Training day 62: Injured?!?!?

I took the much needed break from training to heal from all of the small bumps and bruises associated with full time Muay Thai training. My feet and shins were sore from impact, my knuckles were raw from the bag work, and my face had various aches and pains for obvious reasons but I never sustained an injury that forced me to take some time off—until now.

My first day back fell on a Tuesday, the day we work on our clinch. This is the position where the fighters lock together. In classical boxing, the referee breaks up the clinch but in Muay Thai, this is a time to throw elbows, inside knees and attempts to throw the opponent are made. Knowing how to clinch properly is critical to having a successful fight—or at least critical to avoid eating an unforgiving elbow.

I am more comfortable in the clinch position than I am in mid-range. My long frame and wrestling background have provided me with a fairly strong understanding of leverage, balance and positioning.

The drill was simple. There are four fighters. One fighter gets into the center of the ring and clinches with a second fighter for one three minute round. After the three-minute round, the second fighter leaves and a third fighter begins to grapple with the first fighter. Once a fighter has been through all three opponents, the circuit is complete and the next fighter has to work through the clinch gauntlet.

Though all of the other fighters were proficient at Muay Thai, they had little clinch experience and I was able to throw them around. It felt good to be back at the camp and having some validation that the training paid off.

Since the head trainer, Moo, knew me, he selected me first to clinch in the ring. He chose a second vet and directed him to begin clinching with me. Entering the clinch inorganically is always awkward. The usual preceding feeling-out-process during the first and second round enables both opponents to judge the other’s ability—to test the water.

I lapsed back into my wrestling and threw my right hand over the back of my opponent’s neck and grabbed his right elbow with my left hand. We worked our inside hooks, trying to gain a dominant position. We traded knees to the ribs, stomach and thighs. Soon I noticed that my opponent was on the tips of his toes trying to reach for my neck. His hips weren’t in line and his feet were nearly touching. I dropped my hands to the middle of his back, lowered my hips and exploded upwards with a twist to his weaker leg and threw him like a doll.

The other training partners, of various weights (all heaver than me) had the exact same weakness, so I continued to exploit it. The moment my training partner’s balance was off, I took them off their feet. I ignored their knees entirely.

In the last round, I tried the same maneuver, lower the hands, drop the hips and explode upwards with a twist. Only this time something in my side popped. The pain was excruciating and I dropped to the canvas to catch my breath.

I tried to become analytical and pinpoint the pain. Moo ran over to me and picked me up and started to rub my ribcage with his thumb. He was rubbing too high, the pain was lower, in my floating ribs; although I didn’t correct him because I didn’t want him pressing on my injury.

I tried to analyze gain. I hurt my ribs before, I broke three of them several years ago and it took almost 6 months for me to not know they were there at every moment. But that was break and left me bedridden for 3 days gasping for air. This was not a break. The resistance was akin to accidentally uprooting a vine with your foot while walking through the woods. Except for the pain, it would have been an almost peaceful feeling.

I left the ring and stretched.

* * * *

The most frustrating part of the injury is that I don’t feel injured. I feel swollen with muscle. My cardio is through the roof. Nothing aches. And my will is back! But every time I turn something in my rib clicks and I drop to the ground in pain.

I’ll give it a few days.

Back In Training!

As many of you have aptly noted, my will to stay in Phuket and train was weakening. Egged on by a need to see more than my training camp whilst halfway around the world and a group of rowdy fighters, I took a week and went to Koh Pangang for the infamous Full Moon Party to let off a little steam.

I was hesitant to get involved in the debauchery but I was overwhelmed and eventually submersed myself. I countered any vulnerability I felt from the ten to twenty thousand person beach rave “not being my scene” by convincing myself it was just a social experiment.

Needless to say, the night started like this:

And ended like this:

Everything in between is a little hazy—but fantastically so.

The experience wasn’t entirely an exercise in hedonism. There was a wonderfully spiritual element to it and a view that I could watch forever:

And I learned that European bathing suits leave European bathing suit tans.


But really, who thinks to put on sunscreen before going out at 11PM?

But now I’m back at the camp and revving up for a fight that should take place in fewer than three weeks. It was my original intention to have a single fight but I have since learned that fighting is as much a learning experience as the training itself.

Sparring, although helpful, doesn’t have the same type of practical application that bare-bones throwin’-down does. So I’ve petitioned for fights as soon as the trainers think I’m ready. And I’ll fight whoever they put in front of me.

Riots in Thailand?

Just posting from the vacation to let everyone know that all is well here. There's some political unrest in Bangkok but it's not as bad as the news reports it to be. I am completely unaffected by it. Still traveling and avoiding Bangkok.

Never Trust a Promoter

It’s fun to watch the people you train with fight. You know how they move, how hard they hit, their weak points. You know how they deal with you, bobbing and parrying blows. You know what it feels like when one of your training partners finds that opening and the top of his glove catches you flush on your lower jaw.

And you want to see how well they’ll do against strangers in the ring.

Part of the fascination lies in the inevitable reflection of your own abilities. If your training partner does well, then you feel as if you have accomplished something too—whether this be a sense that you helped your partner get to this level or a more self-promotional thought, “If he can take this dude, then so could I.”

But it’s fun to watch a training partner fight even if he doesn’t do so well. The experience is akin to watching a TV drama of questionable merit and sitting through the whole episode just to see a friend who happens to be an extra in the background. Sometimes you’ll even find yourself cheering at the television and recommending the show to other friends based solely on the cameo.

During a fight night, there are two people in the ring at a time. And for the five-three minute rounds, all of the attention from the spectators is on them. And justifiably or not, you feel like you’re a part if that.

So it’s especially difficult to watch a training partner get put into the ring with someone who’s well out of his league.

The Ballad of Scottish Jack:

We were the second group from the camp to arrive at the stadium. Although transportation is never fully arranged beforehand, there always seem to be enough tuk-tuks, pickups and motorbikes to get around. We separated from the first group because we heard of a Muay Thai gear shop on Bangla road that would negotiate for cheaper ticket prices.

Our masterful haggling skills only got us free transportation from the shop to the location of the fight, Patong Stadium. They call it a stadium but it’s more of a dilapidated warehouse. Oppressive husks of masonry projects long abandoned stood like fractured sentinels, willing us to keep moving down the muddy road. The further we traveled, the more light the orphaned buildings seemed to absorb until the plywood shacks with corrugated tin roofs wedged gently between the cement structures were nearly impossible to see.

There was no discernable parking lot and the road didn’t open up as much as the stadium seemed to spill out of the darkness. But this was less a stadium by traditional Western standards and more a building that emerged by piling supplies in a heap and burrowing underneath. Albeit a large pile of supplies that could hold a boxing ring and a few hundred spectators.

Tuk-Tuk drivers floated around like white blood cells attacking any group of foreigners they saw, chanting, “You need Tuk-Tuk?” “Where you go?” “Tuk-Tuk?” “Tuk-Tuk!” Even the driver who took us to Patong stadium offered us a tuk-tuk as we were walking through the entrance of the only reason any foreigner would ever be in this part of town to watch the beginning of the very event we just paid the driver to see.

I put on my measured air of pleasant aloofness and handed my ticket to the counter who abruptly grabbed my bicep before waving me through. The secondary practice ring was pressed against the entrance wall, creating a bottleneck. We elbowed our way through, past the flaps of canvas and discarded turnbuckles. The building smelled less like a gym and more like a sweaty garden shed where teenagers would sneak away to smoke, drink and urinate on the walls.

