Column: Climbing is hard for short people

I went outdoor rock climbing for the first time last week, and I’ve got more than an excusable quantity of bruises to prove it.

I started climbing because — well, mainly because I was crushing pretty hard on a guy friend who liked to climb. If my original intent was to impress him, I was mistaken. My first climbs were terrible and further attempts have remained consistently so.

I have a pretty good sense of humor about these things. Usually.

Last weekend, I woke up before dawn to find three climbers in my kitchen. Two of the three men arrived, gruffly embarrassed, wearing the same shirt. Fortunately, I had a third of the same make.

In our matching outfits, we lugged rope and harnesses to Pilot Mountain. There I climbed on living rock, toed the mountain’s jaw and came away with bloody knees and burning arms.

I can assure you it was anything but glamorous.

On my part, it was a lot of guttural noises (think of a cross between an enraged viking and Serena Williams ), midair complaining and falling (with style). I also got hit in the head with a falling rope. Twice.

As a general rule, if someone yells “Rope!” flee the vicinity. Otherwise, the rope will find you, and you will be spaghetti-snared in nylon.

Another tip: When someone shouts “heads up,” it really means “heads down.” Unless you’re wearing your hard hat (read: bicycle helmet) on your face, tipping those delicate eyeballs and teeth toward the 30 meters of rope hurtling toward you is not advisable.

Before impact, I had a brief flashback to middle school gym class. The ball was coming at me. I faced it with a power stance and open arms, certain of my catching it even as it crashed into my enthusiastic grin.

My climbing style is opportunistic rather than elegant. Chins, shoulders, knees and elbows are all fair game when I have to grab a ledge with something. A word to the wise, though: Practice your split before you get on the rock and not when your life and future groin health depend on it.

The guys fared better. Johnny One-Thumb made it down with all digits intact and a new nickname. Another climbed with exquisite form. The third made it up with brute strength.

I, in the meantime, had to take a breather to still a building temper tantrum. I’m big on gender equality but that only goes so far against biology. Sometimes it’s hard to be a noodle-armed girl among the 6-foot tall and long of limb.

Climbers are the surfer dudes of the terrestrial world and are usually pretty laid-back, but there’s always pressure among adventurers to be ever more hardcore.

Sometimes that pressure pushes me through tough spots, climbing or otherwise. Other times, though, it’s important to remember why I spend early mornings seeking mountains with willowy climber dudes in matching T-shirts. It’s not a competition. It’s not an exhibition of hardcore-itude. It’s just to go outside and play.