The Phenomenon of Fedor Emelianenko

Fedor Emelianenko

I've been a big fan of MMA or cage fighting since I was first introduced to it by my friend Ric.

I couldn't take my eyes off it.

So much energy expended so violently with laser point accuracy. Pure RAW aggression skillfully released with killer strategy by specimens honed by a million hours gym time.

These men are competing in the oldest sport known to man, essentially a hybrid modern variant but still very much greco roman wrestling.

Quite simply there is no other sport that compares to MMA, its the perfect spectator sport, all those roman colloseums werent built to hold football games.

To watch a match is to be astounded by what can be delivered and endured by men.

The competitors are monsters but their physical prowess is balanced with thousands of hours of strategy training and drills.

I have trained hard for climbing, cycling or purely for the joy of training for years. I know what can be attained with hard work. However, from experience I am painfully aware of the difference between learned competency and raw natural talent.

I recently saw a series of MMA fights featuring a Russian called Fedor Emelianenko. Ive seen hundreds of fights and hundreds of gladiators but Fedor is a phenomenon and holds a whole deck of natural talent cards.

Quite simply he is like a vortex of fists. He fights like electricity is passing through him. To cut of his head midfight wouldn't change the outcome. The facial expressions of his opponents, on the rare occasion they are concious are a picture of confusion and shock.

Off course he will be beaten, but while he is at his prime an opponent will have to get very lucky.

Another thing that strikes you about Fedor is his physical build. Undefined, bordering on slighly chubby, you wouldn't look twice at him, generally unremarkable. I cant think of a better example of a wolf in sheeps clothing. Lightning fast and hard as iron with a mind like a trap.

If you havent seen him then go and watch one of his matches.

Two years of shoulder trouble: Lessons learned

(arthroscopic pic of my humerus during surgery Sep 09)













Two years ago I tweaked my shoulder while climbing in Dunkeld, Perthshire.

One small mistake, a moments bad co-ordination was going to cost me 50 physio sessions, an MRI, an XRAY with dyes injected, a CT Scan, an Arthrographic Distention injection and a full Arthrographic Capsular Release procedure!!

Two years two months since that minor mistake with co-ordination I sit here at the tail end of 12 weeks rehab after the shoulder surgery. The whole journey has been quite an eye opener and I have learned a lot.

I was fortunate to have one of Scotlands best shoulder surgeons and the procedure went well with immediate improvement in range of motion. The hard part would be keeping the mobility as my body fought hard to dump as much restrictive collagen at the surgery site as it could while I worked against the daily tide with physio sessions.

At 12 weeks I am back lifting weights and riding my bikes, I have even been climbing once and have been given the green light from my physio to start up again, albeit carefully.

So what have I learned??

Well first of all, Patience. During this 26 Month period my shoulder has been up and down. My ability to train my whole body has been hit hard as the shoulder hurt with weights or circuit training. Thus my upper body musculature has wilted and this simply adds to the shoulder problem. Its a vicious circle.

The muscles around the shoulder become weak and the problem joint has no support from essential neighbouring groups.

So I have had to bring my climbing down a few grades, quit indoor climbing and avoid all circuit training for 2 years.

Nov 2009 and its great to be back doing what I like. I've joined a brilliant gym and I'm busy rebuilding myself.

I'm going to armour my shoulder against the rigors of climbing even though I'm well aware that more muscle weight is a climbers enemy.

Its more important to be fit for the big picture and not just one facet of the sport of climbing.

The Accidental Soloist - A climbers inner battle with the risky game of Solo climbing

I have heard climbers talk of a rat that needs feeding. It’s a very apt metaphor for the whole subject of addiction and adrenalin.

However….I wont humour vermin.

I prefer primates, real or metaphysical.

And my monkey has a voracious appetite for adrenalin.

He chatters away, lips a blur most of the time. How he wants action, how he likes the wind in his fur and that thrill that brings the adrenalin. Always scheming, pushing, pressing, planning, getting me to check the weather forecast, is anywhere within reach dry enough for climbing?

I call my climbing partners and text them, are they free, how do they fancy this or that, what do they think the weather might bring. Plans, short term and long, a weekend trip, an early start, a journey abroad.

The monkey has an encyclopaedic knowledge of what pushes my buttons. He is telepathic and plants seeds while I dose or while I’m at my work desk. In meetings at work I drift far away as the monkey recites hypnotic tales of adventure into my bored ear, “You could be doing that” he tells me.