But there was a ring surrounded by seats and a concession shanty. A group of older Thai men huddled to the left clutching their man-purses, smoking cigarettes and talking quietly. The fighters from the camp congregated cattycorner to the bathrooms, but next to the massage mats. We didn’t see Jack with them.

Over dinner we were joking about wanting to skip the fight because of the inclement weather but we went to support Jack. We’d trained with him for the last month and a half, through his exhibition bout with Jordan and through his eighteenth birthday. As we made our way to the ringside seats that the first group secured, Jack came out of the bathroom. He greeted us with a smile and followed us to the seats.

He was still wearing a t-shirt and jeans despite the second of ten fights taking place in the ring. Jack was to fight sixth.

“How are you feeling jack?”

“Alright, I guess. I wanna be out there.” He spoke quickly and motioned to the ring with his eyes. Jack shuffled his feet and said, “Yeah. I’m ready. Let’s get this over with.” But it sounded like “Yeh. Oim rredy. Less git thes uver wih.” Jack’s Highland accent is always a source of amusement at the camp.

“You’re going to kill him Jack,” someone shouted in support. He evaded the comment by smiling sheepishly and wandering away with an awkward wave.

We turned our concentration back to the fights in the ring. The 13-year-olds who looked like nine-year-olds were evenly matched, trading elbows to the head and knees to the ribs. Like many of the bouts between younger competitors, this would come to a decision. Unfortunately some of the peewee fights end in a knockout—no kid should be knocked out in a ring before growing pubic hair.

The rest of the fights passed well enough but there was no emotional resonance, no reason for us to really engage with the fighters. Jack kept popping into the seats in various stages of readiness.

Jack perched on the arm of my seat still wearing jeans but his shirt was gone.

An Aussie knocked out a fat tuk-tuk driver masquerading as a Muay Thai fighter.

Jack was now in Muay Thai shorts.

A trainer from the camp dispatched a lesser opponent in the third round.

Jack’s hands were taped and his body was fully lubricated with what smelled like Vic’s Vapor Rub.

Two Thai’s exchange points for five rounds—blue corner wins.

Jack was working the pads with one of the trainers.

The fight before Jack’s was tense. One of the fighters was a Thai trainer who had previously taught at the camp. He was tall and lean and he hit things like he wanted to kill them. I wanted to know why he left, but there’s a stigma about abandoning camps. At best you’re seen as a ship-jumper, at worst a traitor.

The ex-trainer nimbly jumped into the ring and removed his robe. He walked to the four turnbuckles and bowed at each of them, then moved to the center to perform the traditional Wai Kru Ram pre-fight dance for the crowd. His opponent joined him. The Thai music blared, sounding very much like Asian bagpipes. Maybe I was thinking about Jack too much.

Though the ex-trainer’s opponent was shorter, he was more thickly muscled. He had the kind of body that looked like he could roll down the stairs of an escalator and giggle about it. Since the ex-trainer had my build, I was still convinced he would win.

One of the old men with the man purses must have noticed how I studied the fighters and he walked up to me, “Which corner you take?”

I turned away from the ring to look at the old man, “I like tall-skinny. Red corner.”

“OK. I take blue. 200 Baht. You like?” His hand dived into his man purse and revealed a roll of bills.

“I’m in.” I handed two 100 Baht bills to the old man.

The first two rounds in a Muay Thai fight are never scored. This gives the fighters a chance to test one another out. They find their range. They gauge their opponents’ speed and power. They work on positioning. Unless one of the fighters feels he can get a quick KO.

The ex-trainer planted his front leg and threw his right foot into his opponent’s solar plexus, throwing him into the ropes. As the opponent bounced off, the ex-trainer had prepared a barrage of punches, elbows and knees designed to overwhelm the opponent. A right hook transitioned into an elbow, low kicks kept the opponent off balance and the knees to the body sapped the opponent’s strength.

And then I blinked.

The ex-trainer was felled by a flash of—something. His knees were straight and his arms made no move to brace for the blow of the canvas. His head bounced on the mat like a half-deflated basketball, ejecting his mouth guard in a thick red spray. Blood bubbled from is mouth. I just lost 200 Baht.

I don’t know whether Jack was watching the fight or if he was concentrating on having his first ever Muay Thai bout, but he showed no outward signs of being phased by the KO. He approached the ring, flanked by the entourage of corner men, cut men and flag bearers. He beat his 8oz gloves together and hopped from foot to foot.

Jack’s opponent was already in the ring. He was taller than Jack yet somehow more muscled. He barely moved his body but watched every movement Jack made. Jack avoided eye contact. But Jack almost always avoids eye contact.

The announcer read the fighter’s statistics off in garbled English. I was able to gather that Jack’s opponent was from France, or Sweden, and had fought before. It also sounded like tall, muscled French/Swede has a belt of some sort. Could I have heard that right?

I did not hear the announcer explain that this is Jack’s first ever Muay Thai bout; or that he’s 18; or that he’s been training for only a month and a half. It could have been the announcer’s poor English.

The tall, muscled (possibly belt-holding) French/Swede ignored the Wai Kru and stood in the corner. Sweat was rolling down his shaved head. His neck was arched like a vultures and his abs seemed to be breathing independently. His arms would have been at his sides but his lats pushed them away.

Fully clothed, Jack looks plump. At 18 years of age, baby fat still clings to him but he has a deep chest and thick legs built from years of playing Shinty. Jack had even proudly announced that he made the Scottish national shinty team and would not allow his mood soured by our pointing out that Scotland is the only country that plays shinty. Jack still won’t tell us whom the Scottish National Shinty Team competes against.

Jack’s Wai Kru seemed to drag on while the tall, muscled (possibly belt-holding) crazy-abbed, French/Swede’s determination was growing. By the time Jack finished, the tall, muscled (possibly belt-holding) crazy-abbed, French/Swede’s bloodlust was peaking. Jack still hadn’t made eye contact and wandered back to his corner and spoke briefly with his trainers.

“Ready?” the referee called.

“GET HIM JACK.” came a reply from the audience.

The competitors moved to the center of the ring and touched gloves. The determined, tall, muscled (possibly belt-holding) crazy-abbed, French/Swede bounced twice and attacked Jack with a flurry of kicks, and punches, hitting al of the levels of Jack’s body. Jack pretended that the blows left him unaffected—maybe if he pretended, it would somehow be true.

Jack received two sharp kicks to his lead leg and ate a right hook behind his left ear. He crumpled straight down, like all of the bones from his body had been removed at once. But he was awake before he hit the mat and sprung back up the moment his head hit his own knees. He looked around to check where he was but a few jabs reminded him before he could process it for himself. He was in a Muay Thai ring, being pummeled.

All of the supporters who came out to see Jack fight were screaming our throats hoarse for Jack to hang in there. By the time the first round ended, Jack had been knocked down twice and had been struck with dozens of shin kicks to the thigh. He limped to his corner and winced with pain.

While his corner men iced him down, the fighters from the camp tried to come to terms with the obvious mismatch. What is Jack doing? Why’s he fighting this guy? Who possibly thought this would be an even match?

The bell rang for the second round and Jack bounded to the center of the ring. He was rewarded for his exuberance with a flurry of punches to the head, another dozen kicks to the thigh and a referee stoppage.

When the determined, tall, muscled, crazy-abbed, French/Swede’s hand was raised in victory, a belt was slung around his waist and additional accolades heaped on him—none of which were intelligible.

In a round and a half, Jack had been efficiently dispatched by a competitor well above his own skill level.

