Tag: pain

  • Two Things You Want in a Sparring Partner

    Two Things You Want in a Sparring Partner

    The transition from the floor of the gym to the boxing ring can be a bitch. When you’re new, you can barely tell a jab from a cross; the prospect of live sparring feels like being dropped into a pit with Jabba the Hutt’s Rancor (pictured above, nomming someone’s arm).

    So how the hell do you know what to ask for or expect in a sparring partner? Well, you ask someone who’s been doing it a while. I’ll tell you my experience with it, and then you can ask someone else. Find your tribe and they’ll help you get through this.

    Okay, me first. I won’t lie to you: getting started sparring can be pretty miserable. (more…)

  • Putting Snap in Your Punch

    Putting Snap in Your Punch

    Power is an open secret in boxing, and most fighters hear their coaches talking about “punching through” and “putting your body behind” a solid, powerful shot.

    But there is another, sneakier and equally effective method to score punches, intimidate an opponent, and win your game, and that’s in developing a stinging snap in your punch; particularly your jab.

    A regular jab can be used for a variety of purposes in the boxing ring. It can measure the distance between you and your opponent or it can open the way for a power shot, among other things. But it can be a devastating shot all on its own if you can make it into a snapping whip of a shot, the kind of punch that comes out of nowhere, hits like an electric shock, and disappears before your opponent can even register its presence.

    What gives a punch snap

    A snapping punch is created out of speed and minimal contact. It’s a punch that goes out fast and returns fast. You have to turn it over (right at the end of the shot), touch with sting, and bring it back to guard position in rapid-fire succession.

    A well-landed shot of any kind has a distinctive sound on the heavy bag or mitts. There’s a particular thwack or pop that gives you the feedback you need to know you’ve scored with precision and pain. But a snapping punch has a higher sound, almost like a dry stick being cracked in two.

    The advantages of snap jabs

    1. They save your power.

    When you’re punching for power alone, you will burn a lot of energy quickly, and you run the risk of gassing out. You can’t launch bomb shots rapidly, either. Nor can you spend the entire fight throwing one knockout punch after another; there’s a dance, a balance to be maintained. Boxing is a conscious mental play of the game pieces, and rather than blindly launching everything you have at once, you have to choose your shots.

    2. They’re fast! They buy you valuable time.

    A snapping punch has the great advantage of being incredibly fast. When you get one off, you startle your opponent and buy yourself even more time to launch and score again before they recover. It also allows you to throw more shots than you could if you were loading up power hits one after the other.

    3. They preserve your guard.

    Because your return to guard so much faster, you’re more protected than if you’re leaving yourself open during a push-through or penetrating power hit.

    How to throw a snapping punch

    You have to have your distance exactly right. Throw some measuring jabs out there, and once you know the range for a snap-touch, fire a couple off. If you’re advancing on the jab, you have to put that into your calculations. Try from your stable stance before tossing in an advance, because advance-jabs tend to be more “punch through” than snapping jabs.

    But the biggest secret to throwing a snapping punch is relaxing. It sounds counter-intuitive, but it’s absolutely necessary. Think about a coiled whip. The stiffer the braided leather is, the less bite the tip will have when it makes contact. But if it’s supple and loose, Indiana Jones is going to make you cry.

    Got snap?

    Leave me a comment and tell me your technique!

    Photo credit: Marco Crupi Visual Artist via photopin cc

  • Let Go of the Rope!

    Let Go of the Rope!

    Wipeouts happen, right?

    But there’s a trick to getting through them that I just didn’t learn in boxing. But I was recently reminded of that lesson in the facefull-of-water kind of way that only a real wipeout can teach.

    Learning to hang on to the rope

    My grandfather had a cabin on Pickwick lake and a small, light boat called the Flutterby, perfect for towing skiiers. When I was about seven or eight years old, he showed me how to wedge my feet into the wet rubber shoes of an old slalom ski, handed me the tow rope, and helped me slip over the side of the boat.

    Several times he emphasized to me that I should hold on tightly to the rope, so I clutched the plastic handle in both hands with a death grip and anxiously tried to keep my balance in the water as the Flutterby drifted slowly away and the slack was pulled out of the towline.

    I got up on the very first try; I couldn’t believe how easy it had been. (Classic beginner’s luck; it didn’t happen that way the next time.)

