nobody ever talks about it. It’s like lowballs are taboo or something. Now, I don’t want you to start flooding me with pictures of your knuckles dragging, asses dabbing in the dirt or anything. I just want you to give a little love where a little love is due.

Remember: lowballs are boulder problems, too.

See you out there,

Joe Iurato — UC