There we were, bizarrely abseiling on 7mm rope, with a vent the size of a small car blasting tube dust into face first. My descender of choice – the Petzl Stop was no longer living up to its name or meaning, speeding down and down until the ground harshly punched the soles of my feet. In that moment my brake-hand locked the rope, mildly charring the skin of my palm, but nothing compared to the shiny burns across Snappels. It’s weird, the Hollywood reverie consistently show folk rappelling on cord as thin as washing line, when in theory it’s complete and utter bullshit.
Photo: (Behind the door) Siologen, Snappel, Doc-t, Zero, Little-Mike & Scott, City Road Abandoned Tube Station, London (2010)
