0217_UPKEEP_WORKOUT_MUAY THAI

More documents

Recommendations

Info

<strong>WORKOUT</strong> a warm meal and a skinny mattress at the end of the day. Ironic that the most vicious form of unarmed stand-up fighting comes from the land of smiles and Buddhist zen. One sunny afternoon, my coach called me over by my fearsome fight name, “Doraemon, you want to fight or not?” and without missing a beat, “Ok, you fight.” I was scared to say I was scared. So it happened. And training began for the first time with real meaning. I wasn’t kicking bags because I was told to, I wasn’t punching mitts because it was part of our routine. Nothing sharpens your focus like the foreknowledge that in a few weeks, someone will try and take your head off. I trained six days a week, morning and evening. Thai trainers have a saying, “You don’t run, you don’t fight.” Running—or laboured jogging in my case— is as important to fight training as Rocky Balboa showed us on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. It is absolutely vital for basic conditioning. If you’re out of breath after kicking the pads, your trainer will ask why you’ve been sauntering down the road and wolf-whistling ladyboys. Of course he doesn’t say ‘sauntering’. He shouts so the whole gym can hear, “You lie to me! You got running or not? You walk I know... looking for ladyboy for boom-boom.” This is Hartamas dude, not Pattaya. LOL. This is hysterical. And then he stamps his foot into my gut and doubles me over. BOOM! To say training gets ramped up is sort of under-selling the experience. With the stratospheric popularity of MMA, there are tonnes of promising ditties like “10 Exercises to Get You in Fighting Shape” or “High-Intensity Boxing for Endurance and Strength”. I’m not being a prick, but that’s the stuff little boys do. Doraemon, you want to fight or not?” and without missing a beat, “Ok, you fight.” I was scared to say I was scared. So it happened. And training began for the first time with real meaning. I wasn’t kicking bags because I was told to, I wasn’t punching mitts because it was part of our routine” Not that you should feel ashamed for punching air in Body Combat; that shit looks properly menacing. Fight gyms that produce champion warriors have a simpler approach to training. They start with a couple of basic techniques, reminding you move your feet before moving anything else. Then you stand in front of a mirror and repeat, forward step-punch-backward step, until it looks natural enough. It’s called shadow boxing. Then it’s hitting the bags with your knuckles, shins, elbows and knees. Each bag round lasts three minutes and we do a total of five to six rounds. Finally, I hit the pads with my congenial trainer. The problem is Malcolm Gladwell. The often misquoted, counter-intuitive, writing wunderkind (five of his five books made the New York Times bestsellers list) says, “10,000 hours is the magic number of greatness.” Wanna be awesome? So insanely awesome you might join the ranks of Tiger Woods, Usain Bolt, the Michaels (Phelps and Jordan)? You might once you hit that 10k. That’s 10,000 hours of concentrated shadow boxing, bagwork, sparring and conditioning. That’s forward step-punch-backward step until the boredom breaks you down. It’s like running on a treadmill with a wall 3ft from your face for hours on end. Repetition ad infinitum is the name of the game. Like Bruce Lee concurs, “I fear not the man who has practised 10,000 different kicks, but the man who has practised one kick 10,000 times.” You commit to this not only for slick skills or a hardened body. You pledge to this because more than anything else, you’re building the resolve that when D-Day comes and you have to storm the beach, you’ve manned up to all the reasons that almost made you throw in the towel; fear of defeat, fear of pain, fear of rejection, fear of disappointment, fear of humiliation. That’s why we don’t scratch off Tiger Woods. Even if golfing FEBRUARY 2017 AUGUSTMAN 117
<strong>WORKOUT</strong> glory is too lofty a goal now, he’s told the world he won’t give up no matter what it takes. Excuse the preaching. Luckily, just before I scream “I quit”, the coach says to put on a mouthguard and jump in the ring. Since I’m training for a fight, I don’t get to spar with the girls. Instead I get a guy I can’t even touch. I throw one punch, he ducks and throws three more before I realise he’s moved 2ft to my left. I turn and adjust by which time he’s landed a shin on my temple. After five rounds, I’m spent, dejected and pissed off because everyone said I looked really sharp just a half hour before, beating up a punching bag. “Tomorrow, more running,” coach says. Slowly I get whipped into slightly