    It was an incredible, triumphant moment, and I was exhilarated by the cool shock of wind against my wet skin and the thrum of the lake beneath my feet. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably, but I grinned and emphatically nodded my head: I’m doing it! I’m doing it! My grandfather smiled back and waved, one hand on the steering wheel of the boat as he watched me.

    Learning to let go of the rope

    It seemed like I skiied forever on that smooth green ribbon that unfurled behind the Flutterby. I watched the scenery whiz past, I grinned for my grandfather, I gazed hypnotically at the water. And after a while I wondered… Once you get up and ski for a long, beautiful stretch, what do you do next?

    Well, you try your luck at crossing the wake, of course. And you experience your first wipeout.

    I hit the water face first; the ski snapped off my feet and I was dragged hard against the surface of the lake, which had seemed friendly and soft a few minutes before, but now felt as hard as a parking lot.

    Which might have been fine in the end, except my single lesson in waterskiing was stuck doggedly in my mind. Whatever happened, I KNEW to hold on to the rope. No one had said anything about what do to when you fell.

    Of course my grandfather saw me pitch forward into the water and immediately pulled back the throttle and tried to circle around to pick me up. When he got close enough he called out. “Next time, let go of the rope,” he said simply, and I thought “Oh. Okay.”

    I swallowed a significant part of Pickwick lake that day, nearly lost my bathing suit, and sported a stinging red face for a bit, but the most important thing that happened was that I learned the second vital lesson in waterskiing.

    Sometimes you need to let go of the rope.

    My first speedy li’l boat

    There isn’t an exact analogy in boxing for this, which is perhaps why it took me a while to let go of the rope I was hanging on to so hard recently…

    Many of you know I’m a full-time freelance writer. I’ve been writing all my life. And yet I haven’t published anything (other than the posts on this website) of my own. Nothing with MY name on it…

    So a couple of months ago I got inspired by another author and friend of mine, the incomparable Johnny B. Truant, and I took the content from some of my most popular posts on The Glowing Edge and created the mini-book 37 Reasons to Take Up Boxing.

    It took me a bit more than a week’s worth of spare time to write it, get a cover made, figure out the technical logistics, and start offering it on my site. It was lightning-fast, in terms of ebook projects. I created it, powered it up, and that little baby was off like a remote control racing boat with a spanking new, fully-charged battery pack. Zzzzzzip! and it was gone.

    And what happened next…

    Approximately 7 seconds later, I began thinking about the next one I wanted to publish. And I immediately set to work writing a book about the biggest, most life-changing lessons I’ve learned in boxing, and how they translate to life. The Badass Manifesto was born.

    This book was bigger and certainly packed a good bit more power. I finished the writing in about three weeks of spare time, despite my client workload. This time, though, I wanted beautifully-designed interior pages, an audio version, and lots and lots of extras. This little boat would have racing stripes, multiple camera mounts, high-intensity halogen tower lights, and…

    And two months later the good news was that the engine worked great; my boat was fast as hell. The bad news was that the accessories were taking forever. I was bogged down in technicalities and specifications and making no headway at all.

    I’d created my second little boat and it was already flying across the water like a speed demon, but I felt like I’d done a faceplant and was being forcibly dragged along.

    It’s hard to accomplish much when you’re flying face-first across a lake.

    The aerial catalyst

    And suddenly this story came up in my life. An image magically floated past on Facebook or Twitter of a trapeze artist about to let go of her trap bar, and I suddenly recalled my grandfather saying calmly, Let go of the rope.

    So I cleared my calendar and set to the work of letting go.

    I let go of the lovely interior page design I wanted, put off recording and solving the hosting/plugin decisions for another day, and bid a fond farewell to the great majority of further modifications I had wanted or started. I let go of that damn rope.

    And I have to say it feels really good to climb out of the lake for a moment, wring the water out of my hair, and contemplate the lessons learned. I feel a little bruised maybe, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be back out there again in record time.

    After all, you can’t start your next ride until you let go of the rope at the end of this one.

    SO. There are no racing stripes or tower lights, but there’s a helluva fast boat waiting for you here. I hope you’ll fall in love with it, learn from it, be annoyed, intrigued, frustrated, and thrilled by it.

    And most of all, I hope you’ll grow from it, just like I did.

