Difficult Actions: are you striving or savoring?

Mar 10

If someone offered you a pass to tick your project on 8a.nu right now, would you take it? What if you could instantly be up there, clipping the chains? Hanging on the finish jug? Lowering off? Crossing it off the list?

Yesterday I lowered off my project, The Canadian Route—not from the chains but from the third bolt—wishing I was still on the wall. I wanted more than anything to be through the crux sequence. Not even clipping the chains, but just experiencing the second half of route on point. What would those next moves feel like coming from the dirt? But I guess it wasn’t the time. When I got to the ground, I asked Henry if what I was doing was a waste of time. I wasn’t referring entirely to trying the route, but specifically to trying the route one more time at that moment. I was tired, my attempts were getting worse, and I felt like I had exhausted most of the learning I could from the session. Rather than getting the sequence more dialed, I felt like I was just getting more wrecked. I moved onto a different route, Xanth, and enjoyed falling at the crux of that one for a little bit.

However, as much as I wanted to tick The Canadian yesterday, what I really wanted was the opportunity to try to send it. The crux move (for me) is a low-percentage stab to a slot at the third bolt of the route. It’s the third real (i.e. likely droppable) move of the route, but the climb is hardly over after that move. Because it’s so low-percentage and the route has so few moves at the bottom, I’ve never been able to experience the second half of the route with the pump or fatigue that I can only imagine I’ll have from the bottom. In some sense, it feels like I haven’t even attempted to send it yet. Who knows what lies beyond sticking the crux?

I’ve been proud of my mental effort on the route, especially as the sessions add up. It doesn’t feel like I’m chuffing. Just that I need to be fresher, smarter about my warmup, and trying a little bit harder when it matters.

The day before yesterday I also got on Xanth. I was climbing with a friend who’s been trying it for quite some time. I watched him climb halfway through the top crux and after he fell, I told him I thought he was going to send. He was only mildly psyched for being so close. But it turns out he didn’t think he was that close. He threw out a number of times he’s fallen at the top crux—something like 20+ from the dirt—and I understood why he wasn’t particularly excited by his recent attempt. Often, being close only feels close for so long. Getting close for the first time feels different from getting close for the 20th time. It feels closer; it feels like progress.

He told me he was savoring the route. I laughed, not expecting him to have such a scarily accurate term already prepared for the attempt. His friend echoed that he, too, was savoring his project. Both of them felt as if they were punting under the false pretense of “enjoyment.”

“it’s ok that I haven’t sent yet. The route is so fun that I really don’t mind that I’m still climbing it.”

Savoring.

After the session, I went home and wondered if I was savoring The Canadian route. And later that evening I just so happened to read J.S. Russel’s article “Striving, entropy, and meaning.”

I determined that I’m not yet in my savoring phase. I’m in my striving one. And that’s what has helped keep my psych alive for so long on this route. But this isn’t accidental, and it also isn’t guaranteed. I’d like to attempt to work through what is so special about striving and how it guides the practice of trying.

In 1974, Robert Nozick published Anarchy, State, and Utopia. He presented his now well-known thought experiment, the “experience machine.” Here is an excerpt of the proposition:

“Suppose there were an experience machine that would give you any experience that you desired. Superduper neuropsychologists could stimulate your brain so that you would think and feel you were writing a great novel, or making a friend, or reading an interesting book. All the time you would be floating in a tank, with electrodes attached to your brain. Should you plug into this machine for life, preprogramming your life's experiences? … Would you plug in? What else can matter to us, other than how our lives feel from the inside?” (Nozick, 1).[1]

Nozick also considers other similar machines, such as the transformation machine, which fulfills our desire to be a certain way, or the result machine, which produces any desired output. However, he ultimately concludes that none of these machines would offer a more fulfilling experience for us than that of living our lives ourselves. He theorizes that “we want to do certain things, and not just have the experience of doing them. In the case of certain experiences, it is only because first we want to do the actions that we want the experiences of doing them or thinking we've done them” (Nozick, 1).

In an earlier post, I posed that for most of us, climbing is a praxis rather than a poesis. This is because we would not be satisfied with achieving the end of a poesis without going through the means. In other words, if climbing were just a poesis, or an achievement, we would happily plug into the result machine to instantly find ourselves clipping the chains or making our tick on 8a.nu without actually doing the climb. However, I expressed wanting the experience of sending The Canadian Route. Is this not precisely what the experience machine would offer me?