This was the first time I saw such a mismatch but it wouldn’t be the last.

Training Day 49

The alarm went off at seven AM. I didn’t recognize the song, the volume was turned low enough that it would wake me but not disturb my neighbors.

I could hear the groundskeepers milling around outside of my window, antagonizing my already guilty conscience for not wanting to roll out of bed. But I slept with the AC on and the new quilt left on my bed provided another luxurious obstacle to starting my day—so warm and soft. I rolled the blanket over my knuckles and tucked my fists under my chin, bracing my body against the artificially dry cold that enveloped the room. My legs swung off of the bed and led me in a slow shuffle to the bathroom. I tried not to take inventory of the aches and bruises that wracked me from head to toe, so I upset the morning ritual by showering before training.

I set the electronic water heater on the showerhead to high and turned the knob. The water is normally set to cold for the after practice showers. Cold water is recommended by the antibacterial soap I’ve been using and it cools my body temperature after workouts in the tropical heat.

The warm water was relaxing and I let in a mouthful before spitting it back out. I don’t think that small amount would be enough to give me diarrhea but I’m unsure because that was the first time water not from a plastic bottle has passed my lips in almost two months. I feel a pang of guilt again as I consider diarrhea a viable excuse to avoid practice. I place the palms of my hands above my head against the wall of the crude shower stall and twist the balls of my feet on the coarse concrete floor. The water flows over my face and trickles down my bruised legs.

Yesterday’s practice took more out of me than I had anticipated. It was the first practice I’d attended since my long weekend on Phi Phi Island— made famous to the West by the The Beach and infamous by the tsunami that hit several years later. I expected the trip to be a restful vacation, but beer was consumed by the bucket-full and sleep was elusive.

That’s not to say the trip was a waste. The voyage would have been worth the time and money just to have a single meal at a beachside restaurant. The food was overpriced and underwhelming but the view was unheralded.

At first, I didn’t realize the warm ball of joy growing just three fingers below my naval and as deep as infinity. There it grew, and traveled up into my chest, and lodged itself in my esophagus before erupting into an unabashed “YAY” every time a woman in a bikini walked by. To the casual observer, it must have looked like I was on an ecstasy laced invisible rollercoaster. There are many things taken for granted on the grounds of a fight camp. But I paid for my frivolity.

On the day I returned, the head coach moved me from the intermediate section to the advanced section of the camp—only this time it wasn’t a question but an order. I tried to explain that the weekend had taken a bit out of me and the two days I’d been gone had been detrimental to my cardio but to no avail. I embarrassed myself during the pad work drills and had my neck cranked for a full hour during the clinch-work.

Now, under the shower, my body was wilting and my eyes were swollen shut with sleep and ache. These are the times where it’s dangerous to think. The topics of reflection often include: What am I doing here? What do I really have to prove? Will this all be worth it? Can I keep going?

Thankfully my strategy of building the expectations of this trip high enough that my friends and family would never let me live it down if I backed out has created a whole new level of accountability. I will press on.

I turned the shower off and ground my feet as far into the floor as I could. There was something reassuring about the texture of coarse, wet concrete against the thick skin on my soles.

The evening before, I was watching the pre-fight training video of George Saint Pierre and BJ Penn. It was a typical video that included trash talk, training montages, coach hype and slow motion entourage walking scenes. In the video, GSP says something to the effect of, “In fighting, there are three laws: To believe in yourself, to believe I your trainers and to believe in what you’re doing.” But belief (faith), unfortunately, is not constant.

Law 1: Belief in myself. I think I have this down. I have no doubt that I will be able to complete the task set before me when the fight date arrives. Law 2: belief in my trainers. I’ve always been skeptical of the trainers here. They see thousands of fighters a year and there’s little to distinguish one from another. Earlier in the week I saw a good friend of mine put into the ring for his first fight with a fighter who had more than 30 fights under his French Kickboxing Championship belt. My friend was decimated. Law 3: Believe in what you’re doing. Yeah. Sure. I believe in waylaying regret.

I turn the shower off and walk to the sink. I expect the reflection in the mirror to look different, harder, than when I arrived. But my reflection looks the same to me, save the Mohawk and goatee. After toweling myself off, I skip practice in favor of writing this entry.

Last week, the clique of friends I made left. And the voices of dissent have grown louder, “I’m going to a different camp,” “I’m not getting anything out of this place,” “This camp sucks.” It’s hard to not get swept up in it.

By Friday, my second month here will have concluded and I’ve been encouraged to take a week away from the camp and decide how I’m going to proceed. I’m not sure whether that means I’ll change locations entirely, change camps or stay here.

"European" bathingsuits

Europeans don't actually wear them. Who knew?

I Bought an Athletic Cup

It’s made of steel. It punishes people for attempting low blows. It is my friend. But I still haven’t learned exactly how to tie the cup on. It feels like a burlap thong with a fishing weight attached to the front of it.

In Thailand Not Gay

There's a fighter at the camp from Northern England who is on track to have a professional fight career. This requires him to have a lot of private sessions and the best trainer. Being the best trainer means that you're most likely the baddest assed dude in the camp. After one of the sessions, the scary bad ass trainer started to rub the Northern England fighter's legs and worked higher and higher until the trainer's hands were in the fighter's shorts.

The fighter from Northern England never wastes a word and has a deliberately slow way of talking. The Thai trainer speaks quickly, almost as if he'll forget what he's trying to say if the words don't spill from his mouth quickly enough. A dialogue witnessed:

English Fighter: No.
Bad Ass Trainer: [keeps rubbing fighter's upper thighs]
English Fighter: No. That's gay.
Bad Ass Trainer: Ha ha. No. In Thailand not gay.
English Fighter: Yes. Yes it is gay.
Bad Ass Trainer: Ha ha. [keeps rubbing fighter's upper thighs under his shorts]
English Fighter: [quietly acquiesces but is visibly displeased]

So now anytime something suspiciously gay happens (which isn't uncommon on the grounds of a predominantly male camp where short shorts, no shirts, grappling, and Shania Twain music is ubiquitous), we all say, "No. No. In Thailand, not gay."

Yeah--the trainers are kind of affectionate and touchy. But they also have had hundreds of professional fights--so they have earned the right to be affectionate.

"...not that there's anything wrong with that."

Training Day 36

The head coach made the suggestion yesterday that I move from the intermediate section to the advanced section of the camp. I was flattered to the point where I immediately blurted out, “Yes! Sounds great.”

I’d been watching the fighters in the advanced section spar whenever I had the chance. Their combinations were crisp and well timed. Their footwork was sophisticated and every strike was planned well in advance. Though some of the fighters in the advanced section are brutal and sparring becomes another opportunity to knock someone out.

Yesterday, one of the advanced fighters, an amateur kickboxing champion from the United States, was sparring with a trainer. The trainer held nothing back and is infamous for putting the students into the corner and blasting them. He’s almost a head taller than the rest of the trainers at camp and is swollen with muscle. To supplement his already intimidating build, he’s adapted an I-don’t-give-a-shit swagger to accompany his wandering eye. Rumor has it his orbital was fractured in a fight and he didn’t bother to have his eye set properly.

During the sparring session, the student was faring well and landed a powerful combination. The trainer responded by hitting harder and throwing unprotected elbows and knees at the student. It looked like this fight was about to break into a fight.

I turned back to my own training and was unable to continue watching as the scuffle escalated. I later saw the American kickboxer with a bruised forehead ad swollen left eye.

