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…

Training Days 4-8: Enter the Routine

It’s fascinating how quickly the extraordinary becomes mundane. The first week I’m intrigued by the sort of work ethic that it takes to slowly wear away skin and the next I’m dutifully kicking the heavy. It’s only when I notice the winces of a first-weeker that I’m reminded this isn’t normal. With the exception of a few hiccups, I was able to work into a good groove for the week.

I woke up Monday morning desperate enough for Yoga and started the day with an hour-long stretch. My skin was still sore and open in spots and the yoga reminded me how fatigued I was so I skipped the Muay Thai class and headed to the weight canopy. Peter, known throughout camp as the “Thai Hulk,” greeted me enthusiastically, “Hey. Kyle. Today we do back and arms. We go now!” Too enthusiastically. I pretended to tie the laces on my flip-flops and when I saw Peter’s back was turned, I hobbled as quickly as I could to my room.

One of the benefits of paying for a full month of open training is that almost every second not spent training feels like wasted money. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and headed to the mats where the MMA classes were starting. Until now I was unconvinced that learning Jujitsu in Thailand would be worthwhile. Why move to the land of striking and practice grappling? That’d be like moving to Egypt to learn how to play ice hokey. At the same time, I wasn’t up for striking quite yet.

The BJJ classes were brilliantly run and we were instructed on various techniques to escape from the guard position. Having had many years of grappling experience, I excelled at each move taught and felt good about my abilities for the first time since arriving here (with the exception of the runs). I manhandled several training partners and excused myself from the class once the free-grappling session started.

And thus the week continued with the following daily schedule:

6:00AM: Wake up and morning nutrients
7:00-8:00: Yoga
8:00-9:00: Situps and other core exercises
9:00-11:00: Jujitsu
11:00-11:30: Shower
11:45-12:30: Eat
12:45-1:45: Nap
1:45-2:45: E-mail
2:45-3:30: Prep for afternoon workout
3:30-4:00: Muay Thai Technique
4:00-7:00: Muay Thai
7:00-8:00: Shower, Eat
8:30-… Read until sleep

I intended to take the training slower but I fell into the aforementioned schedule. But just about every spare moment that I wasn’t spending training was devoted to either eating or sleeping—or dealing with the shadows of New York.

The internet and electricity have also been spotty which accounts for the posting dry-spell. Now that I’ve found a new reliable internet source and my body is starting to accept the abuse, I will try to post daily—if not more often than that

Day of Rest 1

I forced myself to sleep until 7AM and looked forward to a restful day of recovery. I really hoped that by the end of the day I’d be able to fully extend my arms. Unfortunately that hasn’t happened.

I set a lofty goal to get back to Phuket Town and explore it for the day but lost the motivation early and settled to walk the 10k shuffle and hopefully bump into a pharmacy, a reputable pool hall or find myself in an awkward situation. I found two of the three.

After grabbing a bite to eat at Moma’s (officially called “CountryRestaurant”), I headed on the trek to take in the 10k surrounding the camp. It’s probably unusual for a tall farang (foreigner or white person) to be walking on the side of the highway in Thailand. In all likelihood, a farang in Phuket has the means to purchase or at least rent a vehicle of some kind. But since I was on foot, I had to kindly wave off a motorbike taxi every 15 seconds for the hour and a half walk.

Aside from the pharmacy, there was little of note on the roadsides. But the long walk in the sun had reminded me that my hair was far too long and I resolved to stop in the next place that offered to cut hair. Since it was Sunday, most of the shops were closed and many that were open had an overly effete salon feel to them. Word around the camp is there’s a woman on the street who will cut your hair for 30 Baht (less than $1 US) but this is information is always passed along with a snigger or two.

At the very last stretch of roadside shops I see a sign that reads, “Hair & Beauty” in a floral pastel sign with raised pearl writing. Since the salon is in a glass-front building, it wasn’t difficult to see the seven middle-aged to young women inside watching television. As I walked past I remember the look in the fighter’s face as he told me of the 30 Baht cut and made a beeline for the Hair & Beauty’s front door.

“How much cut?” my Thai isn’t improving but my English is definitely getting worse.

The matriarch looks me over and squints, “Two hundred Baht for cut and shampoo.”

