I going to believe that one minute he was out doing something he loved and the next he was just gone...
Ille sur Tet (near Perpignan), it was sunny and the trails were dry
Ian Vincent – A Personal MemoryI first met Ian in late 1984. Deak, a former climbing partner, knew a young guy called Andy Robinson (later, for a while, his brother-in-law). Andy was coming to Sheffield. He needed somewhere short-term to live. And he had a mate called Ian. Gail and I were glad to help. Soon the four of us were squeezed into a little terraced house on Peveril Road, off Ecclesall. Ian and I hit it off, right from the start. Night after night, we tired the moon with our talking. I’d stagger upstairs in the wee early hours and Gail would drowsily mutter, “What have you two been on about?” I never really knew. What I do know is – it mattered.There was something about Ian back then, something different, something very, very special indeed, which I can’t capture. For a start, there was a total absence of guile. He was utterly open, utterly transparent. When he smiled, it was as though you could see straight through to his soul. He was young, maybe 18 or so, sensitive, intellectually precocious, extremely idealistic. I was a decade older and had already struggled in the world for the sake of my dreams. Occasionally the uneasy thought flitted across my mind that someone as sensitive, gifted and idealistic as Ian might have a hard time of it. The weeks raced past, filled with studying and talking. Ian had a monster work ethic; he never stopped. Although it was winter, Ian, Andy and I were all climbers so we must have gone out at some time. All I can remember now is one freezing day when Ian and I were brick-edge crimping. Ian, probably sensibly, packed it in before me. It was to be the only time when I arguably climbed better. In truth though, it doesn’t count. I knew that traverse backwards; Ian didn’t.Next summer we went to Wales, where it quickly became obvious that Ian was a couple of grades better and I was equally quickly reduced to clutching at slings. I remember we watched an injured Andy Pollitt running along the Marine Drive at Pen Trwyn, looking up at routes he could no longer do and would probably never be able to do again. It was gut-wrenchingly poignant. Although we muttered hello, neither Ian nor I could look him in the eye. Thankfully, a year or so later, Andy made one of the most remarkable recoveries in the history of climbing. He now rightfully graces the front cover of Peak Rock. Shortly afterwards, both Ian and I went into the corporate world. I’m not sure either of us were really cut out for it but you give these things a try. The next I remember was driving up to Saltaire a few times to stay with him in Ada Street. Something had changed, certainly in him, maybe in both of us. Although we still enjoyed each other’s company, the old familiarity had gone. And now the difference in our climbing abilities was massive. Sport climbing had arrived with a vengeance. As an E3/E4 climber, hitting middle-age, working too hard and putting on weight, I was reduced to struggling on F6c. Conversely Ian was running up F8a+. I’d belay him and have to fight just to get off the ground. Next to his exquisite skinniness, I felt like a beached whale. Ian loved steep rock. Once he’d gone climbing in Ireland with Calvin Torrans. They’d done E1/E2 stuff on a mountain crag, Luggala, I believe. With a nice walk-in (uphill on the way out), probably lots of slimy drainage streaks and doubtless the odd wet, grass-covered ledge thrown in for good measure, Calvin was as happy as a pig in poo. Conversely Ian was thoroughly disgusted. “And it wasn’t even steep!” he moaned. When Ian built his epic training boards at Saltaire, nobody could argue that they weren’t steep enough. But when he once confided, “Malham isn’t really that steep...” I looked up at the capping overhangs and shuddered. One thing was for sure – it was too steep for me. One day we were on The Catwalk, then the province of the elite. I was bitterly aware I wasn’t there on merit and felt a total fraud. With Gommy (Pete Gomersall) and Dalvinder, we wandered across to have a natter with Mark Leach, the strongest climber in the country, fully decked out in 1980s rock-star regalia. I can’t for the life of me remember what Mark was about to embark upon. I think it was F8b. He exploded up the start in a display of power which I’ve never seen equalled... only for his foot to pop on what looked (from the ground!) like a 5c smear. I remember thinking, “If I’d got that far, I could have finished it!” (This was almost certainly complete delusion.) Down flew Mark, even faster than he’d gone up. All four of us, together with Mark’s belayer, were suffused with a mixture of disbelief and cringing embarrassment. The suffocating silence was finally broken by Ian’s wry comment, “Footwork by Leach...” All six of us burst out laughing, Mark as much as anyone, although part of him must have been gutted. But we couldn’t have stayed in collective denial forever. Somebody had to say something. And Ian made the perfect response. By now Ian was a top climber, his peers the international elite. In the World Cup, he came joint-seventh, tying with the former world champion, Patrick Edlinger. Typically I never told him how proud of him I was. Now I never can. At Christmas 1992, Gommy, Dal, Dave Sarkar, Ian, Julia (a former girlfriend) and I went off to El Chorro. Meeting Ian’s parents and sister for the first time, you