Looking up at the trail of pockets, the confines of the blue streak suddenly assume a tunnel like character. My mind is relieved of its other duties now, and nothing else matters. Nervousness sets in. The pockets continue out of sight, and this aggravates the feeling of gradual solidification in my forearms. I become aware of my heartbeat, measured at first, like a metronome keeping time with the route. Pocket, crimp, big move...jug, clip...“breath”... But the tempo quickly increases until the pounding is difficult to ignore - the threat that it will seal the fate of my
weakening grip weighs on my mind.