The Last Route

The gym smells of chalk dust and the sour, sweet tang of old rubber mats. It is a cavern of vertical ambition: twenty feet of plywood paneled in white, studded with colorful plastic holds that catch the fluorescent light like scattered teeth. Below, the crash pads are rolled tight, leaving a wide aisle across the empty floor. The air is still, heavy with the silence that only exists after the last class has shuffled out, their laughter replaced by the low hum of the dehumidifier in the corner.

I stand on the second rung of the stepladder, a marker in one hand and the route map pinned to my chest with a grip that borders on violent. I am tracing the beta for the new V4 problem, my tongue pressed against the inside of my cheek as I calculate the reach from the start hold to the crux. I am the planner here. The list-maker. The one who makes sure the gym doesn’t collapse into chaos, because I refuse to let it.