I check UKClimbing at my desk, for the 10th time today, any posts off interest?
In between the online weather checks at mwis.org.uk and my obsessive scanning of UKC I am racking up serious hours on the internet, these hours are logged and may be scrutinised by superiors but the monkey doesn’t care, he tells me I work in the IT department and its my privilege, I suppose he is right, I deserve some sort of virtual escape from the confines of this mind numbing office.

So, this monkey, does he ever sleep, well, kind off. I do get peace sometimes. When I climb high on a rock face fiddling to place gear as my arms pump out he is dead quiet, you wouldn’t know he was there. When I plant my ice axes high above gear he sleeps.
When I swoop through the rush hour streets on my bike he nods. He moans for action and when it comes he is narcoleptic.

We have a tight relationship, the monkey and I. But sometimes he can be trouble.

Once as I waited for my climbing partner in a Calendar carpark for a days climbing in Glencoe the monkey awoke and started to sew his devious seed.

Its 8am, my mobile rings, “Bad news”, comes a voice filled with disappointment.
I sense it immediately and the monkey’s attention is roused.
“Where are you”, I counter.
“Still in Dumfries man, stuck behind a big motorway crash, not even moving!”
“Oohh, you’re joking, shit”
“Its not even moving, I can’t believe it, cant reverse and cant escape, its nose to tail for miles in each direction”
“We were making such good time”

Jimbo is despondent and I agree to give it some time to see if the traffic moves.

I drink coffee from my flask while the monkey goes to work.

“Looks like that’s your days climbing gone to shit? Perfect days are rare.”

I ignore the monkey, fidgeting pensively in the car, I’m in no mood for his chitter, but just what is his angle this time, hmm.

Its 8.30, he must know something now. I call Jimbo.
“Hey, whats happening”
Then the words I was dreading, “not moved for half an hour man”, he sighs.
“Ohhh this sucks”, I am as disappointed as him.

Its looks like he is going nowhere, through chatting with other drivers Jimbo is confident that the tailback is miles long and he is going nowhere for a few hours. With great difficulty we abort the mission, I tell him I will just head home. He tells me that to compound matters he needs a shit and is trapped in the car indefinitely. I laugh and we finish the call.

By the time I hang up the monkey has talked me into completing the journey to Glencoe alone.

“Why don’t you just go up for some scrambling and some fresh air?”

Before I take time to weigh the true intentions of his loaded suggestion I am moving.

I leave the car park turning right and the hairs on my neck are aloft with anticipation. For the whole 90 min drive the monkey is in my ear with schemes, “park the car for the Buachaille and ascend Curved Ridge, you know the Rannoch wall has many easy routes on it, have you ever considered soloing Aggags or January?”.

I’m gripped by the monkeys suggestions and I toil with the concept. The climbing is straight forward but it’s a 3-4 pitch mountain route with all the objective dangers you would expect of an ancient Scottish mountain.

The monkey is quick to explain, “Rannoch Wall see’s a lot of traffic though, it may be the most frequented mountain multi pitch in the Coe, its not so loose you know”

I drive with my head full of questions. I’m not a soloist, especially not on mountain multi-pitch routes. But the car is moving at 70 mph, I’m just along for the ride.

At 9.30 I arrive at the Lagangarbh car park, its full of cars. I see a minibus full of students gearing up as I finish parking, I am quickly out of the car gearing up for the walk in, better be quick to get clear of this large party.

My black Diamond 30 litre is packed for a mountain day but I have no partner and will be pitching no climbs. I ferret through my bag emptying all but essential kit. I’ll need one half rope in case I need to ab-seil off something, I’ll need my shoes, chalk, harness and a small selection of wires for plugging in if I get scared or for building an anchor.

I finish gearing up and with one last check I put the car keys in a zipped pocket. I’m off, jogging slowly I trot past the large group. I pass two others as I move onto Curved Ridge proper, with a wave off acknowledgement I move onwards and up towards Rannoch Wall. My head is still full of chat as I psychically spar with the monkey,
“Am I really going to do this”
“Yes, yes, it’ll be great, its perfect, what a day for it”
“What if there are climbers doing routes”, I wont do it if I find climbers there”
“Just keep moving, your making good time, lets go, go, go.”

