To be a pro

I can remember once sitting in a pub in Hull with my old mate ‘Wayne the fireman’, talking about people I’d met recently, passing on stories they’d told me — people whose lives were the sort other people write books about (and some of them had). Halfway through a story about Jon Turk kayaking from Japan to Alaska (I’d met Jon at the Banff Film Festival), Wayne just said, “Fuck — how do you meet so many interesting people?!”

I guess it’s true that in my line of work you do rub shoulders with people who don’t live ordinary lives, people who from the outside might be called “inspiring” or simply “bloody crackers.” I don’t really know what separates someone “interesting” from someone “normal” — because in my experience most normal lives have far more texture, colour and drama than an “interesting” life (as well as more peace and fun). Most so-called interesting people live project-based lives, and between the highs, life is pretty dull: training, working, hustling, travelling, sitting on laptops in Starbucks.

When you’re seen as someone who’s done cool stuff, people always want to talk about it — or more importantly, “what next?” That’s the bane of anyone with an interesting history. I prefer to ask other people about their plans, their dreams, their fears, their defining moments. Maybe that’s the writer in me.

What people don’t get about those seen as “interesting” — like me — is that deep down we’re often poor examples of what a good person is. We have big egos (if you’re good you hide it behind false modesty). We’re selfish. We struggle to compromise what we want with what’s best for us or the people around us. We don’t mean to be like this, and we can appear highly functional, but cut away the flesh and you’ll often find something unpleasant underneath (and the best know it).

To see such people as amazing is a bit like thinking a junkie is amazing — how they give everything for their fix, uncompromising in pursuit of their goal. I’ve met a few junkies and ex-junkies. They’re often interesting too. Many driven people have some flaw that manifests positively or negatively. I used to joke that sporting bodies are good at exploiting vulnerable people, turning character flaws into medals, using them as the tip of the spear until they blunt — then discarding them.

Perhaps the art of being interesting, motivated and good is to balance those uncompromising, success-driven negatives with humanity and self-awareness — to gain some perspective on the meaninglessness of the goals. Even writing this I’m thinking, who am I to judge who’s interesting? Why do I see Ueli Steck as more interesting than a primary school teacher, just because he could sprint up ice and snow?

In the last few weeks I’ve spent time with a couple of people I’d call both interesting and deeply human. Last week I met Pete Whittaker. He wanted to talk about public speaking and sponsorship. As these meetings go (Pete drank tea, like a good Yorkshireman), we ended up talking about tree surgery, fear of heights (Tom Randall doesn’t like heights), and ambition.

I’d only met Pete once before in the Yosemite Lodge cafeteria. He seemed quiet and thoughtful — but with Tom around, so would Russell Brand. When you meet young climbers like Pete (and yes, I’m twenty years older), you can’t help but be amazed at how much they’ve done. I had the same feeling hanging out with Calum Muskett before Christmas. Calum once told me that after climbing the Eiger with Dave MacLeod someone said, “Oh cool, you’re getting into alpinism.” He had to point out he’d done Divine Providence at seventeen.

At only twenty-three Pete is already a legend — but a very British one. Modest. Unassuming. The last to brag. The kind of man who’d still be cragging on grit during the zombie apocalypse. If I put my PR hat on, I’d say Pete suffers from the trait of many legends who still have jobs when they should be doing what they were born to do — modesty.

I’ve seen him on grit, in wide cracks, in thin cracks. His belief in “the move” is staggering — the ability to think himself through something 99% impossible (watch his E9 ascent here). Yet here is a man who doesn’t quite grasp his worth in monetary terms. He wanted advice so he could climb more and work less.

I struggle with my own self-worth, but rarely in others. I see potential in people clearly. In the last decade I’ve done more coaching, sometimes consciously (like Steve Bate soloing El Cap), sometimes not. One of the biggest shifts a person can make is becoming professional at what they do. To be good, you need to be a pro.

To be a pro you need to act, dress, think, train, rest and interact like a pro. If you act like an amateur, you stay one. Some pros look like amateurs, but think like pros — often as a tactic. Like a chess grandmaster pretending not to know where the knights go.

To go from amateur to pro takes time, work, and a bobbin of talent around which belief can wrap. You can’t build a pro from self-delusion alone.

You must decide that is your goal. Make a plan. Get a coach. Train. Eat, sleep and compete as a pro would. Create a virtual role model. Mine is Mark Twight. I imagine him harder working, more focused and cooler than I’ll ever be.

Don’t do the classic British thing of holding onto your crapness as a badge of honour — a safety blanket for when you fail. Look at the best climbers at the wall. What sets them apart? Not “natural talent.” It’s that they’re always training. Always. Three casual sessions a week on grade 5s won’t see you best Adam Ondra.

In ten years I went from failing on grade 1 gullies on the Aiguille Rouge to climbing the Lafaille on the Dru. Not because I was Lafaille — but because somewhere I viewed myself as a pro. I dedicated myself to big walls and terrible weather. I knew I’d done harder aid on El Cap than him. In that one domain, I was a pro.

Talking to Pete I wondered if he saw himself that way. Here was one of the most talented climbers in the world — still a tree surgeon. I asked about his plans. More free walls on El Cap. “Why not this year?” I asked. “Why not Trango? Fitzroy?” I wanted to know if he believed he was that kind of climber.

Then it hit me. Why should he? What’s wrong with being a tree surgeon? What would happen if he became a full pro — no compromises, nothing before the prize? Would he lose humility? Would he burn the heart of a man to make a god?

“I’m not that fussed,” Pete said, pouring another tea. “I just want to go climbing more.”

And that’s the dilemma. Inside each of us is the myth of who we could be — the super version. But is that worth the cost? The interesting life versus the content one? The pro life where you constantly devour yourself?

We need to balance doing cool things with being good people. I’ve met people as cool as astronauts who were still assholes on the ground. We should strive for personal greatness, breathe life into the sleeping myth, but hold onto humility and humanity. Take what it takes — but also give.

I often think about Ginger Baker. The documentary “Beware of Mr Baker” is a portrait of obsession and talent and self-destruction. One quote sticks with me: “Ginger was an inspiration to me as a drummer, but not as a man.”

That feels like the line we’re all trying not to cross.