    PS: Watch for it at 2:46 in the video above. Boy do I *ever* know how that guy feels. : )

    CC image by solata on Flickr

     

  • What Happens When You Get Punched in the Face

    What Happens When You Get Punched in the Face

    It’s easy to work out in a boxing gym, pounding the heavy bag, focusing on your combinations, power, footwork, and cardio. You can do round after round on the speed bag and double-end bag, getting your timing and coordination right. But when you get in the ring and get punched in the face that very first time, pretty much everything you’ve worked so hard to learn flies straight out the window.

    Mike Tyson said it well. “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.”

    When you’re working with newer boxers, it’s not hard to accidentally tag them hard. Even if I’m pulling punches, working for touches rather than hard hits, sometimes they walk into one. And it is no fun, I know from experience. That damn glove pops you bam! on nose and you think, Shit! What the hell was that!?

    You immediately drop your guard, your plan, your everything, and try to figure out whether or not you’re bleeding, whether this is important, whether or not you intend to keep boxing.

    I did this to a friend in the ring recently, so it’s fresh in my mind. And I’m remembering my first few (dozen, hah) sparring rounds and how much of a shock it was to actually be hit, hard. Not necessarily because someone has it in for you, but come on, this is boxing. It’s going to happen. I knew that. My sparring partner who took two heavy straight rights from me this week (in the very first round, ugh) knew that. But it can still put a hard stop on operations.

    What happens in your head, when you take your first hard shot

    The first thing you experience is outright shock. You know you’re boxing, but being punched in the face is just not something we’re used to. How could it be? The shock is what causes you to falter, to stop working and stand there in disbelief.

    This is the first and greatest hurdle to get over in boxing, and of course there are lots of people who say “Why would I want to get over that hurdle? What an insane sport.” And I understand those people, I truly do. But the simple fact is that learning to take a punch taught me a much bigger lesson about myself, and about life.

    Let’s admit it, life is not an insulated little nursery school play yard. If you don’t grow a pair (ovaries or balls, you choose) NOW, you are actively, knowingly putting at great risk all the good gifts you’ve been given and the future you deserve to have. There are things in life you must fight for, or they’ll be taken away from you by force.

    Learning that I could take a punch and not be stopped in my tracks by it was one of the most empowering moments of my entire life.

    The pain sets in a second after the shock. And it’s tempting to let pain derail your plans the way shock can. Pain is powerfully persuasive. A straight shot to the nose stings, makes your eyes immediately well up, and sends a jolt of sparks across your whole face. Your nose feels squashed, although it won’t swell for another minute or so. Sometimes you bleed, sometimes your nose simply drips. It’s hard not to believe you’re seriously injured, but usually you aren’t. You simply aren’t used to it.

    What happens to the rest of your game

    Nothing, that’s what. You drop your guard and paw at your face. You stare at your sparring partner as if you’ve never actually met before. You shake your head and try to figure out what to do next. You swear over your mouthguard.

    If you have a good sparring partner or trainer, they’ll pick up the slack for you by telling you to get your guard back up and get your ass back in the game. The bell hasn’t rung, and it’s your job to keep working until it does.

    Why it’s important to get punched in the face, hard

    If you intend to box you are going to take some hard damn shots. It’s a thousand times better to experience this in the ring with a trusted partner than it is to learn it for the first time when you’re in a real match against an opponent who really is trying to knock your head off.

    The simple truth is you get experienced at taking shots. You find out what it is going to feel like, you begin to understand how to avoid the worst of the pain, you learn how to deal with the shock and keep fighting, blood or no blood. That’s a hugely valuable lesson.

    One time I was driving on the interstate when I saw a powerline suddenly snap loose and drop down across the highway, and a policeman on a motorcycle (right in front of me) hit the cable and went flying off his bike, right into oncoming traffic. It was a damned miracle that he wasn’t killed outright. I immediately pulled into the central lane that divided the highway and came to a quick stop, as did several other cars whose drivers saw it happen.

    I distinctly remember standing in the middle of the highway in shock, staring at the downed officer laying in the middle of a lane of traffic. It was exactly like being punched hard in the face. I was in complete shock when I should have been working with the other people jumping out of their cars to stop traffic, get to the officer, and call for help.

    Fortunately, others on the scene were more experienced than I was, and the end of the story is that the officer and the motorcycle were banged up but essentially okay. There were no other wrecks. The power line was taken care of.

