During the first year of using a hangboard, a notebook was kept. It was not a training log, with no numbers and no performance records. Just a few lines each day, about the board, about the sensations in the fingers, about the thoughts that drifted through the mind during training. After a year, looking back, this ordinary wooden board had strung together an entire year of life.
Spring.
The most common word in the March notes was itch. Not the itch of wanting to train, but a literal itch. Spring humidity made the contact between fingertip skin and the board surface feel strangely sticky. While hanging, the fingertips would itch, like something crawling beneath the skin. Later, an experienced climber explained that this was capillaries dilating, a good sign. The spring notes also contained many phrases about beginnings. A new start today. A new week beginning with a hang. Spring has arrived, time to hang off the winter laziness. Filled with fresh enthusiasm then. The first thing home every day was to hang on the board, not caring about duration, just loving the feeling of feet leaving the floor. The spring hangboard was shaped like hope.
Summer.
The June notes were written in messy handwriting. Too much sweat on the palms to grip the pen well. The most frequent word in the summer notes was slip. Every day, the same problem appeared. Hands too slippery to hold. Every kind of chalk was tried, as well as sandpaper on the board, air conditioning for dehumidification, and even antiperspirant on the fingertips. Eventually, the fight was abandoned, and coexistence with slipperiness was learned. Summer training became very short, with long rests between sets, because the fingertip skin had softened from sweat and needed time to recover. But strangely, the summer notes contained no frustration, but rather a tone of acceptance. Slipped again today, and that was fine. A few fewer sets could be done. Too hot to move, but those few seconds of hanging, with sweat dripping down, felt very real. The summer hangboard was shaped like endurance.
Autumn.
The September and October notes were thickest. Cool, dry weather brought finger condition to its annual peak. The notes were filled with excitement. That small hold was held today. Really held. Good state appeared three days in a row, hard to believe. The accumulation of strength could be felt. Autumn training was the most enjoyable. No struggle with humidity, no fight against high heat, just focused hanging, feeling, progressing. Anticipation grew for those few minutes each day, even to the point of thinking about going home to the board during work hours. That anticipation was pure, like a child looking forward to playing football after school. The autumn notes also contained many descriptions of breakthroughs. The first pull-up on this hold. A successful hand switch. Lock-off duration longer than last week. The autumn hangboard was shaped like harvest.
Winter.
The January notes were written in neat, careful handwriting. The cold weather made fingers stiff, unable to write quickly. The most frequent word in the winter notes was warm-up. Previously, warming up felt like wasting time. In winter, it became clear that hanging without warming up felt like the fingers might break. Much time was spent studying how to warm up the fingers in a cold living room. Soaking hands in hot water, squeezing grip rings, doing light finger extensions. Winter training volume dropped to its annual low, but the notes contained no anxiety. Only one set was done today, but that set was solid. Physical state was poor today, with no forcing needed. Trying again tomorrow was fine. The winter hangboard taught one thing. Sometimes, maintaining is progress. Not losing ground is already remarkable. The winter hangboard was shaped like preservation.
Flipping through this notebook, a person realizes they have recorded not just training, but an entire year of changes in mindset. That silent wooden board, like a faithful recorder, has inscribed the different states of different seasons into bodily memory.
In spring, the board taught how to begin. In summer, it taught endurance. In autumn, breakthrough. In winter, preservation. Through all four seasons, that board never spoke a single word, but it accompanied a person through every state. High and low, excited and depressed, hopeful and ready to quit.
A question worth considering is whether the board changed the person, or whether it simply helped them see themselves. The answer may be both. It gave them nothing they did not already have. It merely awakened what was already there. Patience, persistence, self-awareness.
Now that board still hangs on the living room wall. A patch of its paint has been worn away, revealing the light-colored wood beneath. Every time that polished area is seen, the days spent hanging on it come to mind. Spring anticipation, summer sweat, autumn surprises, winter persistence. This board is no longer just a training tool. It is a ring of growth, a marker of a year passing.
A new spring is coming. Standing before the board, taking a deep breath, placing the fingers on the hold. A new cycle of four seasons begins with this hang.