First, Nozick assumes the experience machine would be used entirely for pleasurable, blissful experiences. This doesn’t quite track with the experience of trying to send a hard route (though, depending on your ability to enter the flow-state, it could). However, more importantly, and most disturbingly, the experience machine strips us from doing and acting. It strips us of our senses of perseverance “and the meaningful prospect of adversity or failure requiring resilience” (Russel, 425).[2] Essentially, the experience machine strips us of our sense of striving.

Russel makes a compelling analogy between striving and the law of entropy:

“In its simplest terms, the second law of thermodynamics says that the processes of closed or isolated systems will tend to lose energy over time and so such systems will necessarily deteriorate and ultimately cease to exist (Schneider and Kay 1994; Pinker 2018). This is also known as the law of entropy. It is a foundational law of the universe and has profound implications for human lives and well-being. Humans and their capacities are biological systems and thus will necessarily degrade over time if energy is not added in a way that fosters and preserves those systems, though systems for doing this are themselves subject to entropy” (Russel, 424).

One of the primary ways we can add energy to our lives is through sport. Not only do sports create circumstances where we must face failure, but in sports we can face these failures separately from other “worldly affairs.” Rather than face adversity in the form of unpaid bills, we face adversity in the form of an athletic endeavor. Athletic striving has been cited as “a way to… overcome the existential dangers of anguish, despair, and alienation” and is perhaps all that would be left for us to do in a state of utopia. If we aren’t striving to meet our basic needs, philosopher Bernard Suits proposes that we will instead strive in games and sports:

“According to Suits, without games there will be nothing meaningful to do, making utopia a boring, distressing place, lacking goals to pursue or, therefore, purpose. The only solution, Suits argues, is to invent and play games of a richness and complexity to hold human interest throughout their lives. Suits (1978, 166) adds that this is ‘the ideal of existence’ for humans” (Russel, 425).

So, what really is striving? In its simplest form, “the feeling of striving is a desire to pursue and master or overcome challenges and obstacles” (Russel, 433). The aspect of desire is quite important for distinguishing striving from simply putting in significant effort. There are many activities that require effort to overcome an obstacle, such as walking your dog in a snowstorm or carrying four bags of groceries up a flight of stairs, that are not striving. Striving involves a personal engagement with the task that reflects how we value our effort. This generally means we enjoy the effort. Or at least we enjoy it enough that we can lighten the psychological load of significant striving.

However, how are we supposed to balance being happy to embrace our efforts with being rightly dissatisfied that our efforts have not yet produced a result? In other words, how do we balance striving with savoring? Russel is not so clear in this regard, as is made evident by this example:

[if] “we imagine Sisyphus happy in his task of pushing a boulder uphill only to have it roll back down where he must start again, Sisyphus’ positive engagement with his task presumably lightens the psychological burden he faces. But it does not mean the task involves no significant effort or awareness of effort. It is just effort that Sisyphus is happy to embrace. We find this commonly in serious athletes and game players generally. They often love their pursuits so that some of the psychological burdens of striving are mitigated” (Russel, 422-423).

Russel later rightly identifies the key difference between Sisyphus and an elite athlete: the prospect of certain failure. But I disagree with Russel’s identification of Sisyphus’ endeavor as striving. Rather, the Sisyphean task seems to fall on the side of savoring, and this helps clarify the difference between striving and savoring. In the former, failure is constantly confronted in a meaningful push forward. The failures are steps towards achievements. This does not mean that adversity is overcome quickly or without significant effort, but that we believe the adversity will be overcome, and this belief is where we derive meaning from our striving. In the latter case of savoring, failure is certain. We deal with this fate by choosing to engage positively with the task, such as the happy Sisyphus. By simply being “ok” with our destiny, we allow ourselves to sit back and enjoy the process. This enjoyment is where we derive meaning from our savoring. However, this contentment prevents us from ever overcoming the challenge at hand.

