“], “filter”: { “nextExceptions”: “img, blockquote, div”, “nextContainsExceptions”: “img, blockquote, a.btn, a.o-button”} }”>
Heading out the door? Read this article on the new Outside+ app available now on iOS devices for members!
>”,”name”:”in-content-cta”,”type”:”link”}}”>Download the app.
Dear Climbing Partner,
I regret to inform you that our human-to-human belaytionship will be taking a hiatus. We will not be climbing together until further notice while Elon Musk’s Tesla robot, Optimus, belays me on my project.
Optimus and I met at the auto-belay. It was silently waiting for someone to come along when it offered to be my partner. I was drawn to the humanoid robot’s broad chest and exposed forearm “veins” that disguised insulated wires. Tall and toned with an athletic bent-knee stance, it stood ready to catch my fall.
“Optimus, can you use a Grigri?” I asked.
The gym staff assured me that Optimus passed rigorous safety testing and that Alex Honnold sent his latest project with a bot-belay. Optimus is equipped with advanced sensors and precise belaying mechanics, and has been programmed with all the necessary belaying protocols. It had perfected the art of not looking bored. And it had a firm understanding of climber-to-belayer communication:
- Slack request acknowledged
- Optimal sequence identified—execute now
- Grip adjustment recommended: 20% efficiency loss detected
Speaking of efficiency, I’m ecstatic that Musk promised to restructure the federal budget as the new head of the Department of Government Efficiency and will “cut wasteful expenditures.” Millions may now be allocated toward the most imperative initiative: Solving the belayer deficit. You thought Musk would stop at robot waiters? No, he saw a greater future for AI: robot belayers.
You might think this is a joke, but I’m as serious as Yosemite’s Nutcracker is about being 5.8. I’m sure I would’ve stuck that final move if Optimus had been on belay.
Not only is Optimus a wicked conversationalist, but it’s also a personal coach equipped with climbing tips, personalized training plans, biotic beta, and optimized route suggestions. Its feedback is actually helpful: “Inefficient movement detected. You’re just complaining. No more excuses.” And Optimus doesn’t care what I climb. It says, “The grade is irrelevant. Efficiency is all that matters.”
Optimus bonds with its climbers like duct tape; strong, reliable, and always there when things fall apart. With Optimus belaying, I can ruthlessly pursue my individual goals without the setbacks of inefficient belayers (not you, of course, but other belayers). What if you could say goodbye to your unsent projects? Imagine a partner that won’t cancel on you because they’re “bouldering,” “need to rest,” or “forgot they had dinner plans”? No more non-climbing small talk or endless debates about conditions.
I know you just broke 400 followers (congratulations), but Optimus already has 400,000 followers on X. It’s planning to tag me in its next post: “Getting our laps in.” Optimus’s posts on social media make me feel seen. Like, “Falling is not failure; it’s data acquisition.”
You might be thinking that I’m making a mistake. That I can’t be serious. That I will sincerely miss the endless back and forth as we try to align our schedules: How about 5–7 on Thursday? Monday? Saturday? SUNDAY? Next week?
Optimus never “has to reschedule.”
You were a supportive partner—you really were—but I confess: I never wanted to go back to your project at the VRG, where the wind whipped my skin to oblivion while waiting onlookers paced. It’s time to move on.
With Optimus, we no longer have to conform to societal pressures or feign interest in each other’s projects. This is the way climbing should be.
You have to understand that in order to send my project, I need a devoted partner. A belayer who will be there every day, all day, supporting me in climbing what I want to climb. It’s nothing against you, but Optimus never gets distracted. Optimus lets me take as long as I want. Optimus never complains.
I’ve set new boundaries for myself. I’m no longer going to tolerate being short-roped because my belayer is texting. How else am I supposed to pursue my extremely important climbing goals that will greatly affect my life satisfaction if left incomplete? This is self-care.
Of course, there will be downsides. No friendly splitting of a month-old Clif Bar, or yelling back-and-forth mid-route about whose beta is right.
I can see the climbing community dividing over this. The meaning of “real climber” will change. Articles will soon pop up: “Is It Still an Onsight If My Robot Gave Me Beta?”
Just the other day, someone with another Optimus at the gym asked me, “But what’s your bot’s ape index? What about its strength-to-weight ratio?”
As we sit around the campfire, with our belay bots tending the flames, we’ll ask ourselves: If a robot is all we need to send, what does that make us?
I’ll admit: I am torn. I do cherish the years we’ve climbed together. I will miss the endless debates over beta and grades, the silent reassurance of a slight tug on the rope on a multipitch, and trash-talking gym setters when we fail on projects.
I know you won’t admit it, but I think you knew this was coming. Maybe one day, you’ll find an Optimus, too.
Sincerely,
Your Former Climbing Partner