I was told by a good Thai friend of mine that prices in Thailand are not the prices at all and I should negotiate for everything, so I put my skills to the test, “Sounds good.” He’d be so ashamed.

It wasn’t until I was placed in front of the full-length mirror that I realized I’d haggled masterfully. I was covered in a fine dust from head to sneaker except for the space where my sunglasses were. The sun had slowly baked my skin to a glowing maroon and my hair was plastered to my forehead by a steady stream of uncharacteristic sweat. The sweat had also created a band across my chest where the strap of my messenger bag rested. And I noticed I’d forgotten to shave since arriving in Thailand.

One of the young women led me to a chair and handed me a sippi-cup of spring water and a book of hairstyle options to choose from. The photographs displayed the latest of hardcore anime fashion. Each cut looked more cartoonish than the next and definitely required copious amounts of products to maintain the style. Haircut one: the wedge. This is what a fohawk would look like if it was three inches tall. Haircut two: the peacock. Bangs flipped to one side and glued to forehead, the back of the hair in a plume of six inch spikes. Haircut three: Mr. Sassy. Take a nineteen fifties greaser haircut, put a soft part in the middle and substitute real sideburns that grow out of the beard line for well groomed spikes that begin in the scalp, and permanently suck in your cheeks and pucker your lips like a dogs swollen anus.

“I’ll take that one.” I pointed to the wedge. Earlier at the pharmacy, I bought a pair of scissors and at worst I’d be able to cut the point off of the top.

The hairdresser ran a fine comb through my hair displacing the sweat in equal proportion, and then walked counterclockwise around my chair exactly two times.
“Hmm,” she murmured, “We start now.”

Armed with her clippers and a comb, she set to cutting the sides of my hair millimeter by millimeter. She began on the right side of my head and worked her way around back and to the left side, careful to avoid the tangle on my pate. This felt more like she was sculpting my follicles than cutting my hair. It was a repetitive and well-calculated process that took the better part of an hour. At the end of every cycle from right to left, the hairdresser would ask, “This OK?” to which I frequently responded, “Shorter.” If I was going to get a wedge, it would be a short wedge.

By the time she broke out the scissors to work on the top of my head, I was in a trance. She cut the top of my hair with the same precision she’d cut the sides, gently patting and pushing the hair around before removing the smallest amount. She had me under her spell. I didn’t care what the haircut was going to look like in the end; I only cared that she would continue pampering my scalp. “Shorter,” I whispered.

While my hairdresser was working on me, I noticed that the hairdresser to my left was using a straight razor to clean and shape the Thai gentleman she was working on. I didn’t have to wonder if this was standard procedure for too long. In my daze, I hadn’t realized that my hairdresser was finished and was fitting a new blade into her own straight razor. She soon started shaping my hair. She cut around the ears, my neck and my sideburns. Normally I don’t go for shaping but I was stuck in a black-and-white fantasy full of overcoats, hand-rolled cigarettes and fedoras. I think I may have cooed when the hairdresser ran the straight razor down my cheek.

“You want shave?” She was looking at me with undivided attention, wide-eyed.

“Absolutely.” The fantasy was complete. This was the first time I’d ever received a straight razor shave nonetheless from someone else. I closed my eyes and lay back in the chair. She put a cool compress over my eyes and lathered up my face.

The first stroke was magnificent. It started on my cheek, at mid-ear level and continued to my jaw-line. There was something supremely satisfying about the scratching sound the razor made across my face and the popping noise of the hair being cut. She continued, with a stroke followed by a wipe. I’d almost dozed off while she was working on my cheeks but came to attention when the razor drifted into my goatee line. The long smooth strokes the hairdresser made on my cheek were replaced by short, halting cuts on my chin.

I wanted to open my eyes but the cool scented compress lulled them closed. I wanted to mutter in protest but the hour and a half this woman had just spent pampering my hair prevented me. But I was becoming more and more aware of the struggle the razor made to get through the thick hair on my chin. The hairdresser was now resorting to getting a good windup, starting at my ear, and swooping down to the chin, only stopping when my skin folded against the razor. A few times it felt like the razor penetrated my skin but I couldn’t tell if I was bleeding or sweating. My heartbeat increased while she was working her way through my chin. Then she came to my upper-lip.

