One Month At A Time: Going Over the Edge

Then he pointed to his face and said, “Look at me.”

I was trying, but I didn’t feel so good. My body hummed as if a low electrical current was passing through my bones. I was hungry. I wanted to throw up. My stomach felt like it was full of bottle caps.

Very deliberately, my gloved hand had been clutching the metal gate that would take me from the platform to the roof of the Truist building. I needed to let go of the rail but wasn’t sure if I could do that.

Rappelling down the face of the Truist building in Charleston for the YWCA had seemed entirely doable up until I got to the roof of the building.

Everything looked different from 170 feet up.

I did not want to do this — but I was absolutely going to do this.

I was as ready as I was ever going to be.

Somehow, I’d managed to get rest the night before – the first good sleep I’d had after a rough couple of days. Anxiety kept me up late. Anxiety got me up early and I was a zombie during the day.

By Friday night, the power at my house was out, too, knocked out by a storm that rolled through the area earlier that day.

Trees and lines were down. Power poles had been splintered and the electric company didn’t want to venture a guess about when the lights would return, but the trucks were out and about.

All you could do was wait it out. At least, it wasn’t winter.

My neighbors, meanwhile, had already fired up their generators. At night, the neighborhood sounded like a truck stop parking lot.

Still, I’d slept like a stone and woke up with the sun.

In the morning, I cleared storm debris from my yard and then took an early workout at CrossFit WV to kill time and find a distraction.

It turns out lovingly cradling a 65-pound sandbag while running laps is a great way to take your mind off from falling to your death.

At 10 a.m., I checked in at the registration table inside the Truist building. The YWCA had scheduled me to rappel at 11 – give or take a few minutes.

“Are you excited?” one of the women at the desk asked me.

“In a way,” I said. “I’m not crazy about heights.”

The women nodded. These kinds of things attracts all kinds, including full blown nuts like me.

“You’ll do great,” one of them said.

I promised nothing.

After a short wait, I rode the elevator up with a couple others who’d raised the money for the YWCA anti-racism program, among them Jennifer Pharr, Development Director for the Charleston YWCA, and Laura Cooper, who’d helped me out during my weighted backpack/rucking month.

Laura was celebrating her birthday. For her day, she’d already taken part in some sort of race, was rappelling off the building and for all I knew planned to cure some minor disease after lunch.

Then there was Tommy Ross, who was rappelling as part of a church mission.

Tommy, seeing that I was struggling, tried to soothe my nerves.

“This is a bank,” he said. “Banks are the most risk averse businesses there are. Do you think they’d let anyone do this, if they weren’t entirely sure of the risk?”

That made sense, but banks also routinely offer me credit cards, which never works out in anyone’s favor.

On the 14th floor, the group was escorted down a hall and brought to a bridge engineer, recreational climber and professional rappelling instructor named Lisa. She helped us get into the collection of straps, buckles and hooks that were supposed to help keep us from traumatizing the crowd watching the YWCA’s event from the street.

Lisa checked to see that everything fit and gave us an overview of how the equipment worked. One gadget controlled the main rope we’d be sliding down. Another gadget was the safety, that locked up and stopped travel if we gravity decided to yank us down too fast.

“Think of it like a safety belt,” she said.

The harness was a little tight, but Lisa said that was OK.

“Think that you’ll almost be sitting when you descend,” she said. “It will feel a little less restrictive then.”

I imagined somehow slipping free of the harness and plummeting to my death. I tugged on the straps to see if I could make it a little tighter.

Along with the harnesses, we wore durable gloves, which were supposed to help us hold onto the rope and protect our hands from friction.

From there, we trundled down the hall like astronauts or condemned prisoners to take two flights of stairs up to the roof.

I did not like being on the roof. I felt overexposed and uncomfortable just standing at the stairwell door, looking out at the city.

An instructor named Brian took over and led us through using the equipment. Near the center of the roof, he had us stand on a stool, latch onto a rope and practice lowering ourselves down a wall.

“Like you’re slowly walking backwards,” he said.

Each of us got a chance to try. Then we were sent to stand and wait for our turn to go.

On the platform, my dread grew until I had to say something.

Jeff responded, “First thing. Don’t look down.”

He laughed and added, “I know that sounds stupid, but don’t look down. Look at us. Look up.”

I nodded. I looked at the faces of the people working on the platform. They were almost a blur.

As they guided me to the other end of the platform, getting me to turn around so that my back faced the city, Jeff told me, “You can do this.”

I nodded. I just didn’t want to.

As I stood with my heels off the side of the building, the wind picked up for a moment and Jeff told me to ignore it.

“The wind is at my back. It’s not going to bother you,” he said.

I sighed. OK.

“Now, I need you to just sit down,” he said.

And I did. I was now leaning off the edge of the platform. The ground was 170 feet below my back pocket.

“Trust the equipment,” Jeff told me.

“I trust the equipment. I trust you guys,” I whispered.

It was almost a prayer.

“Now, start walking backwards,” he said. “The first couple of steps is the hardest part.”

I moved, shuffling my feet while looking up at the men looking down at me.

“Remember to breathe,” Jeff said. “Breathe!”

It was good advice. I might have stopped at some point. I wasn’t sure.

I don’t know how long it took for me to get to the ground. I kept my pace steady, walked and sometimes skipped a little when I opened up the release too much, but I never dropped more than a foot or so at a time. I never tripped the safety.

As I walked, I stopped every now and then, just to get my bearings, just to concentrate.

I never looked down.

Instead, I looked up at the tall glass windows, reflecting the sky. I watched the clouds. Occasionally, I looked at the reflection of the ground below me. I could see people in the street, staring up.

The reflection didn’t terrify me.

People shouted my name – an announcer and a few friends who’d come to cheer me on. I couldn’t call back. Instead, I kept repeating, “Look at the pretty clouds. Breathe. You’re almost done.”

Two firefighters on the ground caught me before I rappelled myself into the sidewalk. I was nearly laying on the ground.

When they pulled me to my feet, I looked around.

Done. I was done.

I turned in my gear, picked up my stuff from the ladies at the registration desk, collected my participant t-shirt and then celebrated my survival and the beginning of my 52nd year.

I got nachos and beer.

It was a birthday I’ll never forget and one I’d never repeat.

Rappelling down the side of a 17-story building didn’t make me love rappelling or turn me into one of those adrenaline junkie lunatics they used to put in soft drink commercials.

I’m in no hurry to fling myself off the New River Gorge Bridge for Bridge Day. I’m not signing up to jump out of an airplane.

What I got from taking part in the YWCA’s “Over the Edge” was a modest feeling of accomplishment. I helped raise some money for an organization that tries very earnestly to make the world better while also showing myself that while I may not entirely conquer every little fear or anxiety, I can still push back.

I can come up with just enough bravery or something close enough to it to do what needs to be done.

With a little help and encouragement, I think we all can.