better shape. Weigh-in day arrives and all the fighters turn up to ensure they’re competing at the preagreed weight limits. This is paramount, because any weight difference gives the heavier guy an advantage. His strikes are heftier, it’s harder to yank him off balance in the clinch, and you’ll tire much faster. A 2kg weight difference is all it takes. Ask a road cyclist why every gramme matters and he’ll tell it like it is. When I meet my opponent for the first time, he looks nervous. He looks more muscly so I’m not sure why. Why does he look more muscly? Too late to ruminate. We shake hands and head off for dinner. It’s nothing like what you see on TV. All that gnashing of teeth UFC champ Conor McGregor does is to hype up the pay-per-view. Even the seasoned professionals fighting for belts after our amateur bouts are eating at the same table. Everyone knows showboating means jacksh*t when you’re swallowing your own teeth. See, Muay Thai gloves are well padded but fighters’ knuckles are taped and bound so compact they could punch through concrete. Then there are the elbows they love to throw. Most aim just above the eyebrow so that when a cut opens up, blood gushes into the eye, obscuring vision and ending the fight early. Other nasty surprises are knees to the liver, kicks to the thigh (everyone, and I mean everyone, breaks down after several well-placed strikes) and those dreaded shin-on-shin blocks. The logic is sound though; if an opponent wants to rattle your ribcage, you should meet his kick with your own shin to remind him that if you get hurt, he gets hurt too. The next day, all the amateurs turn up for one final body screen before we’re cleared to compete. That means we find a nice comfortable spot somewhere in the stadium, roll open a straw My rival doesn’t back down of course. He takes everything I dish out with gritted teeth and smiles ominously as he keeps moving forward to attack. What a monster” mat and it’s siesta time. Since I’m fight number nine, it’s going to be a while. After a troubled snooze, in which I dreamed of those rempit nitwits turned up and started dry-humping me instead, my coach gently rouses me. Two days ago, it was Siamese for, ”Left block, right kick you f*cktard. LEFT block, RIGHT kick, Jeez!” Today he’s tender. Not soft, but tender. He oils me up with Thai boxing liniment which I suspect is mildly caustic for the way it burns. Then, I shadow box and get fitted with shin guards and elbow pads. Nobody wants to carry out an unconscious 100kg deadweight so organizers make sure the amateurs don’t kill each other. I’m buzzing with nervousness, but I’m a very good salesman, so I hide it and walk towards the ring as the picture of confidence. Just before I hop inside the ropes, my corner man reminds me cheerfully not to trip and embarrass the gym. What an amazingly thoughtful advice. He’s the guy who’s going to look out for me, watching out for tendencies I can exploit in my opponent. For the most part, he screams for me to keep my hands up to avoid eating too many punches. Ding! Round one! My buff half and I cautiously eye each other. Or maybe the right word is gingerly. Anyhow we creep out and jiggle a bit. The whiny trumpet of the traditional wai khru music blares in the background and already I hear people shouting instructions. Some are saying to move forward and strike first. Another is saying to control the distance. I wonder which one belongs to my corner man. Or if he’s making any noise at all. I’m so screwed. Then the music stops. “Do you guys want to fight or not? If you don’t I can cancel the fight right now. You’re wasting everyone’s time here,” the head judge yells at us. Oh f*ck you. I mean, “Yes sir, sorry about that, we’ll get on with it.” So we stop prancing around like prissy ponies and fight. The punches and kicks start landing with badder intentions. We knock each other around for a bit, and then I grab him behind the neck and throw two or three knees to the solar plexus. With the body drunk on adrenaline, one half of my brain is organising my feet and the other is genuinely astonished at how tiring several seconds of activity felt. That’s one thing Albert Einstein and Michael Bay got right. Time passes differently for different observers, and kind of slows down when you’re in the middle of an action scene. My rival doesn’t back down of course. He takes everything I dish out with gritted teeth and smiles ominously as he keeps moving forward to attack. What a monster. His gloves connect 118 AUGUSTMAN FEBRUARY 2017
Page 1: WORKOUT Battle Of The Bulge My firs

0217_UPKEEP_WORKOUT_MUAY THAI

You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles

Delete template?

Save as template?