Crimson Crux

The Dyno, the Bandage, and the Petty Art of Letting Go

March 25th, 2025
Leawood, KS

I climbed today until my right pointer finger bled. There's a rule at the gym: no blood on the holds. They don’t care how it got there—whether it’s from a sliced finger, a busted nose, or a bucket of rabbit organs smuggled in from the outside. If it’s red and wet, it better not end up on the wall.

I'm so close to sending my first paddle dyno, and tomorrow the problem gets taken down. So for one wild second, I thought about ignoring the blood. Just keep climbing. Bleed quietly. Let some poor stranger take the fall when Mark, the owner, discovers the blood smeared on the green Tempest hold. But before I could fully commit to my villain origin story, Mark caught me. Caught me, caught the finger, caught the blood. The abrasion wasn’t some polite paper cut—it was a proper leak. There was no hiding it. I was caught red handed.

It’s funny, in a grim sort of way. I wanted the send so badly I was willing to risk someone else’s gym ban, someone else’s health. All for one boulder problem. One moment. But the blood rule is there for a reason—disease control, sure, but maybe also to keep us from becoming the kind of people who need to finish something at all costs. There's a sickness in that too: tying your worth to one move, one problem, one fleeting slab of plastic.

So I bandaged my finger. I watched someone else attempt the dyno. And they failed—thankfully. Just because I recognize that a stranger’s well-being is more important than my send doesn’t mean I can’t cross my bandaged fingers and quietly hope they blow it.