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My shoulders are burning and I can hardly hold my hands up. Each time I punch the heavy bag, my feet slip backwards in the puddle of sweat which is dripping off my body. I steal a glance at the timer. Barely a minute has passed, two to go. Guy on my left continues to murder the bag. Each one of his punches is accompanied by a loud “pshhh” of air as he forcibly exhales through his mouth guard. Rhythmically, “pshhh, pshhh, pshhh.” The bag he’s hitting bounces up and down, rattling the chains it hangs from, shaking the I-beam frame that runs along the ceiling, and violently swinging the bag to the right from the power of his left hook. I try to concentrate on the drill – left jab, straight right, left hook – “pshh, pshh, pshh”. I’ve never been so tired.

The gym is located at one end of a non-descript strip mall. It shares an entrance with a used bookstore/video rental shop. Customers of either business are greeted by a life size, black and white cutout of a young Mohammad Ali attached to the entry way wall. The glass door on the right leads to the gym.

The the walls of the gym’s small entry area are covered in newspaper clippings, photographs, and posters of boxing events. The posters are mostly in French, and from the 1980′s. Ali, the gym owner, greets me with a gentle handshake. His French accent is thick and he doesn’t look much different than the spry kickboxer on the posters from almost 20 years ago.

Ali explains to me that street shoes are not allowed on the training mat – the red, grey, and blue soft vinyl that covers the gym floor. I can kickbox bare foot, but he’d like me to get a pair of wrestling shoes, which are like boxing shoes, but easier to find. Ali took a pair of 16oz training gloves, two blue handwraps, and a jump rope from a cupboard in the gym office and handed them to me. “Ask Danny to show you how to put on the wraps.”

The office is separated from the gym by a floor to ceiling window. I could only see one guy in the gym, stretching and pacing, waiting for class to begin. Ali got up and walked to the office door, “Danny, show Kenneth how to wrap his hands.” I said thanks as I took my new stuff out of the office. Ali reminded me to always sign in before working out, and that I could not workout more than three times per week.

Danny walked over as I unrolled one of the two blue elastic handwraps. They are twice as long as I am tall (I learned later that Mexican style wraps are 180 inches, or 15 feet, long). He showed me how to hook the loop at the end of the wrap over my thumb and wrap around my wrist, over my hand, through each finger, again over the knuckles – to pad the punching surface, and ending with several wraps around the wrist. He explained that the wraps are to protect the small bones in your hands and fingers, and to keep your wrist from getting sprained. I wonder to myself protect from what?, and I nervously hope we aren’t going to be hitting each other that hard, at least not on my first day. It feels neat to have my hands wrapped up and I’m eager to see how it feels when I punch something.

As I finish wrapping my hands, a few other guys show up for practice. I notice I’m the only guy without a bottle of water. Ali walks across the gym floor and turns on a large digital clock on the wall. The speaker on the front of the clock emits an oddly distorted digital imitation of a bell ringing and everyone begins jumping rope. I look at the clock; it says 2:58.

The ceiling is low, so each turn of my rope hits the acoustic tile above me, knocking a small piece of fuzz loose that slowly floats to the floor. By the time there are six pieces of ceiling fuzz on the ground around me, Ali comes over and ties a few knots in my plastic rope, shortening it to the right length. I’m clumsy. Each time I misstep, the stiff plastic rope whacks my second toe – on my feet, the longest toe. As I’m getting started for the umpteenth time, Ali walks buy and says, “You should get some shoes.”

I’ve broken a sweat, my calves are starting to burn, and my two long toes feel like I’ve stubbed them on the curb. The clock emits a rapid series of digital bell rings and I stop jumping. Everyone around me speeds up. Some of the guys are doing double unders, turning the rope twice around each jump. I look at the clock and it reads 00:30. Thirty seconds to go. I figure out that you are supposed to sprint at the end. I start again and hit my toes three more times before the digital bell rings and Ali says, “Time. Stretch out.”

Everyone drops their ropes and starts doing basic stretches or sipping from their water bottles. A young Latino guy says, “Hey, I’ve got an extra water. You want it?” I nod, and gulp down at least a pint. Before I can get the cap back on, the timer squawks its distorted bell and everyone is jumping rope again. I’m too winded to say thank you. This continues for four rounds. By the end of the fourth, my toes don’t bother me because they are tingling and numb. My shorts and shirt are completely sweat soaked. Ali says, “gloves.” And the guys all head into the locker room. I head to the bathroom to refill my now empty one liter water bottle. As I’m putting on my gloves, Ali produces a felt pen and marks them with my initials.

We form a loose circle around Ali, and he pairs us up, nodding and waving his glove with a quiet, “go with him.” I get paired up with the guy who gave me some water. He tells me he’s new too, which is a bit of a relief. Ali beckons one of the guys over with his gloved hand. The student, fit and crew cut, is wearing a mouth guard and colorful Thai boxing shorts. He looks tough. Ali shows us, slowly at first, that we are to round kick to the middle with the right leg, jab with the left hand, and punch with the right. He does this combination two or three times, each time faster. The last time, he goes a quite a bit harder and the guy is actually getting knocked around by the kick and punches. He tells us to get started.

My partner says, “go ahead” and raises his hands. I have no idea what to do. How do I stand? Where do my hands go? I sneak a look at some of the other guys, raise my hands up near my face, spread my feet apart, and swing my leg gently towards my partner’s middle. I land off balance, and weakly punch: left, right. I try again. This feels awkward. Ali comes by and tells me to keep my hands up, showing me and my partner where to put them. I kick again, but can’t hold my hands up while kicking. I’m wondering if I shouldn’t have signed up for dance lessons instead of boxing.

A few more times and Ali tells us to switch. My partner kicks me with his shin in my side. He asks me to turn the palms of my gloves toward him, and he punches each one – left right. Ali takes my place and shows me how to block the kick by bending my body to lower my arm, and to help my partner punch by meeting his punch with the palm of my hand. It makes a pleasant popping sound when my timing is right and his punches meet my gloves with a snap. We do a few more drills like this – each taking turns for three to four minutes, pausing after each round for instructions and to sip water. I’m using muscles I’m not sure I’ve used before. My hips are tired and stiff. When we’re working on head kicks, I can’t get my leg higher than my partner’s armpit.

At the end of the last round, Ali tells us to take a heavy bag. He demonstrates a simple combination we are going to practice first: jab, right, left-hook. We wait for the timer and Ali tells us to start. He comes around and gives me some help. I’m clumsy and awkward. In between rounds, Ali demonstrates the next combination we are to practice: front kick, right elbow. Low kick, high kick, left, right. And so on.

Ali gives me more help. I’m to focus on the left jab, keeping my right hand up, making sure I’m not too close to the bag. I can use my left hand like a curb feeler, to figure out the distance I need to be from the bag. When the third round is over, I’m gassed. I’ve only been in the gym for 50 minutes.

Everyone takes off their gloves, and get a floor mat from a pile in the corner. We’re going to ‘cool down.’ We start out with 100 crunches, done very quickly. I’m only able, after the first ten, to do every other one. A quick break, and it’s fifty v-ups. My stomach muscles are now failing completely. I can’t do another sit up. We end with fifty “boxer’s situps,” full situps ending with a one-two punch over the knees. I can only do about ten. We do some light stretching, put our mats away and my first hour of Muay Thai is over.

When I get home, I struggle to get my shirt off both because I am sore and because it is stuck to my skin. I was planning on taking a shower, but instead I get my clothes off, crawl into bed, and sleep for a couple of hours.

–June 2006 Colorado Springs

Posted Wednesday 4 October 2006 in muay thai field notes.   TrackBack URI