Dating a Mountaineer - Ann Törnkvist

I was sitting outside a party smoking my cigarette when two things happened that made me ponder the differences between the climbing world and the "normal" world. First of all, I realised I was alone. And outside. Smokers generally tend to immediately locate the room belonging to the party's "resident smoker". This then, by tacit agreement, becomes a safe haven for all nicotine addicts and many a conversation has started with the clichéd "Have you got a light?" But on this occasion I was relegated to the close stairwell.

Secondly, and to my surprise, I was joined by what I had thought to be the mythical or at least oxymoronic phenomenon of a smoking climber. Banter begun and after the obligatory "Ha ha ha, look at us all alone on the stairwell" I mentioned my boyfriend, who was the sole reason I was socialising with the fresh air and great views addicted bunch that is the mountaineering club. The response was simply, "Ah, he's a great climber." Because this is a world where how tough you are, and how many of those E1 or R2D2 things you've scampered up, becomes an essential part of who you are.

To recap, no one smokes, and your finger strength is more important than your hairdo (well, maybe not in the case of my boyfriend who has more hair care products than the entire women's volleyball team, and a hair dryer to rival that of even the gayest of reality TV hair stylists). There are other differences, however, which I have discovered after a year of resisting all attempts to transform me into a "belay bunny." Who does the boyfriend think he is? The Hugh Hefner of top roping?

Weekends
Ah… weekends, that time of the week when you sleep lots to nurture your hangover, eat good food, visit art galleries, shop for kitchen utensils and lay about in the park with your better half. NOOOOOO!!!!

"Sweetie," I say soothingly, "it's OK, it was just a bad dream, go back to sleep, you have to get up in two hours to drive for five hours so you can trek through a marsh in the snow, only to find that English tourists are hogging your route."

The fact is, if you date a climber forget about weekends. Being in the girlfriend category of "hard very severe maintenance", rather than just "severe maintenance", I have at least driven home to the boyfriend that unless I am granted one weekend a month, I'm history. Of course this means that quality time usually coincides with the weather forecast being bad. Which also usually means the weather's too bad for lying about in the park.

This is not to say climbers are uncultured. The boyfriend has accompanied me to many a museum. He particularly liked the modern art gallery in Edinburgh. But I think that was because it was on top of a hill.

Drinking
Now on the point of drinking: Having been an active member of the volleyball club for many years I would not think it fair to say the mountaineering club drink more than any other sports club. Except maybe the chess club. So if inebriated debauchery is more of a general GUSA trend, what sets the mountaineers apart? Well, this relates to one of my previous weekend points. How can anyone drink ten pints, sleep three hours and then drive to the Cairn Gorms? How is this physically possible? How is this even legal?

Are all mountaineers equipped with a mutated gene that metabolises ethanol quicker when there are climbs to be conquered the morning after? I for one never found that spewing before engaging in a bit of physical exercise was particularly good for my volleyball match statistics. But then, of course I'm not as macho as the mountaineers.

Machismo
Because if you look up "machismo" in the dictionary, its description would be "mountaineering". Or at least this is what the male club members would like to think. There are many symptoms of this disorder. One is that women who outperform men are instantaneously given a nickname like "the Machine" or "the Monster". No matter how affectionately these titles are assigned, surely it stems from the fear of one day being told "You climb like a girl!" Another, even less attractive symptom is automatically being labelling a "poof" if you can't complete a route, because, of course, homosexuals are by birth not meant to engage in this manliest of manly sports. Whenever the boyfriend goes into macho mode with his flatmates I just point at his silver hair dryer and make jokes about the size of his wardrobe (which, by the way, includes a pink t-shirt).

Holidays
His clothes collection is in fact so big, that when we have travelled beyond Scotland's many rock formations, his suitcase is invariably larger than mine. This is not in itself a problem. The real negotiating takes place when holiday destinations need to be determined. I want to go to Vietnam. He wants to go to Thailand to… wait for it… go sea cliff climbing. Many a similar exchange of conflicting desires have taken place.

Pros vs Cons
All in all, it's not the worst thing in the world to date a climber. Certainly, I can't remember the last time I had sex on a weekend or when he spent money on me instead of new waterproofs, but it isn't too horrendous. I think I've seen more of Scotland this last year than in the previous four. And I have to admit Ibrox is kinda cool. It does however place some restrictions on your relationship. I once had the audacity to ask if the boyfriend would ever be interested in moving to the Netherlands. With narrowed eyes and a growl he replied, "It's FLAT."