It is March 1979. The Winter of Discontent may be over but Uncle Jim's still in trouble. Scotland has just voted for home rule and there'll be a vote of no confidence. Labour needs a new leader.
“But who wants to lead?”
“I'll give it a go”, Uriah steps forward and accepts the proffered rack, his arm dropping with the sudden weight of it.
“Blimey Eddie, I have to drag this lot up?”
Uriah doesn't look like a leader of men. At 19, he's little more than a boy – barely shaving; his nine stone spread sparingly over his five-foot frame. The way he's dressed doesn't help, a scruffy jumper over thin baggy jeans tucked into the thick red socks that he needs to fill out his hand-me-down EBs.
But don't be fooled by the easy smiles and the unkempt hair. This boy has a thirst for adventure and a sense of leadership and service that could only have been inspired by reading the likes of Shackleton, Hunt, and Herbert. This boy's got grit. Well, I like to think so.
Eddie Big Norton, (named after his bike, I hasten to add), had gear that was old, but reassuringly heavy. With an almost unnatural care I examined, fondled, and then clipped each rope-slung chock and un-eccentric hex. This love of gear remains with me still, but she is a feisty mistress and, as I waddled awkwardly to the crag, her pendulous pieces cracked me repeatedly about the shins.
Dave Osborne was already uncoiling a rope of dubious vintage at the base of the route, Green Crack, a VDiff on Burbage North. This was only to be my ninth climb ever, but it looked ok. I tied on, and Dave passed the rope behind him and motioned me to start.
“Climbing”
I'm hardly off the ground but everything is quiet and for the first time I'm experiencing the real intensity of climbing. Seconding has been fun, but it has always been a noisy affair, accompanied by shouted instructions, banter, and abuse. This is different. I make each move carefully and with purpose, almost caricaturing the movements in an attempt to extinguish any trace of uncertainty.
I place my first runner and realise that protection is all a matter of faith. I must first trust the placement, then Dave's attentiveness, and then the climber who designed it. I must trust those thousands who've been before, who have relied on it, fallen on it, believed in it. I must join that noble tradition and so I make the move past.
Near the top it's dirty and I have a moment of doubt, I look down and see Dave looking up, but he has little to do with me, I am disconnected. My confidence ebbing I place a final piece of gear, as, whilst my harness has its critics, I'd still prefer Don's firm hold of my testicles to the callous slap of the ground. In hindsight I am facing the first of those countless 'just do it' moments that we all experience, so:
I just do it.
“Safe.”
Later, settled comfortably into my pint, I became thoughtful and like Michael Foot, that other unlikely looking leader-to-be, I allowed myself to foolishly dream of the great deeds, the adventures, and the triumphs that were yet to come.
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