It’s clear that I’m not yet ready for advanced Muay Thai. My technique is relatively sound and I have a few helpful natural attributes but I’m always on the verge of falling apart when I spar.

I was told I would have to develop a taste for being hit in the face, to meet every blow with my chin down and press forward like an emaciated bulldozer. But all I’m learning is how interconnected everything in my face is.

I was caught with a punch while my mouth was open and my lower jaw snapped back. I immediately felt like I had an ear infection. A few days later, a solid left hook left me unable to blow my nose without feeling like my right eye globe was going to pop. The pain is nothing that I’m unable to press through but it’s the multitude of small pains covering my body that reminds me of my mortality, and the possibility of permanent injury. And the fear of injury will lead me to become injured.

Though, the training is going well. I just need to think tougher.

Motorbikes (Part 1)

There’s little to fill the time here if not training twice a day. Training once a day is tolerable but missing both sessions is painfully boring. Ask any injured fighter; there are plenty of them walking, limping and dragging themselves around here.

There are two main categories of the walking wounded at the camp, those who have been injured while training and those who have been injured during extracurricular activities. Surprisingly, the majority of the injured fighters fall into the later category, injured outside of the camp. And the majority of that majority sustained their injuries while on motorbikes.

But motorbikes have become a necessary risk. The best and worst part about this camp is the location. It’s in the middle of nowhere. This is wonderful for training but the isolation and monotony become oppressive and as mentioned above, especially when not training twice a day.

Deciding to rent a motorbike was in itself a process for me. It’s not that I had to weigh the pros and cons as much as I had to become comfortable with the idea.

I walked to the grocery store twice a week. It’s about two miles away from the camp straight down a busy highway. As is custom, motorbike taxi drivers wearing red vests honk and try to persuade you to jump on the back, “Where you go? You want ride?” This happens so frequently that waving them off at the first honk becomes habitual, like using the polite “Khrap” to finish every sentence addressed to a Thai or willing yourself not to blink when a Patong lady swipes her hand up your butt like it was a credit card through a reader. But the walk isn’t particularly scenic and is often hot. Every time I made the walk, I resolved to save money by dismissing the taxis on the way there and catching a motorbike on the way back. But the onslaught of offers while walking to the store becomes so desensitizing that it feels more uncomfortable to accept a motorbike on the way back than it does to just walk the two miles while carrying the groceries.

After being here for a month without having a bike, it was difficult to get into the biker—er…scooter—mentality. Again, this is not a question of pros and cons, although those were weighed, measured and calculated with the utmost care. This was more a question of breaking through the established routine.

So I decide to rent a motorbike for the weekend and not commit to a monthly rate. I’d ridden motorcycles before. In fact, my first vehicle was a 1982 Yamaha XJ750K Midnight Maxim. It was black and chrome and weighed about 500 pounds. I loved it until the moment I wrecked it on an off-ramp. But I learned valuable lessons about two-wheeled riding from my experience on and under my old bike. How different can riding a motorbike be?

My maiden voyage on the motorbike was to the mall, Central Festival, so I could go to the Apple store to have my iPod fixed. [That should dispel any misplaced developing-nation romance that you my have attributed to this rugged adventure.] The traffic patterns were difficult to figure out because there was no clear rule of law; it was like taking a jetski down whitewater rapids filled with debris, except with alternating currents. And the only indication that you’re doing the right thing is if you haven’t been a part of creating any accidents.

I turned out of the camp and made my way to the central highway, which lead directly to Central Festival. I’d learned to drive on the right side of the road but quickly adapted to driving on the wrong side like the English. Motorbikes didn’t have a clear right of way but were treated by the cars like delicate invalids who were left to their own devices and should only be harmed if they stepped too far out of line. Maybe it was the Buddhist influence on Thai culture or maybe it’s the glut of motorbikes crowding the streets and spilling between cars that left the drivers so aware. In the States, the first thing you’re told about riding a motorcycle is, “Drive like everyone on the road is trying to kill you.” Often they are.

The feel of the bike was top heavy and the weight below me didn’t match my previous experiences with the Yamaha. I felt like a good gust of wind could have changed my direction. In the straightaways, the cars, trucks and vans would blow by the motorbikes on the right side, often pushing the smaller vehicles onto the shoulder. But the motorbikes would regain their positions at red lights by filtering through the lumbering stopped vehicles live a sieve. I was hesitant to drive aggressively at first but soon gained confidence that I would be able to handle my own when a motorbike carrying three school girls, each carrying a child blew past me.

The Central Festival sign crested the horizon and the road widened. I wasn’t sure which direction would take me to the main entrance so I followed the flow of traffic and made left turn. It soon became clear that the only way to get to the main entrance was to bust a U-turn at the designated spot and work my way back. I had a van bearing down behind me and it’s generally not safe for a motorbike to drive in the right lanes. I sped up towards the turn and cleared out of the way of the van. I slowed the bike before the turn and sped up into it as I leaned to the right.

The motorcycle-driving manual would have been proud of my technique but I wasn’t on a motorcycle. Motorcycles can corner. Motorbikes cannot. Over the years it seems I’ve developed a nervous tick before I put a bike into the ground, I look at the speedometer. This time it read 30km/hr. This didn’t seem too unreasonable a number for a quick U-turn but the bike didn’t agree and abandoned me by slipping from under my mounted position. I hit the ground with my right forearm, rolled onto my backpack and tucked my legs until I came to a full stop.

I was in the middle of traffic so I jumped onto the bike as quickly as I could, started it up and drove directly into the back of a parked car. A few bystanders pointed at me and laughed so I nonchalantly readjusted myself and drove to the entrance of the mall, making sure to clip the mirror of every parked car for half a mile.

My injuries were minimal. I had some gravel embedded in my forearm and my knee but I pulled it out and wrapped myself up. Now I was part of the roadrash club. All members of the club have put their bikes down in specific and often hilarious ways.

Anonymous member 1: “I was driving at night, right? And it was the turn for the camp, but I sneezed. My helmet visor was down on account of the rain and got filled with a spray of snot. I couldn’t see nothing. I missed the turn and careened off the road.”

Injuries: Cuts to left leg

Anonymous member 2: “I fell on the gravel. What are you asking for?” [Supplementary information: The driver had a passenger and they rode over some fresh gravel. The driver wasn’t used to the weight of the bike plus passenger so they sank. He panicked and pulled the throttle, kicking the passenger off and spinning the bike into the ground.]

Injuries: Gravel lodged in right knee and elbow. Passenger unharmed.

Anonymous member 3: “It was at night and I was following my friend real close. The road, right there, is right next to camp. And he swerved. I didn’t see the pothole and put my front wheel right into it. I tried to do a shoulder roll to get out of it but you know… Are valiums good for pain?”

Injuries: Broken collarbone

Anonymous member 4: “I was riding back from Patong and I was real tired”
Interrupting person 1: “Tired? You were drunk!”
Interrupting person 2: “Drunk? You told us you weren’t drinking!”
Anonymous member 4: “Well, I had a beer.”
Interrupting person 2: “You told us you had nothing!”
Interrupting person 1: “You mean 7 or 8 beer Chang!”
Anonymous member 4: “Can I get on with it? So I was riding back and I saw something in the road. I took it straight on and it launched me into the air. I hit the ground and the bike became wobbly and I was pitched off and skidded on my head off the road. Not that bad really.”

Injuries: Strained Acromial Clavicular ligament. Forced to wear pink sling for duration of trip in Thailand.