I have found myself in such a Sisyphean state on routes and boulders many times before. I stopped making progress and despite being just as close each time, I started feeling further away from sending. Rather than dig deeper within myself to attempt to fail even harder, I decided to sit back and enjoy the process. On these routes, I’ve developed the muscle memory of falling. It becomes part of the sequence. Each time I pull on the wall I push the boulder to the top of the hill, and rather than take one final step to the summit, I subconsciously accept my effort as complete. Back at the bottom, I take a second to wish I had tried harder. I wish I had realized how close I was to the top. It feels like I’ve just blacked out. I don’t even remember falling. Or trying. In these moments, we are presented with what Russel calls a psychological burden. To lighten the load, we can choose, like Sisyphus, to be happy to embrace our efforts. We can savor. “What a fun route!” “I’ll never get tired of that sequence.” “I just need to be fitter.” “I don’t think it’s in the cards for this season.”

In an act of savoring, failure is constantly faced but is never truly confronted. In an act of striving, failure is constantly faced but is always confronted.

However, savoring is a choice. We always have the power to pause, just before the final step, and turn it off. Rid ourselves of the muscle memory. Decide to just send the route. In a previous post I explored whether climbing is truly up to us. If our actions on the wall are entirely the result of our own agency and our own choices, the only way we will fail is if we stop trying. But you might wonder, how is savoring not trying? Is Sisyphus not trying to get the boulder to the top of the hill, albeit happy to be doing so?

Philosopher Frederick Adams would theorize that Sisyphus is not, in fact, trying to get the boulder to the top of the hill. Adams would concede that Sisyphus is trying as hard as he can to push the boulder up the hill, but with regards to completing the task of getting the boulder to remain at the top, Sisyphus is not trying. This is not because he isn’t strong enough, but because he knows he cannot do it. He doesn’t believe he will get the boulder to the top. Or at least not in Albert Camus’ interpretation of the myth from which Russel draws his happy Sisyphus example. Some theorize that Sisyphus mistakenly believes he will get the boulder to the top one day, but Camus (and seemingly Russel too) does not accept this interpretation. Camus explains that “if this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him?” (Camus, 77).[3] Further, Camus’ exclamation that “one must imagine Sisyphus happy” is precisely because Sisyphus as a hero has made himself happy despite his knowledge of his fate (Camus, 78). If Sisyphus believed he would get the boulder to the top, we wouldn’t need to imagine him happy. He could be made happy by his hope alone. Rather, “from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins” (Camus, 77).[4]

All this is to say Sisyphus does not believe he will get the boulder to the top. And, according to Frederick Adams, this means that Sisyphus, savoring his torture, is not trying to get the boulder to the top. In Adams’ words, “it is not possible to try to do an action A, while believing that doing A is impossible” (Adams, 1).[5]

Let me offer one of Adams’ examples, which might seem absurd, but such is philosophy:

“Suppose that for some ridiculous reason Ken desires desperately to move the North leg of the St. Louis Gateway Arch one foot to the North at its foundation, with his bare hands and no mechanical devices. Let this be (E). Ken places his feet firmly upon the ground, gets a good grip, and pushes against the stainless steel wall of the North leg of the Arch with all of his might; all the while knowing full well that it is impossible for him to move the Arch one foot Northward. Is he trying to move the Arch? No. Not unless trying consists solely of going through the bodily motions of one who was genuinely trying. Of course trying does not consist in this” (Adams, 5).

You might wonder what it is then that Ken is trying to do if he is not trying to move the arch? Adams proposes that there are many other things Ken may be doing. For example, “he is pushing as hard as he can; with all of his might (he knows he can do that). He may be exercising. He may be trying to win a bet, to convince others that he cannot move the Arch, to make a spectacle of himself, and so on” (Adams, 5). Adams comes to this conclusion through a broader theory of intentional action:

(1) Intentionally doing A requires the intention to do A.

(2) Trying to do A is essentially intentional.

(3) Trying to do A requires the intention to do A.

(4) Intending to do A requires the lack of belief that doing A is impossible.

(5) Trying to do A requires the lack of belief that doing A is impossible.

