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.