As for me, the following day I lost the key to the bike and had to pay to have a new one made. I returned the bike in the same condition it was rented to me. My injuries have since healed in full and my iPod has been replaced.

Gear

A Muay Thai fight requires little in the way of equipment. During a fight, the fighter needs only his mouth guard, hand wraps, gloves, shorts and cup. Training requires just a bit more. This is what I use:

Muay Thai Shorts:

These are worn with the top of the waistband level with the naval. They're approximately 12" long with a 3" inseam which leaves 33" of my legs exposed for your viewing pleasure. When first putting them on, one may experience the transformative experience of turning into a fleshy marionette. This is known as the Reverse-Pinocchio-effect. Only when removing the shorts does one feel like a real boy again.

The shorts are often adorned with the fight camp the fighter represents. Non-fight camp shorts can also be purchased at markets which are most often decorated with wolves, dragons, tigers and any other animal that can be humiliated by having its image stolen by rogue airbrush-on-velvet-canvas painters.

Muay Thai Krus (teachers) have grown so used to the shorts that they can often be seen tucking the bottom of the shorts into their waistbands, giving the appearance of a Muay Thai diaper. One can only assume they do this because they're so badass that they're just looking to pick a fight with the first person who makes a comment.

Hand Wraps:

Hands must be wrapped before putting on the gloves to build scarring callouses on the knuckles, thus toughening them up. I've been told that wrapping the hands prevents breaks in the hands and lend support to the wrists but all I've experienced is bleeding. The Twins wraps pictured above are 100% cotton and have the feel of burlap.

As opposed to the shorts, putting on the hand wraps immediately makes you feel tougher. If you don't believe me, try wrapping your hands in masking tape, stand in front of the mirror and make menacing gestures at yourself while reciting lines from Taxi Driver. That fight-ready hooligan staring back at you is you!

Shin Pads:

The necessity of shin pads during Muay Thai sparring can't be overstated. If you've ever had the pleasure of playing the "shin game" with me then you know how much a direct shin to shin kick hurts. And you know what an ass I can be. If I've never kicked you in the shin with my shin, then you may have banged your shin against a bed frame, taken a blow to the shin while playing soccer (football, futbol, footey), etc.

All Muay Thai blocking is direct impact. If an opponent throws a body kick, you must block the kick with your shin. This sucks. Oh, sweet baby Jebus this sucks. Depending on your oponent, this can be like blocking a baseball bat with your funny bone.

I went with the Fairtex shin pads. They're thicker and are of high quality. Downside is they're heavier and slow your kicks down.

Muay Thai Gloves:

I bought the Twins 12 oz gloves not out of want but out of convenience. They're not the most comfortable gloves on the market but they get the job done. The fighters at the camp are not allowed to spar with gloves lighter than 18oz so these are used for bag and pad work and the occasional unsanctioned spar.

Mouth guard:

I didn't have a mouth guard for the first couple of weeks and sparring was an inconvenience. My teeth chattered more than once. This is just an upper teeth boil-and-bite but it works. The next mouth guard I buy will cover both the upper and lower teeth and will have a slot to breathe through when my nose clogs.

MMA Gloves:

I don't use these much anymore because I stopped going to the MMA clases here. The tropical weather, excessive sweating, and general filth of the rest of the grapplers have created messy, if not entirely unsanitary conditions.

These gloves weigh 4oz each and have padded knuckles, open fingers and thumbs to allow for both striking and gripping. Again, the Twins gloves were a purchase of convenience. I look forward to using these more back in the states.

Athletic Cup:

(Not Pictured) I need to get cup, I've taken a few shots to the giblets already but have yet to sustain any permanent damage--thankfully.

*

This past week was a wash. Monday started with MMA in the morning and Muay Thai in the evening but I felt lethargic and defeated by the time I rolled into bed. The next day I had a long run and lifted a few weights before the afternoon Muay Thai session. My will and body were broken down enough that a suggestion to go out was impossible to turn down.

The second night in Patong was less eventful than the first but was enough to dull my motivation for the rest of the week. I made sure to work out at least once a day but avoided the longer Muay Thai sessions.

After my last post, I received a lot of e-mails giving support, advice and making fun of my masculinity. I took your pearls of wisdom and hurled insults and have tried to adapt a new training regimen that eliminates the two-a-day schedule.

Training Day 20: In the Doldrums

Recovery isn’t happening fast enough. Cardio fitness, skin durability, muscle strength, willpower, the ability to absorb abuse and interest are all hulking factors in this quest. I’m tired and temporarily stuck.

The training has Sisyphean undertones. I often think about how to fit in time for extra crunches in between double training sessions. I can’t learn more technique until my body can handle the strain.

I’m starting to think about nutritional strategy, recovery time and energy maximization. And I’ve lapsed a few times. This is harder than I expected.

Training Day 18

It's hard to write about training. It's boring to read about and it puts an unnecessary mental strain on me to have to think about. Not having to articulate what I'm doing allows me get to a mental place where I can just go and do it. That being said, my eyeballs are swollen from a sparring session yesterday. I hate getting hit in the face but it's part of the game and I've been told many times that it's an acquired taste that I either have to develop or I have to leave. The training is rigorous, long and tedious but there's nothing I'd rather be doing. I worked out for 12 hours yesterday so I'm taking this morning off. Here's the rundown of the afternoon workout:

*30 min technique session-front kicks, low kicks and blocking
*20 min jumping rope and tire bounce
*Circle-run warm-up
*Stretch
*Wrap Hands
*Shadow box 1x5 minute round
*10 push ups
*Spar 3x5 minute rounds with 10 push ups between rounds
*Shadow box 1x5 minute round
*10 push ups
*Heavy bag full throttle 3x5 minute rounds with 10 push ups in between rounds
*Shadow box 1x 5 minute round
*10 push ups
*Pad work full throttle 3x 5 minute rounds with 10 push ups in between rounds
*Have stomach beaten with pad 20x
*Heavy bag, 100 kicks each leg
*Left front kick, left kick 100 times
*Left front kick, right kick 100 times
*300 calf dips (both legs)
*300 calf dips (right leg)
*300 calf dips (left leg)
*Circle up, pass heavy bag in circle 10 rounds, 10 push ups after touching heavy bag
*200 sit ups
*Stretch

And that was the last four hours of the day. That's all there is--training, sleeping, eating. 'Tis a wonderful life.

And on a local note, the PA athletic commission gave the go ahead for MMA coming to PA! It’s about time.

Valentine’s Day Part 2: A Night in Patong

The undirected energy that existed before the fights began returned almost as soon as the final victor’s hand was raised. But by this time, the unease that accompanied the directionless energy was slightly dulled—now it was clear who was planning to continue the night and who wasn’t. And the call to go out and “Have a laugh” meant, “Let’s hang out here until we suck the keg dry, then we’ll think about how we’re going to get to town.”

The abstainers and the moderates trickled away from the camp before they were sucked into the revelry. But for some, the “I’ll just have one beer” resolution was just a precursor to, “before I continue drinking my face off.” Sometimes gluttony is just another word for getting your money’s worth and when you’re stuck in another country with limited income, you strive to get as much as you can for every Baht; especially with an all-you-can-drink ticket.

There was also a sense of breaking through the monotony. For the trainees who had been at the camp for a month or more, this was a chance to let loose, even at the risk of setting back your cardio a week or two. And for the newcomers like me, this felt like a final hurrah before the long slow slog to physical fitness and mental discipline.