    If I were to be in a similar situation now I know I would do a better job of shaking off the shock and working through a plan. Maybe I wouldn’t perform with style and grace, but I’d at least have a chance at it.

    One last truth, one secret joy

    My husband is reading Moneyball: The Art of Winning an Unfair Game, by Michael Lewis. (You may have seen the movie with Brad Pitt and Jonah Hill.) The author talks about how the major leagues are great at chewing up and spitting out hitters. You might be able to hit in the minors, but when you come up to the show, every pitcher in the game has studied your weaknesses, and if you don’t like ’em high and inside, that’s what you’re gonna get. They’ll find out exactly what you can’t hit, and pitch it to you.

    Sound anything like life? It’s definitely true in boxing. You have to get good at being punched hard in the face, because that’s exactly what someone is going to be doing to you. And the better you can shrug it off, slip it off, let it slide past without stunning and stopping you, the faster you’ll move up in the game.

    And the secret truth that every boxer holds tight in his or her soul? It’s empowering. It feels fucking awesome to be able to take a hard shot and keep fighting. No other way to say it than that.

    It’s a high cost, perhaps, but well worth the pay out.

    What do you think? What was it like, the first time you took a shot, in the ring or in life, and how did you do? Would you do better now? Leave me a comment and share your story!

    CC image by ennuiislife on Flickr

  • Boxing After 40 With a Bad Shoulder

    Boxing After 40 With a Bad Shoulder

    I took 6 weeks off of boxing lately, mostly just to rest, focus on work, and give myself a break after my last fight.

    I’m not crazy, though — I kept up my runs and weights at home. I just didn’t do any boxing-specific work. No heavy bag, no sparring, no punching drills. I didn’t even show my nose at the gym.

    When I went back for the first time this week I carefully stayed out of the classes that were training in the gym and did my own slow and careful workout: warm-up, shadowboxing, 10 rounds on the heavy bag.

    The next two days showed me the muscles I had not been training while out of boxing: forearms, lats (although I swear I did lats!!), and some obliques. Also my neck was sore from carrying all the tension of the first workout back.

    But amazingly, my shoulders were good.

    I’ve had chronic bursitis in my hips and shoulders for as long as I can remember.

    You gotta have shoulders to box.

    You gotta have everything, I guess, but I never would have guessed that I could actually find work-arounds for the issues I have to deal with in my body’s performance, and still box well.

    I was over 40 when I started this sport, and I was astonished that I could box well even though my hip joint issues meant I couldn’t run distance (for me, that means more than 4 miles).

    Now I’m learning that I don’t have to punish my shoulder joints, either, in order to compete in the ring.

    At first I sweated hard to learn to do dozens of standard push-ups, along with burpees, pull-ups, and the other shoulder-intense exercises. For several years I dealt with a level of everyday pain that I thought I would have to live with, if I was going to box.

    Then I tore the rotator cuff in my right shoulder (doing unassisted pull-ups), requiring 3 months of physical therapy and a lot of time out of the ring.  That shoulder became — and still is — the single body part I most have to favor.

    My physical therapist — a pro fighter a few years older than me — told me to cut back on the heavy shoulder work. “You’ll still box just fine,” she assured me. And I decided to test it out.

    So I stopped obsessing about building the number of push ups I could do, and I started re-working my personal training workouts.

    And my pain levels started to recede…

    But the real challenge is in what to do when the whole team is working out together.

    I began by thinking up a few alternate exercises.

    For example, when the team is doing entire rounds of toe-taps on the medicine ball, I do steps instead, which hurt my hips less. When the team is doing burpees, I do deep lunges instead. If the command is for 50 standard push ups, I’ll do knee push ups.

    It’s extremely difficult to be doing something different from everyone else on the team, but I try to tell myself that I’m 46 and they are 20, and I’m allowed. I can still meet them with a nasty-ass right when the bell rings.

    This one single thing — not doing what everyone else is doing — is the absolute hardest part of my sport. I must have a big pride thing going on, because I absolutely *hate* having to do my own thing. But I’ve finally decided to do it anyway.

    And I’ve found that my results in the ring are just as good, which is why I am sticking with it.

    The second thing I’ve changed is to lower the weights, reps, and impact.

