The two most formidable arm wrestlers I have ever met are John Long and Hugh Burton, and I’ve never beaten either one. They're like going against a brick wall falling on you. I didn't look like I could “bend” anyone’s arm, so bigger opponents were rarely scared or prepared for me – and I took advantage of this just as often as possible. Case in point – Wales, 1978.

 

Most of our time in Wales was spent dodging rain drops and drinking Ale, always in good company. We’d shacked up with Al Harris, a friend I had met in Yosemite. Al lived in a little stone hut with a few rooms and a slate roof. It was pretty classic - the door headers were so low, most people had to duck to get through. Al had hot wired the electricity so he could skate paying the bill. This little castle was a social center for Wales climbing, and was situated about half way along the treacherous, oneway loop from the town of Llanberis (Three years later, in 1981, Al would crash and die on this very road).

One evening, with nothing going on outside but the rain, people started to filter into Al’s house till it was pretty much standing room only. I'm standing by Al, having a chat, when the door swings open and Al yells, "Don, you made it.”  Then Al turns to me and says, “I want you to meet Don Whillans.” Cool. I think. Can't wait.

 

Don was broad but not tall so he didn’t have to duck under the door.  But the guy behind him almost had to crawl into the house. My first impression was, he’s Whillans’ body guard -  a silly thought, but the guy followed Don like a shadow. Call him Hagrid, since I can't remember his name. Or maybe I never knew it.

Al wrangles both men through the crowd and over to where my girl friend (Wendy) and I are pressed into a corner. I felt stoked to be standing in front of a great mountaineer. Don and Hagrid had already been drinking some, but so had everyone else. We exchanged hellos, and I look up to see Don’s side kick giving me the stink eye. I was about to say something when Hagrid glares down and bursts out, "You're a bloody Yank!" Glancing over at Al, I can see he's a little tense, while Don doesn’t seem bothered by the remark.  Meanwhile, Wendy grabs my arm and tries to pull me back. All I can muster is, "You're a giant Brit." This does nothing to calm the beast, and in no time I’m pressed back against the stone wall with Hagrid wanting to drag me outside and show me some English pride.

My first experience meeting large numbers of Brits came in Chamonix, a few years earlier, during a trip with Rick Accomazzo. I knew that bar brawling was routine with this lot, and that such battles usually ended one of two ways: You're best friends afterwards, or someone gets pummeled. That night in Wales, I was looking at the later. 

Al might have offered that I was his friend and houseguest, or at any rate, a cool guy. Instead, he promises Hagrid that I could beat his ass at arm wrestling. Hagrid laughs. Whillans chuckles. I suggest a deal: If I gave him a run for his money – arm wrestling - perhaps we might forgo getting wet and muddy outside. Fine by Hagrid.  Al immediately clears a space in the crowd, pulls over his little linoleum kitchen table, and completes it with a couple of chairs. We sit down and get ready. The people circle around. The great Don Whillans puts his hand on ours - and lets go.

 

I was hoping Hagrid wasn't going to be a Long or Burton type opponent, and fortunately for me I put him down in under two seconds. As I gaze up at Hagrid I see a perplexed look; but as I smiled, his whole demeanor changes, and all I hear is Whillans saying, "Bloody ‘ell, Al!" For the rest of the evening my new giant buddy made sure I had a beer in my hand.

Al had seen me bend enough arms to know I was a sure bet. Over the next few weeks he set up matches for me here and there, acting as my promoter and bookie, though I don't remember him splitting any of the money.

Wendy & Al a few days earlier in Anglesey

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