Time went by, beer was consumed, conversations got louder, guards were lowered and a sense of inevitability set in—we were going to go to Patong. The certainty we all felt that the evening was going to continue in Patong completely overwhelmed our need for a plan. If there was doubt about the evening, a leader would have emerged, calls would have been made, a hierarchy established and shifts for transportation queued. As it was, we were sure that a tut-tut had been called on our behalves and we would shortly be whisked away—all 40 of us.

A tut-tut seats 9 passengers comfortably. Both “seats” and “comfortably” are relative terms. At nearly six feet tall and eight feet long with tires roughly the circumference of basketballs, there are technically nine places where butts were designed to be placed; eight in the back and one next to the driver. But when in a country where four or more on a scoter isn’t an unusual sight on the highway, hanging onto the back of the vehicle is just as viable an option as cramming into the back.

Indeed, a tut-tut had been called and a crowd of nine seized it as quickly as someone could say, “Who’s going with us?” As the mini-micro van packed with oversized Westerners pulled away, a voice from the crowd reassured the abandoned that there would be more chance of finding another vehicle on the highway than on the poorly lit country road the camp was on. With plastic cups of beer and every-man-for-himself attitude in tow, the crowd shuffled and sauntered towards the road like a flock of yelping zombies.

We were led by our self-assurances of arriving at Patong like lemmings to the edge of the highway, where we stood and watched as vehicles rushed past us. We waited as a group of thirty, not really feeling lost, but also not sure of where we were, how we’d get to our destination or how we’d get back. Across the street was a local Thai bar where the patrons started hooting and whistling to get our collective attention. But that wasn’t Patong, so we didn’t respond. A taxi approached us from the rear and collected a group far too large to fit in the vehicle. The passenger sitting on the stomach of the tourist laying across four laps in the back seat shouted, “To Auzzie Bar” at the left over bunch. The remaining 19 of us were taken by a pickup truck for the 40-minute ride to Patong.

I dislodged a knee from my inner thigh, jumped from the back of the truck and immediately wondered why I’d been so excited about going out to Patong. A single street was packed with neon lights and tourists with passport wallets and cameras. The air was thick with the smells of cooking meat, sweat and a curious mixture of talcum and coconut milk. I forgot about the people with whom I traveled and just thought about getting off of the street and getting to the Auzzie bar. I was hoping that it would provide refuge from the flashing lights and unrequested shoulder-to-elbow bumping.

I paced away from the pick-up and into the melee looking left and right for signs for the Auzzie bar. I often forget that my fast walking and resolute decisiveness have often been misunderstood as leadership. Those who know me best realize that this is just panic and let me run around like an unleashed toddler until my brain settles. I zigzagged through the crowd, vaguely aware that the rest of the group may be following me and turned every now and then asking, “Do you know Auzzie Bar? Is Auzzie Bar here? Are we in the right place?” to people who may or may not have arrived with me.

It appeared on the right like a peanut butter factory in the desert, completely unexpected and somewhat unsatisfying. It was a two-story mega-bar with open sides, packed with tall, tanned white people with exhausted bleach-blond hair and nasal English.

On the trip over, the pick-up passed the over-stuffed taxi and diminutive tut-tut so it was our job to lay claim to a spot at the bar. I mounted the stairs and noted the bathrooms to the right and left, pool tables in the back, three bars and the distinct lack of fire escapes. There were only a few walls so a quick jump over a banister would probably do the job.

While I was relieving myself, the rest of the group flooded the bar towards the back and after a few shakes I joined them. Somewhere during the journey, my wallet had been lost and in my despair, not that I lost my money but that things were not as they should be, a friend from the camp bought me a round of Chang “Elephant” beer. I thanked him and paced around the establishment trying to take it all in.

The bar was packed hip-to-hip and shoulder-to-shoulder Auzzies at Auzzie Bar—how apt. I couldn’t overhear the conversations above the loud Australian rock music that blared through the PA system. And like the uncomfortable gymnasium parties in Brazil, the listeners didn’t really care if the music was good, it was more important to croon along while gesticulating wildly and sway with friends, all the while making faces that expressed something between a satisfying bowel movement and the death of a close relative. I gulped my beer and made my escape.

It’s engrained somewhere in me that I have to experience everything at least once. Even though I have created boundaries and have a curiously burdensome sense of moralism, I find myself driven to try something new when I get the chance. This sense of having new experiences led me to Thailand in the first place to get a few fights under my belt. But while I was living in New York, I was shocked by the revelation that some lessons can’t go unlearned and some experiences aren’t necessary.

As I walked through the streets, I pondered the lessons that can’t go unlearned. In the extreme, I thought about accounts from shell-shocked war veterans who can’t forget faces of people they’ve killed and friends they’ve lost. I thought about friends who are addicts in recovery who can’t go a day without reminiscing how great it would be to feel high again. And I thought about the less extreme but equally relevant lessons like the unsatisfying but often compulsory nature of one-night stands. And the passing of deadlines whether the work is completed or not.

The streets were a vortex of hostesses, party girls and polished brass dancing poles. If the small Thai men with reddened eyes and yellowed teeth didn’t persuade you with whispered promises of easy girls and ping-pong shows, then there was a second wave of eye-candy dancing in windows and eager women pulling you into bars. My myopic focus waned and a more macro-perspective took over the people and the bars and as Plato says, “No human thing is of any great consequence.”

I had my fill of wandering and headed back to the Australian drinking enclave no more enthusiastic but less concerned. The swarm had thinned during my walking lament and there was a less oppressive crush to the crowd. I attached myself to particularly jovial friend like a lamprey to a charismatic shark and had another beer.

“Where’d you go, mate?” my friend enquired with an English smile.

“Me? Bah. I just wandered around. I wanted to acclimate and see what else was here.” I was still thinking about Plato.

“Yeah?” He seemed unsatisfied by my answer but wasn’t going to push it. “You sure your wallet’s gone?”

I turned my pocket inside out as proof. But I was wearing cargo pants and had small denominations stuffed in every pocket and emergency money in my socks. “Yeah man. It’s gone.”

My friend walked up to a table of three Auzzies with a simple greeting and disarming presence, “Hullo.”

He passed back and forth from table to table getting a bead on the place while I assessed the crowd and the people from the camp. I saw they were making a move and I wanted to capitalize on the escape. As much as I love getting a taste of Australia in Thailand, I was looking for a more genuine experience. I positioned myself near the exit and leaned up against the wall.

“…he don’t like girls much, do he?” I heard snippets from the conversation at the other table but didn’t pay it any mind.

The members of the camp were on the move so I tapped my friend on the shoulder and with a, “We’re off,” I jumped in front of the line of people exiting the Auzzie bar.

We wandered the streets, mostly following along in the wake of shenanigans of a fighter who had bested his opponent earlier in the evening. He was quick to dance, banter and burry his face in cleavage whenever the opportunity presented itself. I kept my distance, not wanting to be directly associated with the fighter but keeping close enough that I knew where he led.

He took a left down a brightly lit alley with a row of alcohol dispensaries in the center. I made my turn down the same alley but on the other side of the bars. There were arms everywhere grabbing and pulling and mouths were protesting for the group of us to stop. When a hostess grabbed one of us, it was the duty of the others to perform the obligatory dramatic rescue, which consisted of a well-choreographed spirited jig, three smiles and a human tug-of-war. There was very little to distinguish one bar from another save the costumes worn by the escorts. Once through the human luge, we emerged at one of the main destinations of the evening.