instantly saw where his decency came from. They were such lovely people. Now, all these years later, my heart goes out to them. Sadly, probably mostly due to post-relationship angst between Julia and myself, the trip wasn’t a great success. At times it was fraught. To his credit, Ian never uttered a word of reproach. On New Year’s Day, much the worse for wear from the previous night’s revelries, we went up to Makinodromo. On the forty-five minute uphill walk-in, I threw up three times and arrived thoroughly dehydrated. On the crag I disgraced myself by bailing half-way up a F7a, leaving Dave Sarkar’s quick-draws in-situ. Meanwhile, just around the corner, Ian on-sighted Lourdes, one of the most famous and beautiful F8as in the world. It may have been the first on-sight; I’m not sure. One thing was for sure; this time, even Ian couldn’t argue that it wasn’t steep enough. A few minutes later, when Ian and his fat, bumbly mate were wandering along the base of the crag, we came across a cave filled with bearded, bohemian types of all nationalities (Irish and German seemingly predominating). The cave had been fitted with rude shelving and held vast quantities of food, mostly potatoes. Evidently all of it had been dragged uphill on that tortuous walk-in. I looked at row after row of spuds and felt the onset of another bout of nausea.Tri-lingual Ian (English, French, German), asked them what was happening. In Teutonically stilted English, a decidedly Wagnerian type explained that they’d brought up supplies for a six month siege of Lourdes. Beside me, I felt Ian stiffen. I didn’t dare look at him. As one, we knew we had to make a graceful exit - fast. We were sidling towards the cave entrance when yet another wannabe rushed in. “Someone has just on-sighted Lourdes!” he Teutonically declaimed. He stopped short, peered suspiciously in the gloom at Ian. We didn’t wait for the quivering, outstretched finger and the outraged denunciation, “And it is him!!” Mortified, the pair of us fled. Ruefully I thought of the poor sods, stuck in that draughty cave for month after month, eking out those miserable spuds, knowing all the while that Lourdes had been despatched in a few minutes.A couple of days later, I was belaying Ian, once again whinging about how rubbish my climbing was. Beyond all endurance, he snapped, “Do you want to know what your problem is?” Dave Sarkar was trying his best not to smirk and understandably not doing too good a job of it. A horrible silence was finally broken by a quavering, “What??” “You’re too heavy!” (This from the lightest climber ever.) Gulp. “OK...” (In a quavering little voice.)We came back to England. I said goodbye to Ian at the airport, went home and thought about what he’d said. He was right. Two stone came off. I trained on boards, though not as steep as the Saltaire ones. F6c became F7c. Although nothing in the great scale of things, for me hundreds of routes suddenly became possible. I only saw Ian once again, a couple of years later, setting some boulder problems at a climbing event I’d gone to write about. His face creased into the lovely smile I remembered, the smile that had been there back at the beginning. He was glad to see me. The not-so-good stuff was gone. There was just his lovely, lovely smile – straight through into his soul. It’s what I have of him now. It’s what I will always have. As the years slipped past, faster and faster, inexorably the distance between us widened. Occasionally you’d hear the odd rumour. He was reputed to have headed up The Ashes, having forgotten to tie into the rope. (Was it steep enough for him, I wondered?) Then I heard he’d given up climbing, got into DJing and clubbing. I was a generation older and didn’t understand stuff like that. Once, many years later, he turned up on UKC and some idiot derisively asked him what he knew about climbing. I wanted to post, “He came seventh in the world, you fool!” Ian gave a better example with a dignified silence. Across cyberspace, we exchanged greetings. There was so much of Ian’s life I didn’t know about. I didn’t know he had a partner and a son. How proud he would have been! I didn’t know he’d found a new passion in mountain biking. A few weeks ago, by chance, I discovered some old photos of him on the internet. “What’s he doing now?” I mused. And then one day, it’s too late. He’s gone. You try to console yourself, thinking that he died doing what he loved, that hopefully his death was as quick and as painless as it gets. But inside you’re falling apart, tearing yourself to shreds. In nearly 50 years, I’ve known about 50 climbers who’ve gone. You’d think it would get easier. But it doesn’t get easier. It gets harder. Ian was special – and not just to me. He was special. I’m not saying that because of his passing. I’m saying it because it’s true. There was some rare quality he had, something I glimpsed right there, back at the beginning, 30 years ago, a light in his eyes that drew you straight into his soul. Ian, I’m sorry. As a friend, I failed you. I let life get in the way. I let it separate us. I didn’t realise deeply enough that friendship is a precious gift which needs to be continually nourished and replenished. Now what remains is your smile. And your smile is with me for as long as I live. Thank you. Mick
Can someone scan in the power of climbing chapter please....
Shame it was under such sad circumstances but good to see a few folk after many years.All that was missing was some banging techno as we all left.