Adams’ paper is directed at proving claim (5) and thus heavily relies on the relationships between intention, belief, and trying. Adams defines beliefs as the representations of the differences between our actual states and our goal-states. Beliefs therefore “influence us in determining which desires will become goal-states (become desires that we will attempt to satisfy)” (Adams, 4). Intentions are directed towards the goals that will allow us to achieve these goal-states. They “are settled plans (Brand, 1984, Bratman, 1987) based upon beliefs and desires that are ready to be put to work, to be put into action. Attempts (tryings) are the unfoldings of the intentions (plans) being put to work. Attempts are, if you will, intentions at work (Adams & Mele, 1992)” (Adams, 4). On this practical view, we form a belief or belief system about the means necessary for acquiring a desired goal-state. We then create an intention to move forward with the means necessary for our goal. Finally, we attempt the intention and follow through with our plan. Adams defends that without beliefs, “the system would have no plan for doing A; no beliefs about how A might be obtained, no beliefs about how to reduce the difference between the system’s actual state and its adopted goal-state. There would literally be nothing to attempt; though there may be plenty to desire” (Adams, 4).

When I first read this, I found myself getting prematurely defensive about my own behavior. Oftentimes in climbing I find myself “attempting” a move that I sincerely do not believe I can do. However, most of the time, I do not believe I can do the move at that moment. Or in that session. Or even in the next few sessions. But just because I do not believe I can do the move at that moment doesn’t believe I can’t ever do the move. This is a particular case which Adams does not address and thus I am left only to speculation.

There’s one move I haven’t stuck yet on one of my projects, Mark of the Beast. A few weeks ago, I spent an entire session working the move. I first tried it from standing on a ladder, and then from an easier position on the wall, and then from the actual sequence of the climb. The move felt impossible that day. I genuinely did not think I was going to stick it. But why was I trying it over and over again? Adams would say that I was not actually trying the move. Rather, he would describe my efforts as “trying to move towards the hold” or “trying to jump as far as I could.” Perhaps I can concede that this is what I was trying that day. However, even though I felt defeated, I did not believe the move was absolutely impossible for me. I believed, and still believe, that I will do the move eventually. But when will this belief kick in? Adams might argue that for now, I am simply trying to get as close to the hold as possible. But then one day I will get close enough to satisfy the threshold of immediate belief and I will suddenly believe “I can do the move today.” On his view, only then will I truly begin trying to stick the move. Does this mean my prior efforts were unrelated? No. Does this mean my prior efforts were meaningless? Also no. The difficulty with this interpretation is that long-term goals seem threatened by an infinite regress of intention. However, perhaps this actually is how we experience long-term goals.

We can imagine a world in which all I desire is to stick this one move. But let’s put this aside for the moment and assume that I desire to send the boulder. I believe I can eventually send the boulder. I intend to send the boulder by some future date, let’s say June. By stating my intention, I have started the unfolding of my plan to arrive at my final goal. To make the plan more manageable, I can break it up into smaller goals, such as sticking this one move. If I cannot truly try what I don’t believe I can do, this means that each attempt must correspond to a goal, a belief, and an intention relative to what I think is possible at that moment. This means that in Adams’ sense, I won’t be attempting to send the boulder until I am 100% certain I can do it. Until then, my attempts will only be at other achievements: high-points, low-points, etc. This is actually how I like to approach the projecting process. I typically don’t pull on a climb from the bottom until I feel “ready” to send. I don’t like to leave anything up to chance. And I especially don’t like to leave anything up to me. I’d prefer to pull on the wall and turn on autopilot and let my sessions-worth of preparation do the work for me. Rather than choose at each moment that I am going to send the climb, I like to allow my body to do what I’ve rehearsed.

But this is precisely how I’ve found myself stuck savoring a route instead of striving to send it. Because I feel like I have to believe I can do the route because the evidence proves that I can, not because I believe I can try hard enough. But if the conclusion of my last post is true, that climbing is entirely up to me and that I should approach it from a practical viewpoint, not a theoretical one, I should be able to just decide to believe I can do the route. And from this perspective it seems entirely reasonable that until I’ve decided to believe I can do it, I’m not actually trying to do it. Thus, when we savor rather than strive—when we accept that we will merely face failure over and over again—we are not truly trying to overcome the challenge. We might be trying to accomplish some lesser motive, such as highpointing, trying hard, having fun, or giving the route a “good go.” But if we want to strive to confront failure, we must believe in ourselves. Otherwise, we get stuck savoring.

And as my friend said yesterday, sometimes you just have to throw the leftovers away because they’ll never be as good as they were the first time. Sometimes you just have to decide to send the damn route. You just have to believe, with all your might, that you will send the route. But, fair warning, it might be harder to believe you can do it than it will be to actually do it.