I remember hearing about this place over dinner a week back, “Mate, it always ends up with the same thing. We end up at Suzy Wong’s hitting hookers with rubber hoses.” The nightlife in Thailand leaves little room for exaggeration. There were hookers. And we hit them with hoses.

To be fair they hit us back. And they weren’t garden hoses; they were 18-inch long foam noodles. It was a tit-for-tat experience. They danced on stage at the center of the bar and get whacked with noodles when they wander into striking distance, they yelp in feigned delight and they smack you back. Everybody wins.

There were a number of people who didn’t participate and sat around the perimeter. They squinted at the dancers and sipped on their beverages while Shania Twain played. It was more of a freak show than a sexual atmosphere but that’s generally the case with strip clubs.

The Cranberries “Zombie” was flipped on and the dancers on stage put on their shirts and sat in place. Three completely nude dancers walked out from the back and performed a bizarre live show to an inappropriate protest song about Northern Ireland.

Once that was over, the lot of us popped out of Ms. Wong’s like a cork from a champagne bottle and spilled onto the streets with newfound boldness granted by a mutual exchange of foam noodle smacking with naked women. One group retreated to the nearest brothel, another to an outdoor bar and I wanted to escape the alleyway.

We danced and smiled and twisted our way back to the main road and made the second left down a smaller but surprisingly more neon alley. With a practiced twist, smile, dance we moved past the safari bar, through the pirate bar, around the sea merchant bar and landed at a bar where the women were dressed as sexy sailors. Rounds were purchased, poles were danced on and we were all starting to fall in love with every woman we saw. I was particularly taken with a tall dancer but was warned that she looked at the mirror too much so she must be a lady-boy. I was unconvinced.

One of the clever hostesses roped a friend and me into a game of dice. We sat and rolled and drank and shared pleasantries with this cunning siren. She told us the stakes were as follows: If we win, we get a round of drinks is on the bar. If she wins, then we have to buy her and her friend a round. We demanded to see the friend and after covering one eye and looking her over, we acquiesced. After almost an hour of rolling dice and plying us with drinks and the occasional self-boob grab we lost. We were confused when we saw that the bill was over-inflated but the hostess grabbed a menu and pointed to the prices, “Lady Drink = 340 Baht.” Figures. Only later did we realize that the boob-grab wasn’t at all a boob grab but a dice exchange from the bra. Cheeky hostesses.

We stumbled away feeling undeservedly victorious and managed our way to an innocuous bar at the far end of another offshoot. The neon lights were quieter and the music was toned down. I sat at the bar, ordered two rounds and stared at the dancer at center stage. At five foot six with black hair and a slender frame, she wasn’t stunning but she had a nice quality about her. She returned my look and smiled.

A few months before, I was at a strip club for the first time but I was fully adorned with the Fu-Manchu or the dream ‘stache. The center-stage dancer took one look at my mustache, assessed me in her head and did unspeakable things to herself that caused me to blush furiously, look away, spit up my beer and spill the drink on the patron next to me. I rationalized soon after that applying for a Thai visa whilst accompanied by a mustache that’s become infamous for sleaze to a country that’s known for sex trafficking wasn’t in my best interest.

And I was glad that I didn’t have the ‘stache in that moment for fear of what she may have done to herself. But I was clean-shaven and she was kind. I kept looking at her and was stuck somewhere between an academic mentality and a moralistic one. Before coming to Thailand, one of the most frequent comments I got was about the abundance of prostitutes, closely followed by, “Make sure she ain’t a he” and “Wrap it up.” I brushed off my Aunts’ crass remarks and reminded myself that’s not what I’m going to Thailand for. Even if the opportunity presented itself, I don’t know if I’d be interested enough to go through with it.

I’d end up over thinking it and wanting to have a conversation about circumstances that resulted in this forlorn occupation. Were there no other options? Is this something that you really enjoy doing? Then I imagined I’d insult them by trying to humanize the situation. My eyes never left the dancer at the center of the stage. I’d been thinking about her and how she came across this job. I imagined the application process and wondered how high on the totem pole she was and if this was a lesson she could unlearn.

I was in a dark haze. “No human thing is of any great consequence.” The quote was running through my head like a mantra. I thought about being laid off and getting trashed while reading The Stranger at the bar of my best customer. I remembered a friend sitting next to me and suggesting reading something a bit less existential while thinking things over.

I blinked away some eye sweat as a girl set her beer next to mine. “Hi,” she moved quickly to the center stage and handed the dancer a few bills.

I meant to say ‘Hi,” but ended up grumbling “Why’d you do that?”

“Do what?” She sat on the stool next to mine. I turned around and saw that my friend was already engaged in conversation. He’d been I conversation since we arrived here. What had I been doing?

“Why’d you give her money?” I was curious and disarmed by this woman’s frankness.

“’Cause she looked nice.” She had a Swedish accent that lent itself well to my imaging her saying “boingity, boingity, fjord, yah.” And despite the clear bounce in her words, and much to my dismay she never said that.

“Huh,” I replied. I was at the top of my game.

We talked for a while. Her name was Nina, she was a school photographer, and she was on vacation with her parents and her half-sisters. She told me I thought too much and didn’t believe me when I told her I was 27. I didn’t drop my guard until minutes after she left. The beer had muddled my reaction time and the last time I tried to have an honest conversation with a girl at a bar in New York, she told me that she “didn’t think I was a very successful person.” I was confused by the comment but was still wounded by it.

I looked at the dancer at center stage but her looks were now given to an overweight European who sported a ponytail at the top of his head despite having very little hair left and sunglasses despite it being 3AM. I threw some more money on the bar, grabbed my friend and sprinted to the main road hoping to find Nina.

There was a part of me that knew she was already gone and another part of me that knew I wouldn’t know what to say if I found her and I later realized, a part of me that wanted to find the idea of her. And not her.

I blamed my friend for being two slow and made the English gesture for “having to take a slash” and searched for the nearest restroom. We ended up in a mega club with the dregs and leftovers of the night. My friend pointed out a man with a scabbed head licking the face of a Thai girl and I pointed to a corpulent man being serviced in the corner of the bar.

The lamprey game was going well. At this point of the night, I was pleased to have a friend to keep me upbeat. He grabbed two more beers and two women to talk to. I was feeling in a regrettable mood and danced with the girl he brought over to me while he pretended to be a gigalo, “You charge me? No! I charge you!” I smiled but still wanted to go. This was the first time I’d had a drink since England and I wasn’t in drinking shape anymore. He hesitated but eventually in his mercy, he let us leave.

I negotiated a tut-tut ride back to the camp by holding up a slip of paper to the drivers, “We go there,” I pointed. “500 Baht. Total!” The drivers kept turning away from me.

“Here! Here! 500 Baht!” My friend grabbed a group, pushed me into a tut-tut and I fell asleep wondering what he would have done if he didn’t have me there to negotiate the fare.

The next morning I woke up with no pants on and spent 24 hours either in my bed or expelling liquid from one of the orifices of my body. Must have been food poisoning. I was told not to eat salads here.

Valentine’s Day Part 1: Fight Night

Every month the camp hosts a competition aptly called the BBQ Beatdown that’s one part barbeque and one part fighting. This is primarily a chance for the trainees at the camp to test their skills without affecting their official amateur or professional records. The fight community calls these “Smoker’s Fights” because anyone and everyone has the chance to jump into the ring and test their mettle.