I’ve had a full mustache since seventh grade. It was the bane of my puberty. It never grew in fine and wispy like it should but it started full and menacingly foreshadowed what was to happen to the rest of my body. But this was a false prophecy. By the time I reached high school, the dark shadow on my upper-lip mocked the general hairlessness of the rest of my body and prompted nicknames like, “The Mexican” (which is probably responsible for my sense of solidarity with Latin America). I’ve felt the struggle traditional razors have with my upper lip and now this sweet Thai woman, who had only been able to prepare for this battle by dueling with the Spartan upper lips of Thai men, was undertaking too daunting a task. I felt her pinch my upper lip between her thumb and index finger and I yelped, “No. No. That’s OK. No shave lip. I want a mustache. That’s good.”

“Yeh?” came her reply.

“Yeah,” I reassured.

She moved the razor back to my already shaved cheeks and pushed me down and back into the chair. She was going through the motions of something she was good at. I could sympathize. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, wipe. She was getting back in the pace. She placed the razor on my cheek near my ear but this time she went up. She used the razor to shape the hairline on my forehead. This was confusing but I’d seen this style often in my Dominican neighborhood. “What the hell,” I thought. “I can’t let her finish on a bad note.” So I didn’t protest—even when instead of shaping the cut, she just started blatantly shaving my forehead—from now straight hairline to my eyebrows—she shaved my forehead. I’m looking forward to the consequences of that.

The cool compress was removed and I was shuffled to the sink to have my hair washed. As I lean back, the chair started to vibrate and provided an electronic massage. Maybe the hairdresser sensed my unease at what just happened to me at the cutting chair and proceeded to massage my scalp for a full hour. She used three different shampoos and two conditioners—all with lovely calming floral scents. Each lather sent me a bit deeper into calmness. When the wash was over I stood and blinked in slow motion. I paid the 200 Baht and tipped an extra hundred.

I put on my sunglasses, slid the glass door open and broached the tropical heat with a resolve that only a half-mustache, pointy crew-cut, freshly shorn forehead and 5 kilometer highway walk back to camp can provide.

Live the Dream.

Training Day 3: The Essence of Toughness (Part 1)

Today was a day of radical ups and downs.

My eyes flipped open at 3AM and I could tell it was a waste of willpower to try and close them again. Yesterday’s run assured full body ache rather than just upper body soreness. I lay in bed and tried to imagine what it felt like to not hurt. This sort of forgetfulness has played a constant role in my life. When I fall ill, I soon forget what it ever felt like to feel well and I quickly resign myself to a life of feeling how I do in that moment. Conversely, no matter how many times I do it, I can never remember how horrible it feels to fall out of shape and have to work my way back into shape until I’m fully submerged in ache.

My knuckles had calloused nicely during the night so I rationalized that it would be beneficial for me to start the day with a technique session. I hopped into the ring with the four other students and tried to follow the instructor’s lead. I was paired up with a kind-hearted but mildly overzealous Englishman. We started working on leg blocks and quickly moved to the right-uppercut, left-hook combination. What the Englishman lacked in speed, he made up for in power, pounding the palms of my hands. I tried to avoid touching his hands entirely since I was worried about the calluses on my knuckles. But the minimal contact and the sweat soon revealed the open wounds.

Despite having bloody knuckles again, I felt good. I felt fast and my form had certainly been better than that of my opponent. I figured it would be OK to move from technique to the Muay Thai class as long as I bailed out before we had to wrap our hands. We started skipping rope and moved into the circle run, stretching and calisthenics, all of which felt great until the pushups. After the third pushup, my pecs felt like they were on fire. Having been in good shape during periods of my life, struggling on the fourth pushup was as frustrating as it was humiliating. Then one of the instructors came over and put his foot on my back.

I dropped to the ground with a wet slap. Blood rushed to my head and I flipped over to jerk the foot away. There was even a brief thought of hitting the person responsible for pushing me to the ground. As my hand reached the instructor’s foot, my fingers recoiled. Did I really just think about hitting a Muay Thai instructor in front of 20 other Muay Thai instructors in a foreign country where I had no ability to explain myself, while being so weak I’m struggling on the fourth pushup? I finished the reps and excused myself from the class.