    If the call is for 50 arm lifts with weights, I’ll do 30, or lighten the weight. I don’t shadow box with 5-pound weights, I use 1-pounders instead. Believe me, I could do all this stuff full-bore before, but I paid a heavy price in pain levels and injuries.

    And there was simply no need to do that.

    The third thing I’ve done is test the time limits.

    By testing, I’ve found that I can do as many 1 minute (not 3 minute) sets of toe-taps as everyone else and still be relatively pain-free.

    I’ve been working actively on that particular exercise, so I haven’t yet tested 2 minute rounds, but the 1 minute rounds are solid.

    I can’t change all my time limits, but I change the ones that hit my hips and shoulders the worst. Amazingly, sparring is not affected at all. Which is probably further proof — if I needed it — that just because I’m not starting every workout with 100 push-ups doesn’t mean I am going to suck in the ring.

    When I was back in the gym this week for the first time in 6 weeks, I was struck by how many shoulder-intense exercises both training groups were doing.

    One coach had the team doing literally hundreds of dips, followed by alternating-hand push-ups on a medicine ball. (If you start with your left hand on the ball and your right hand on the floor, you do a push-up, then shift quickly so that your right hand is now on the ball and your left is on the floor. Repeat. It takes balance, speed, and lots of shoulder strength.) Anyone who fell behind was assigned 50 more push-ups.

    That session would have been a total loss for me.

    As it was, I did my own workout, which involved exactly zero dips or push-ups. I’ll put some of those in there as I get going again, but it will be far less than those guys are doing.

    In the end, my lesson has been — once again — that I have to know my own body and look out for myself. Even in the face of pressure from a coach or the team.

    So I’m passing it along to you. Boxing is an incredible, joy-giving, empowering sport and with a basic level of fitness, you can do it. Even if you’re over 40. Even if you have cranky hips and shoulders. You can do it!

    And so can I.

    Image by walleydog

  • Hey! Boxing Training is Not Killing Me! Isn’t That Nice?

    Hey! Boxing Training is Not Killing Me! Isn’t That Nice?

    I took a month —  five weeks, actually — off of boxing training this summer. I ran a time or two, hiked one week, but I was entirely out of the gym, out of the ring, just out, period. For multiple reasons which are blah blah blah.

    So it was with some trepidation that I headed back to my gym last Wednesday; I was pretty sure payback would be a bitch.

    I was actually quite relieved to walk in and see that Coach Massey wasn’t there. I figured I’d get to train on my own and sneeeeeak back into team training later.

    Nice thought, anyway.

    Another team boxer’s father was there — actually he’s always there; he’s a wrestling coach and has boxing chops as well — and as soon as I walked by him he told me to fall in with the other three or four members of the boxing team as soon as I had a chance to warm up a bit. I nodded agreeably, figuring I was still safe. This man almost never gets up from his position in the spectator’s chairs, although he does drive his kid pretty hard from the sidelines. Which has paid off, I might add — she has 7 national wrestling championships, and is fast rising in the boxing world as well: she’s 15 years old and soon she’ll be able to kick my ass with both hands tied behind her back. She might could do it now.

    Tangent: Here’s a fascinating difference between Second Round, where I train now, and LA Boxing, where I used to train. At LA Boxing, if there were ever any parents there, they were there to make sure the coach was working hard. At Second Round, parents are there to make sure their kid is working hard. Interesting, no?

    I stretched, jumped rope, and casually dropped in with my team for shadowboxing rounds. Six rounds later Coach Baker hollered for us to hit the stations near his chair and we dutifully lined up:

    1. Heavy bag – Standard station – you punch it. Everyone knows the drill.
    2. Angle bag – I really, really like this bag because it’s a bit lighter, therefore it swings around a lot so it’s easier to get good footwork, pivot, and slip practice.
    3. Wrecking ball – Tough bag for me, ours feels too high (which is saying something, because at 5’8″ or so, I’m not short). I can easily duck under it, but have to strain to land uppercuts. Also I hate when it hits me in the head, which is why it’s also called the Headache bag.
    4. Medicine ball – This is for toe touches. You stand and hop lightly from one foot to the other, touching the toes of one foot to the top of the 12-lb ball each time. We work all around the ball, toe-touching with the ball in front of us, behind us, and also hopping over it side to side. These are pretty hard for me; very strenuous.
    5. Rope – We have a rope strung between two poles just below shoulder height. You have to duck quickly under it, throw a flurry, duck back under, throw another flurry. Pivot at the end, return with same. Don’t touch the rope, ever. Be fast.