There was some buzz about this event because of the spectacular show put on last month that included a flying arm bar and a comeback TKO. Tonight there were three Muay Thai matches and three MMA fights. The rules had been altered a bit. For the Muay Thai competition, the boxers were required to wear 18oz gloves and shinpads. Also, elbows and knees to the face were prohibited. The MMA fighters had to wear the 8oz Shooto style gloves, shinpads and weren’t allowed to throw knees or elbows to the face or use leg locks, as the shinpads would make escape nearly impossible.

The event was supposed to begin at 7:30 with an all-you-can-eat and drink barbeque but in typical islander fashion, the time was a bit lax. The ensemble consisted of mostly fighters, ex-fighters, a few locals and a few supporting tourists. People sat in the dining area away from the ring and cage and self-segregated into their cliques. Though there was tension in the air, no one really knew were it should be directed until the food was presented—and the attendees concentrated their efforts on gorging.

As our esophagi began to fill, music was turned on the air became a bit more festive. Talking became louder and more animated and the self-segregation and bizarre tough-guy posturing dissipated. Only half of the guests were drinking and of that only half were having more than a single beer. Full time training and beer don’t mix. Since this was my first BBQ Beatdown and I haven’t had a beer since I was snowed-in in England, I chose to indulge myself with a few beverages.

Every now and again, you could see the fighters participating in tonight’s event pacing about. They weren’t eating or drinking but also didn’t seem removed from the revelry surrounding them. One of the fighters sat on the karaoke stand and taped his hands while nodding appreciation for the occasional, “good luck, man.”

The fights started loosely at 8 and began with two Asian-Australian mates in the Muay Thai ring. I’d seen them eating together at Tony’s restaurant and was fairly sure they were sharing the same bungalow with two other friends—the cheapest way to enjoy luxury accommodation. Despite their pre-Thailand friendship, they threw ferocious punches and kicks at each other in the ring. The first round went to the slightly shorter but more heavily muscled fighter who wore his cup on the outside of his Muay Thai trunks. Apparently this is common. After the fighter has his hands taped and gloves on, there’s no opportunity to disrobe, so the cup is just worn on top of the shorts. It looked to me like a feeble attempt at a superhero costume.

Every punch thrown by the shorter fighter was large and heavy. The fighters on the outside of the ring created a chorus of murmured technique, “The muscley one is going to tire himself out.”

“The judges card goes to the smaller guy but can he keep that pace up?” By the middle of the second round, it became clear that he could not. The taller, thinner fighter used his jabs to keep his friend at bay and threw vicious body shots with his knees. One of these knees missed the body and caught the fighter in his right shoulder and by the third round his injured arm forced him to quit.

The second Muay Thai fight was between a professional MMA fighter who had amassed a record of 4 wins with 2 losses and 2 draws against “Boy from Thailand.” We all chuckled about a huge white professional cagefighter fighting a boy from Thailand because of the distinct possibility of upset—but we were assured that “Boy” was the fighter’s name.

It may have been his name but it was also a valid description. The fighter was tall and thin with well-defined muscles and a boyish but tough face. He couldn’t have been older than 18. His movements were languid but the follow through from his strikes were crisp. Earlier, I asked the MMA fighter why he took on this fight and he responded, “Because I’ve never had a proper Muay Thai fight before. He had a proper Muay Thai bout on his hands now.All three rounds were fast-paced and consistently energetic. The fighters traded blows and threw anger-free punches. It was a great tactical display. Below is brief video of the fight. I apologize for the poor quality.



The third and final Muay Thai bout was by far the most entertaining and was between two of the Muay Thai trainers at the camp. Few punches were thrown but there were more than enough kicks and throws to make up for the lack of pugilism. Both fighters were smiling at each other the entire time and trading verbal jabs in between fast and hard kicks to the ribs. Every now and then the referee (also a trainer) would interrupt and force one of the opponents to do pushups for having poor fundamentals, “Stop, stop! You keep hands up! 10 pushup!” The students screamed in appreciation. “Stop, stop. No kick down fighter! 10 pushup!”

The fight ended in a good-natured draw and both fighters turned their attention to the referee and forced him to do pushups in reconciliation. Again, the students screamed their support.

When the referee finished his last pushup, the crowd hustled from the Muay Thai ring to the MMA cage. Like the Muay Thai, there were three fights scheduled. I was warned beforehand that all of the MMA fights stay on their feet because it was difficult to gauge an opponent’s ground skills until you were already caught in a lock. But this proved to be an unkind rumor and all of the fighters were able to put their groundwork and their striking skills to use.

Opening the MMA competition were two young fighters. The first to enter the ring was taller, leaner, had a shock of blond hair and bounced around the ring in anticipation of the fight. The second fighter entered calmly with his shaved brown-haired head and clenched fists around his waist. “I pick the calm guy,” came a comment from beside me.

The first of three rounds started with a fluffy of punches. The blond boxer was throwing hooks to the body and head while his opponent absorbed and calculated. One of the punches thrown by the blond fighter was sloppy and the other fighter took advantage and swept him to the ground where most of the rest of the round took place. There were kimora, triangle, guillotine and ground and pound techniques utilized by both fighters. They were stood up by the ref as the bell sounded.

The second round maintained the same pace but the energy shifted. The brown-haired fighter was now the aggressor and threw well-aimed combinations causing his opponent to shuffle and cover. The fight was taken to the ground and a variety of submissions were tried but their skills were about equal—only this round the blond was the defender.

In the final round, the blond took his opponent to the ground but the brown haired fighter hit a switch (escape move) and ended up in the full mount (straddling his opponent’s chest—this looks like a big brother bully move) position. The blond was pushed up against the fence and punished with unanswered punches until the fight was called.

As the second fight took place, my attention was aimed at the preparation of the fighters of the final fight. Both were large, heavily muscled men weighing about 205 lbs. One is a Swede who the fighters around the camp call “the Viking” because of his many Viking themed tattoos covering his pale kin. The other could pass for an all American Midwestern wrestler and even wears a White Sox baseball cap but is revealed by his thick New Zealand accent and his proclivity to say’ “Gidd’ay mate.”

I’d seen the New Zealander training every day for the last two weeks. He participated in every training session and could often be seen and heard during the resting periods and late at night working the bags or training with partners in the ring. His ethic was juxtaposed to the Viking who I’d seen only once lifting weights. This isn’t to say the Viking wasn’t training—I just hadn’t seen it.

Naturally I rooted for the fighter who I’d seen training at all waking hours. Surely no one works that hard to lose. Before his fight he was working on some Greco-Roman guard with the pro MMA fighter who fought Boy from Thaiand.

The two hulking figures entered the ring and the fight began. A few strikes were thrown but it was clear that the New Zealander intended to implement the “Ground and Pound” technique of taking the opponent to the ground and throwing strikes. After a failed suplex attempt, the New Zealander succeeded in taking his opponent down with a trip. In the grapple, the Viking managed to clamp on a guillotine choke, which the New Zealander defended for more than a full minute. The guillotine choke is one of the most frustrating submissions in MMA. In a moment, a fighter tucks his chin down too much and is caught in a choke that is very difficult to escape from. It doesn’t matter how much stamina the fighter has or how much preparation he’s made, he needs to keep calm, reposition and hope that the choker’s arms get tired. If the fighter does survive the choke, the choker’s arms are usually exhausted thus leaving advantage to the escapee.



The crowd cheered as the New Zealander eventually escaped and submitted his weary foe with strikes.

“Hey, you! We’re still going out to have a laugh, right?”

“Yeah! I’m down.” I replied, not really knowing what I was in for at the fabled Patong…