The experience shook me a bit. I sat at the concession stand and drank a protein shake while thinking about what I’d almost done. I was pissed off, almost entirely at myself for not being in better shape. Why was I such a lazy bastard before I got here? At the very least I could have run a bit or done some pushups before wasting my day. I was so angry about not being able punch because my knuckles were raw and my pecs were sore that I just wanted to hit something. Instead, I sat and brooded over my shake and watched the other students. My eye caught a new guy working the heavy bag. I’m hesitant to say that he hit the bag at all. It was more like a push. He looked like a giant shaved de-clawed panda cub pushing playfully at an equally giant ball on the string. I immediately imagined two things: first, I imagined seeing this student through the eyes of the instructor and then I imagined what it would be like to get in the ring with this guy. I stuck with the second thought and giggled myself to sleep.

I started the second half of the day with a run and was hoping for something more challenging than the 10k shuffle. I had anger to work through. I was relieved when I saw the same set of instructors who had led the last run. Surely they wouldn’t take us on the same loop. We headed in a different direction and I struck up a conversation with one of the other students. He’d hurt his foot two weeks into training and this was the first time trying to run since. This was his second month at the camp.

The pace was still at a shuffle but I was giddy to see us heading towards the mountains. The other student and I spoke about the pros and cons of the camp, the working elephants on the roadside, the practicality of Muay Thai, how to train most effectively while here and of the fight caliber of the various trainers. One of the trainers leading the run fascinated me the most because of his build—it was exactly like mine.

If a person is watching an athletic competition in which s/he has no emotional investment, that person will most likely root for the person or team s/he can most easily identify with. While watching MMA competitions in the States, I’ve noticed that people who don’t know anything about the fight will most often root for either the underdog, or more commonly, the fighter with whom the viewer shares the same race. But sometimes the viewer will choose a physical attribute to root for like hair color, a full set of teeth, the fighter who doesn’t have “Condom Depot” printed to the ass of his shorts; or as in my case, the tall skinny dude. I’ll routinely root for Nate Diaz, Corey Hill, Kendall Grove and a bevy of other fighters even though I might not like that fighter that much. But it’s also a question of training.

Tall, thin people have to train much differently than shorter, stockier people. And as much fun as it is to be told to turn my hips more and increase the speed of my kick by a five foot two inch one hundred pound trainer, I’d much rather glean insight from someone built like me.

We stopped at the base of the hill and the trainers asked if we were ready. I looked at the other student and we nodded. With an “OK” from the trainer, we started up the hill. I tucked myself behind my physical doppelganger and mimicked his stride. The grade of the hill increased and we loped along. I watched the tall thin trainer during several training sessions. He delivered upwards of fifty devastatingly hard body kicks in a row to a pad holder while screaming at each one. “HAICH, HAICH, HAICH…” The power and speed he displayed was intimating. He switched quickly to the left leg and delivered fifty more. Then he switched to combinations. And now he was behind me. I picked up my pace from a lope to a jog and eventually to a bound. As I approached a turn in the road, I heard the trainers screaming for me to stop. I turned around, befuddled, and thought to myself, “But we’re not at the top yet.” One of the trainers sat on the road while my physical doppelganger put his arms above his head and was heaving for air. Had the last run not been easy on purpose but out of necessity? Can these trainers really be this tired? On the jog back the camp I asked the other student what he thought and he casually replied, “Oh, all of the trainers smoke like chimneys.”

I skipped Muay Thai and went straight to the weights. They all smoke? I’ve seen these guys throw more kicks in a row than I can throw in a day. I’ve seen them power through pushups, sit-ups and burpies for more than an hour, but they can’t jog? What is it that makes these guys so tough?

Training Day 2

The day started at 3AM. Not because of any mandatory exercise but because my body still isn’t used to the 12 hour time difference. My knuckles are oozing and sitting up to get out of bed wasn’t an option. I had to roll off of the side.

I puttered around tying to make sure all of my affairs are in order in the states until 7AM when the running session started. I can barely move my arms and my abs are screaming but I haven’t begun to really abuse my legs yet.

The camp boasts three kilometer to ten kilometer runs that range from long slow distance to mountain sprints. I roll the dice and hope for the lsd. The pace of the run started out frustratingly slow—at almost a shuffle. Since the run started at the camp, we started on a country road but soon ended up on the highway. Motorbikes and construction equipment tossed oppressive particulates into the air so I took off my shirt and tied it to my face.