    On the face of it, these are actually pleasant stations — no sledgehammer, no sparring with one foot inside a tire, no sprints, no bazillions of push-ups or mountain-climbers. This is really not training hell. You stay at one station for 3 minutes, get your 30 second round break, then move to the next.

    Just a nice quiet day at the beach, eh?

    Maybe, for the first time through. But before we even began the first training round we learned that we weren’t going to get the 30 second recovery period — Coach Baker told us just to work through that.

    Do you know how much I depend on that round break? How much I’m deeply, deeply in lust-need-desire with every one of those 30 seconds? Like a junkie, I love that break.

    But truly, even without my (snif) 30 second round break, I was okay for the first 5 rounds through the stations. Even when Coach Baker told us there was no walking in the gym, and we were to run from one station to the next, I was okay.

    The second 5 rounds was a bit more painful. Quite a bit.

    And I may have cried on the third time through, but by that point it was hard to tell what was blood, what was sweat, and what was tears.

    When he finally released us to our final 4 rounds of work — always jump rope at our gym — I had to stop myself from collapsing in sheer gratitude. Oh, thank you for jump rope rounds, thank you! What a merciful coach!!

    Seriously, after 21 training rounds like that, jumping rope is a chance to breathe again. None of us had spoken during the rounds, there simply wasn’t enough oxygen for it. After 5 or six minutes on the ropes, we started to look around again, smile at each other. We’d survived it! There wasn’t much rope tricking (crossovers, sprints, fancy footwork); we were too fatigued. But we began to chat amiably and remember that we were humans. One nine-year-old, one 15-year-old, three seventeen-year-olds, and me (age forty-five). We made it.

    And while I thought I might be in pretty bad shape the next day, I wasn’t! So I went in again on Friday and did the exact same training routine with six team members and Coach Baker again.

    Except this time we only did 20 total rounds, rather than 25, glory hallelujah and pass the Gatorade.

    And yes, during the jump rope rounds at the end on “easy” Friday, there was quite a bit of celebratory tricking.

    Image by atoach on Flickr.

  • It Will Be Enough

    It Will Be Enough

    There are days when you train really hard.

    You put in so much effort, you sweat and sprint and throw and suck for air. You push yourself through the last rounds, then the ab work and the slow stretches intended to keep your muscles from cramping on the long drive home from the gym. Or the gravel lot, or wherever you’re training.

    The next day the soreness kicks in, and the lactic acid makes itself known in one or another muscle group that you didn’t realize you’d been neglecting.

    Today I’m giving myself an unplanned day off of training. My knee aches, my abs ache, and I have a few spots I’m icing. (What’s up with that right forearm and wrist? Ah, the uppercuts. Need to stiffen that wrist, maybe back off on the arm power and put body power behind it.) My fight is coming up but I’m not fretting about a missed day of training.

    I’m not fretting about it.

    Because it will be enough. I will look back on this and be able to say that there were days when I could have added another set, another round. But on the whole, I’ve done well and it will go exactly how it goes in the fight because I’m doing all the things I set out to do.

    If your trainer moves, you find another. Things shift, you muddle through the transition. If you can’t work in the gym, you work in a gravel lot. You don’t worry about the money. If your knee hurts, you rest it. You delight in the many cheers of your friends.

    And you live in the midst of hard toil, intermittent pain, and the sheer joy of laboring toward something you love.

    That’s what I’m doing. And it will be enough.

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  • Do You Get Beat Up In Boxing?

    Do You Get Beat Up In Boxing?

    Once in a while someone asks me if I get “beat up” in boxing.

    It’s a weird thing, this fierce sport. And I completely understand why people associate it with phrases like “getting beat up,” “taking a beating,” and so on. But after studying and practicing boxing for several years now, I have a different perspective on it than I used to.

    Boxing is and extremely complex and challenging sport. Risky, yes. Potentially painful and dangerous, certainly. But it’s also a sport with lots of rules and boundaries, and it’s even more mental than it is physical. To me it feels less about “beating people up,” and more about mental and physical fitness and a very particular set of skills.