As the scrambling steepens and intensifies I pause to gaze behind me for a moment, nobody in sight, great. I flow up the ridge loving every minute of the scrambling, never hard, positive grips everywhere, but always careful, I’m getting fully into gear, into the zone.
I feel so alive. Breathing well. Moving well. Flowing. The chitter chatter of that monkey has ebbed away to blissful silence. He is on the nod.

I pull over a short vertical wall on Curved Ridge and see the Rannoch Wall, its ancient Rhyolite features entice me onwards. The Rannoch Wall is many things but most off all today, its all mine. Deserted. A ghost wall.
Today Its ancient aura is not soiled by noisey shouting sasenachs or by garish goretex.

This is just too much, its clearly meant to happen, that damn monkey was right. I gear up quickly, shoes, harness, chalk bag, some wires and screw gates. I put my approach shoes in the pack and adjust all the contents for balanced movement on the wall. I fine tune the sternum and waist straps on my pack and tighten the Velcro on my climbing shoes. One more gaze down the Buachaille and I confirm solitude before chalking. With a skywards gaze and a deep breathe I am on the initial moves of Aggags Groove.

“Climbing”






My head is absolutely ringing with adrenalin the moment I leave terra firma without rope. Its immediately strange, a grand mountain setting and no rope or partner, unknown territory. I move cautiously, mere metres off the ground the exposure is more than I am familiar with and I am deep breathing to control my emotions. By 15-20 metres my breathing is all that I can hear, its seems impossibly loud in my head. Every hold is tested before fully weighting and moving on. I palm strike suspect looking areas of rock and move with as much precision as I can muster. Every action carries massive significance.

I need to get up this rock and onto safe ground, this is no place to linger without rope. I feel a nagging voice, its not the monkey. Its my survival instinct, its telling me that I need to concentrate on ‘not concentrating’ and allow myself to relax. I ponder what panic would mean in a situation like this and its clear that the mind game is the biggest part of this challenge. I am alone in my bubble.

Then my solitude and concentration are broken by distant voices, I pause, looking down to the base of the wall for the first time, the two climbers I passed have arrived. I am sure one of them is pointing at me.

This interruption is not good. I can feel their eyes burning into me. It feels like a very private moment has been violated. I have snapped out of the zone I was in and need to get back . I have a word with myself actually talking out loud. I’m probably half way, its only been a few minutes since I started the route. I have no idea what route I’m on by now, without pitches the line becomes unimportant, my only ambition is to complete the face to safety.

I forget the voices below and before I know it I’m pulling over the top onto the scrambly ground above the wall. My mind is on fire and I’m ecstatic.

I move up 10 or 20 metres to a level area where I can get a seat and ponder my climb. I sit to relax a minute but my mind is racing as I take in the view over Rannoch Moor, it’s a beautiful day.

It’s been a magic experience that will keep the monkey quiet for a few days.

But there is another voice as I change shoes for the scramble back down. It’s the voice of ‘what if’. As I progress downwards on Curved Ridge my mind is awash once again.
“That was a selfish act” says the voice, “loose rock, a simple slip, a muscle cramp, sudden heavy rain, that was madness, it’s not worth the risk, how could you do that to your wife”.

I cannot disagree and while still basking in the excitement and adrenalin of the climb I feel a little disgusted with myself. Today the monkey got the upper hand, its not been the first time and what are the chances of it being the last?.


The drive home is silent, just me and my thoughts, the monkey has had his fix and leaves me in peace to ponder the concepts of guilt and addiction.

Eyeballs Out - Letting off steam after a week in the office_fri 27th June 2007

Another Friday afternoon in the office.

After at least 20 cross referenced weather checks over the course of the day I am confident of a good conditions window. Taking full advantage of my flexi-time I am a blur at 4.01pm. I do not even allow my PC the grace of a full shutdown, flicking the switch at the back I am clattering down the metal fire escape stairs and getting changed for my Friday afternoon bike ride home. The best ride of the week.
With office bods keen to get home I cut loose into the hometime traffic. It’s the most dangerous time of the week on two wheels and as ever I cut every red light in between point A and B. Its always a mission, a mission that only I know off, there are no competitors but every one I see on two wheels is racing me. I embrace the sillyness of it all, the traffic, the pedestrians, the angry white van drivers, the drivers in a trance, the full schmorgasborg of road life. Its chaos and dangerous but I love it.