Two of the trainers were leading the run. One would often run ahead to stop at a vendor and I couldn’t keep my body from lurching after them to pick up the pace. Even though I knew I was exhausted, it felt great to be good at something—even if it was running. We ended up on the 10K route and I sprinted the last kilometer.

My knuckles continued to ooze and my legs were racked with the wobblies so I passed on the Muay Thai training and headed again to the weights. Today’s exercises: back and lats. I suck at weight lifting and it’s about as interesting to do as it is to read about someone else doing. SO here's a photo of why I'm lifting and not punching.

Above is 'Ol Rightey

And this is the Death Bringer

After dry heaving a bit I had a protein shake and headed to Tony’s restaurant. I’m very paranoid about the food here because I’ve got no time to be sick. Back I the States I heard horror stories about what to and what not to eat. Don’t drink the water, don’t eat any produce washed in the water, peel all fruit, etc. But when your body craves something, it’s difficult to say no. I got a huge salad. We’ll see how that works out.

When I got back to my room I collapsed on my bed, skipped the afternoon workout and reflected on how surreal this whole experience is so far. As I hear the symphony of bag pounding and screaming outside my window I thought a little about the fighters I met at the restaurant. The mundane nature of what they have been doing for months had settled over them. Wake up, protein shake, train, protein shake with meal, nap, wake up, train, protein shake with meal, sleep…

I’m sure I’ll get to that point but for now everything is so new that I can’t get into a groove. I am unable to throw a single punch unthinkingly. I haven’t settled in enough to establish a regular poop schedule. Oh how I look forward to that.

The rest of the day and night I spent watching American made movies not good enough to be released in the States while my body pitied itself.

Training Day 1

I’m definitely over my head.

It’s the first day and I’m just about broken down. I punched through the skin in my knuckles, kicked through the skin on my right shin and lost the skin on the bottoms of both of my big toes—and that happened during the morning workout.

The day here is simple. There are two main workout times: morning (7AM-11PM) and afternoon (3PM-7PM). The morning workout begins with yoga, running or technique. This morning I chose technique because I’m not in shape enough to participate in one of their morning runs and I’m not yet desperate enough for yoga. My morning technique instructor spent his time laughing at my forms but he was able to get me through a series of kicks, punches, elbows and knees.

After the technique, I began in the beginners’ class with about 15 other students. The class lasted for three hours and was everything one might expect: warm-up, stretch, shadowboxing, drills, wrap hands, forms, pad work, bag work, cardio, pushups, sit-ups, cool down and stretching.

While punching the heavy bag I lost the skin on my knuckles, despite having had my hands wrapped by an instructor and wearing 18oz gloves. This only could have happened for one of two reasons: I punch that hard or my skin is that weak. The jury is still out.

After the morning workout there is a four-hour break. Many of the fighters head straight to the camp concession stand and purchase protein shakes which staves their hunger until they can get to one of two restaurants about a kilometer down the road. I followed suit, had a protein shake and went to the wrong restaurant. I ended up at a resort spa and it was made very clear to me that I wasn’t the anticipated clientele—but the food was ok and they didn’t turn away my money.

I didn’t think I’d participate in the afternoon workout because of the tenderness of the skin on the bottoms of my feet and my shins and the open wounds on my knuckles. These are all minor injuries but I want to make sure I toughen up slowly and don’t irreparably damage myself so early in the training.

I caught a motorbike taxi for a brief tour of Phuket. The driver spoke to me excitedly the entire time and wildly gesticulated throughout tour. Unfortunately, he didn’t speak any English so instead of paying attention to the tour, I spent my energy trying to enthusiastically affirm every corner store, pharmacy and restaurant he was pointing out.

By the time I got back, I was a bit restless so I went to the weight canopy where I did chest and bicep exercises until I felt my tendons and ligaments get sore. By the end of the first day my arms hurt so much that the only way I can pick my nose is by lying down and arching my neck. And my knuckles are so raw that I have to tie a string to my wallet to keep from reaching into my pockets.

I fell asleep at 8PM. Like a rock.

The Camp

I arrived at the training camp yesterday. The driver picked me up at the airport after I caught a short flight from Bangkok. He drove uncomfortably fast and slalomed past motorbikes as if they were mobile parking cones. I couldn’t help but think that this isn’t exactly what I expected. There was no distinct smell in the air as there has been in many of the other countries I’ve been to and I had troubles not comparing my surroundings to Brazil.