    I feel fairly certain that a skilled boxer with her wits about her could put a street brawler on the pavement in seconds flat, not because we are more violent than other people, but simply because we’ve trained so hard to understand the dynamics of fighting. Boxers work hard to be physically strong and mentally powerful. We’ve practiced the simplest punches thousands — hundreds of thousands — of times. We train our reflexes against flinching and looking away, we can see punches coming, and we have an arsenal of defensive tactics at hand. We are carefully mentored and guided into the ring, protected with the right equipment and challenge levels. And we know the rules of our sport.

    It’s fairly uncommon for us to experience “getting beat up,” or even “beating someone up.”

    Consider this: the number of hours a boxer spends in training that is not actual sparring or fighting in the ring far exceeds her time in the ring. One hundred percent of a new boxer’s time is spent outside of the ring; only after showing aptitude and willingness is a new boxer allowed to spar, and even then, it’s fairly light, careful training. My regular training week typically includes about six or seven hours a week of training, and around eight rounds of sparring. Those are 3 minute rounds, so I’m only spending 5% of my time in the ring. (Of course, that’s the time I tend to focus on and talk about the most.)

    However, we do get bested in the ring.

    My trainer loves to say that you don’t get to choose whether you win or lose in boxing; you only get to choose whether or not you will perform. Every boxer loses some of the time, whether in an official match or in their own gym. But we almost never consider a regular (or even a bad) day of sparring a “loss” or a “beating,” unless something went particularly wrong and an injury was involved.

    Yes, we get out-matched, out-maneuvered, hit hard, and even stopped in the ring. Mostly that happens in an actual competition when we are in the ring with someone better than we are, or if we are sparring with someone new and inexperienced, particularly a person who is scared. Those terrified new guys tend to throw punches like their life depends on it, but they often can’t last more than a round or two. Working with — and sometimes getting bruised up by — those people is a regular hazard of the sport, and the better boxer typically takes the blame for her injuries since we should have been able to defend better.

    I don’t help things when I talk about getting “beat up” myself. During my first year in boxing I said it when I felt someone took advantage of me in the ring. I’ve since learned how to protect myself against this situation by returning fire, demanding a different level of work, or simply rolling out of the ring.

    These days, saying I got “beat up” is a rueful way to mention my hard-earned bruises and sore muscles, and it’s normally followed by my determined recitation of new training plans and efforts.

    Interestingly, I almost never talk about “beating up” someone else when I am boxing better than they are, or even if I win a match. (Although I do like to talk about kicking ass. I like to be an ass-kicking woman! But that feels just a little bit different.)

    Otherwise I tend to use it when I see a particularly intense, damage-producing professional boxing match. Ten or twelve rounds with a heavyweight will temporarily (and sometimes permanently) change the shape of your face, whether you win or lose.

    So there is that. But those people are at the top of the field; most of us aren’t doing that. And even the pros don’t do it all the time. A seasoned pro may have 30 or 50 career fights, but you can bet your ass that most of their time is spent doing ordinary, hard, repetitive training.

    If you are new to boxing and just starting to train, you should definitely expect this sport to hurt. Most contact sports do. Football, basketball, hockey, soccer, rugby — all of them require training that is difficult and painful at times. Even non-contact sports like skateboarding or BMX bike riding can pack some serious pain.

    Learning to take a punch is a slightly different skill, but it is, in fact, a skill. Much of it is mental. And there are “tricks” to it, like staying relaxed, keeping in your stance, moving constantly so that blows glance off. And of course there’s the protective gear we wear and the rules about hit zones. But it still hurts plenty, and anyone going in should know that.

    But boxing isn’t first and foremost about beating people up, or getting beaten up. It’s about long hours of hard work and practice, it’s about building speed and power and quickness, and eventually it’s about sparring and fighting for a small percentage of your training time.

    And more than anything, it’s about the challenge and the reward. There is very little that feels better than standing in the ring, dripping with sweat, shaking from exertion, and having your fist raised by a referee as the winner of a fight.

    Damn, but that’s good.

    Image by CBS_Fan on Flickr.

  • Evander Holyfield Workout

    Evander Holyfield Workout

    Evander “The Real Deal” Holyfield is a four-time heavyweight title winner in the pro boxing universe, with a Golden Gloves championship, an Olympic bronze and a Pan American silver to show off from his amateur days, too. He has fought greats like George Foreman, Larry Holmes, and (of course) Mike Tyson. He’s been painfully bitten on the ear twice, yes, but he’s also done his share of over-the-line crap like headbutting. And don’t even open a discussion about his media career (woo, he’s in a Taco Bell commercial these days) or his family life. Just try to match his workout and then you can talk bad about him.

