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
Friday, February 13, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
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.
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?
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?
Friday, February 6, 2009
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.
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 BringerAfter 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.
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.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
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.
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, th
e 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.
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, th
e 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.
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