Home in 15 minutes. Once again I am a blur of activity from room to room. I immediately get changed into my mountain bike gear while simultaneously heating up some pasta from the fridge. My blood sugar and carbohydrate levels are low and I will be needing both in the next 90 mins. I scoff the pasta while I pack my puncture repair kit and check tyre pressures, they are soft, they have bled air and need to be rock hard for speed.

I fire a double espresso into myself and vapourise some weed before closing the front door and hitting the street. I know I am in for a whirlwind 90 mins on the bike with some Bouldering at Salisbury crags in the middle.

On the street my cadence is fast but light, I’m building up as I head through Victoria Park, I can feel the excitement building and adrenalin bleeding into my legs. As I exit the park I’m on ramming speed, its dry, its Friday, and I almost forgot, I’m stoned out of my gourd. The heavy breathing has metabolised the vapourised marijuana mist and delivered a ringing, buzzing high. I am functioning on full gear. I’m in my own little world and cranking the pedals furiously. I ponder the spectators perogative for a moment as I approach Holyrood Palace, I must look like I am on the run from something or someone. There is a full brass band playing in the courtyard of the Palace and there are cops everywhere, I better cool it or I will be flagged down before I nail a pedestrian ( again ).
I slow to 5-6 mph and bob and weave to give the air of the disarmed approachable cyclist, not the eyeballs bulging two wheeled highwayman on an imaginary speed training mission.
I take the steep meandering mountain road that ascends Arthur Seat, I am Salisbury Crags bound and the hill is hard work. I’m a little too stoned to accurately calibrate pace, I pass two cyclists on the hill to the top, they share my suffering.

I traverse round the girth of Arthur Seat into a tough headwind and buckle down into a short battle with the elements, I am struggling for air, as ever demanding more than I am given. Another turn and I see the crags, I’m off the road and cycle the final 200 yards up to the South Quarry, my old friend.

Skirting the crags I drop the bike and wobble a bit as I stand on terra firma, it’s the slightly drunken wobble of the cyclist who dismounts after hard effort, all sport cyclists will know it, the tell tale sign of digging deep.

As I shuffle about removing my climbing gear I feel pretty hollowed out. My head is ringing and I am sweating like a man on the run from something, something heavy.
But there is no fear. I am no fugitive ( well except for the weed and traffic offences ) and I sit on a rock and let my rapid breathing mellow with a quick drink of water. With shoes and chalk bag on I’m onto the rock for some traversing. The rock is volcanic and bone dry. I feel stiff at first but soon I’m flowing on well learned lines along the crag, right to left, then left to right, then I do the classic black wall traverse of the quarry.

My shoulder feels tweaky so I put my cyling shoes back on after a half hour climbing and get back on the bike. With cops everywhere around Holyrood I make a decision to head right through the cities busy southside and up the Meadows walkway. I know the mound and the Hanover street downhill will offer some action and equal measures of real danger.

Its about 6pm and its as busy as I anticipate. On getting to the top of the Mound its one long rollercoaster to the bottom of Dundas Street. As I swoop to the bottom of the Mound I am doing 30mph at least, I rifle between two lanes of 15mph traffic. Fully aware of the exposed nature of my predicament I fire up the first half of Hanover Street, nothing stops me and I cross George Street at 20mph and I see a green light at the Queen Street crossing 200 yards away.

I sprint like a man possessed, watching the green light, willing it to stay green. 30 yards away it changes Amber and Red but I’m commited now and make a sketchy full speed crossing in front of a mix of maybe 100 pedestrians and motorists. If there are police I’m definitely dicing with a potential chase, but unless they are motorbike police they could never catch me. Either way the gamble pays off and I skip another Red light on the downside of Dundas Street stopping only at the last light when when I realise that this one doesn’t feel right.

Its taken me maybe 1 minute to get from the top of the mound to the bottom of Dundas Street, a kamikaze ride that that I enjoy frequently but seldom at the tempo of todays foray! I can feel the heat on me, the CCTV images I have left, the comments of motorists washed into the Friday afternoon, I escape onto the safety of the cycle path.

The rest of the ride home is a recovery spin as my stoned conciousness contemplates the madness of the rush hour downhill.

I am tired and ringing, I feel 101% alive.

After a year of minor injury I feel thankful for my current level of fitness.

As I finish writing this at 7.20pm its been raining heavily for 20 mins. Its been showery for a whole month now and I bask in the sneakyness of beating the damned weather.

The weekend forecast is very wet, the drudgery of indoor climbing lies ahead but I’m happy I managed to bag a little outdoor.

Life is good today.