Well—not Brazil exactly. There are elements of Brazil and the landscape one might see in many Latin American countries. The roads followed the natural landmarks like streams and hills and are built wide enough for the motorbikes to ride on the shoulder if they are carrying more than three passengers. And there’s no reason to stop unless something physically obstructs your way. Even at stoplights, the driver would press through unless the opposing traffic pulled out in front of him.

There was a beach-town feel to the surroundings on the drive in. The roadside was speckled by intermittently placed shops and hulking vacant apartment complexes masonry made and either whitewashed or painted in pastel colors. Most of the advertisements were in English—and almost everyone was wearing sandals.

The driver pulled up to the secluded training camp in the middle of the morning workout so I was greeted by the sights sounds and smells of about 70 fighters of various calibers hitting pads, kicking bags, sparring and sweating profusely. It was a dizzying sight.

Negotiations for my room went well enough. I have my own bed and currently have my own bathroom but I’m hoping to downgrade to a room without air conditioning or a private bathroom.

The camp is broken up into three primary stations: Beginner, Intermediate and Advanced. The Beginner level is closest to the roadside offices and is split into two sections. The first section to the right is on the ground level and from what I saw yesterday this is a larger area where the fighters can work on technique in a large space and where group lessons are taught. On the left is a ring—where two beginner level students threw awkward jabs and tried not to tear up when they hit each other in the faces. This is where I’ll start.

Past the beginner level is a small restaurant on the right but looks more like a dark wooden snack bar with a cooking range in the back. The fare is standard (I suppose) with many egg dishes offered along with protein shakes.

Beyond that is the advanced level where ripped, mean-looking dudes take turns hitting each other on the stomachs in between rounds of jumping on tires. This is where I hope to be.

The intermediate section is the largest and the furthest back in the camp. There are two boxing style rings with ropes as well as a chain-link cage for MMA and a large ground section covered in ¼ in. blue mats.

The entire camp is surrounded by the fighter accommodations. It also seems that many of the fighters training here have rented motorbikes to get around. I’m going to look into that in the morning.

Who Needs a Jacket in Thailand?

The trip to Thailand took a bit longer than expected because of the snowfall in London. What was supposed to be a 23-hour journey from Newark International to Bangkok via Heathrow ended up degenerating into a 65 hour long slog. But I had no real reason to complain. That won’t change the weather.

I missed my connecting flight by five minutes. The flight from Newark to London was delayed in the US because of a sick passenger and again in London by the weather. I sprinted to across two Heathrow terminals to try and catch the flight but didn’t make it in time. Then the snow hit.
The airline put me up in a hotel for the first evening where I got to watch the Superbowl sans commercials. I remember being in an obligatory debate about the merits of American football vs. football in the rest of the world with an Irish bartender in New York and he said football (soccer) will never be popular in the United States because there isn’t enough room for commercials. Well, the converse is also true. American football without commercial interruptions is hard to watch. It’ slow and has a stilted feel and the down time on the BBC broadcast is punctuated by surreal sounding Englishmen pontificating about this and that.

By the next morning, the hotel had been snowed in. I passed on the complementary traditional English breakfast of baked beans and parboiled eggs and sat around watching news reports of furious Londoners complaining about the inefficient response of the government to deal with the influx of snow. It was pretty clear that London (and maybe all of England) didn’t have the proper infrastructure to deal with the weather. But it was curious that even the underground subway system shut down in the snow.

I tried to avoid the fray and subsequent mob rage by generally keeping to myself and imagining what a different world this would be if superpowers existed. Public relations people would surely need to have some level of invulnerability. Calls were made, beers consumed, Internet time purchased and the cold monotony continued.

After several calls to overwhelmed customer help lines and despite the worsening weather, I was told that the only thing I could do was head to the main desk at the airport to reschedule the flight—which was cancelled later that evening because of mechanical problems.

A second night was spent in a hotel which was much more interesting because the complementary tuna fish and cucumber sandwiches offered were a bit on the old side so I spent several hours in bed dreaming of three empty shot glasses talking to each other. I don’t know if I’ve recovered fully yet from the sandwiches, time changes, unexpected cold weather and smell of recirculated airplane farts. Like meat biscuits.