    This little baby below is a killer. Our trainer modified this routine slightly from the original and put us through it and I wanted to perish and be laid to rest so I could stop having to do them. Good times.

    Before you start, warm up. But not too much. You’re gonna need every ounce of strength and fortitude you can scrape together in order to finish this one.

    1. Sprint 40 yards
    2. Sprint backwards 40 yards
    3. Do 10 frog jumps (be explosive!)
    4. Do 10 push-ups
    5. Bear crawl (like Spiderman) 40 yards
    6. Bear crawl backwards 40 yards
    7. Sideways run right 40 yards
    8. Sideways run left 40 yards
    9. Do 10 frog jumps
    10. Explosive skipping (knee up as high as possible) forward 40 yards
    11. Explosive skipping (same as above) backward 40 yards

    Let me just tell you in advance that those backwards bear crawls are going to make you cry. The forward ones are bad enough. But your brain just does. not. want. to do those things backwards in tandem with your muscles. Watch out for your face on the floor, there.

    Oh, and the skips sound like such a vacation. They aren’t.

    The point is to go for a solid 3 minutes — assuming you can complete this in 3 minutes — with your heart rate at or over it’s max capacity. For me that’s 180 bpm, and I have noooo problem reaching it on this plan. And it’s all anaerobic, meaning you’re operating without enough frikkin oxygen to your muscles. It’s imperative that boxers have high anaerobic capability because of how the sport works.

    Oh, did you think you were finished? Dear, dear Virginia. You probably believe in Santa Claus, too.

    No, honey, you have to finish this drill, puke if necessary, get your breathing under control, and go again. Two more times. It’s all good.

    Did I say good? I meant to say, it’s pure hell. Have fun, boys and girls!

    Image credit: cliff1066 on Flickr

  • Addicted to Pain: an Interview with Dave Minella

    Addicted to Pain: an Interview with Dave Minella

    He’s a Pittsburgh native, a PR/Advertising director for a robotics company, the bass player in a regularly-gigging metal band, and a professional bodybuilder. If you follow him online (Twitter, Facebook, his blog, MySpace, you name it — this man knows his way around the intertubes) you learn quickly that he’s a major motorcycle racing fan as well. Dave Minella seems to have endless energy, and more non-paying “night jobs” than day jobs to prove it. But one of his passions seems to outweigh all the others: bodybuilding.

    When you see him you don’t think “bodybuilder” — he looks entirely normal, if incredibly fit. He’s the kind of guy that turns heads on the beach, but not the kind that people frown and whisper about. That may be due to the fact that unlike many of the scary-looking dudes in the big-name muscle magazines, Dave practices natural bodybuilding. After talking to him recently (over a couple of the spiciest Bloody Marys I’ve ever enjoyed), I decided that he prefers this because it’s so much more difficult.

    Sacrifice and pain are words Dave knows and understands well. For nearly all of his adult years, he’s been pushing his own limits, making his way deeper into the world of power and strength. In high school he competed in powerlifting, and after a stint in the Army and then his college years (he says he was “fat” in college, but it’s hard to believe), he returned to the gym with a quiet and determined ferocity. He worked out hard for four years on his own, referring to anatomy books and studying carefully to understand how each specific muscle and muscle group worked and could be developed. He also studied nutrition, and kept journals detailing not just his workout routines, but his caloric intake, and how various combinations of proteins and carbohydrates affected fat loss and muscle development. He experimented with supplements, and learned the ins and outs of glycemic loads, carb cycling, and metabolic rates. He can tell you at any time precisely what his body fat percentage is.

    Four years in, a trainer who had been watching from the sidelines made the simple comment that Dave should do a bodybuilding show. That was all it took.

    “I did it once, and I was really good at it,” Dave relates, as if he had been caught just a little off guard by his success. “I took third place.”

    For the next four years he quietly collected win after win until finally he decided to crank things up a notch by turning pro. Those who place high may take home just enough money to cover the expense of travel, entry fees, the pre-contest polygraph (confirming the absence of illegal drugs), and posing coach. So there’s no real money in it for him, only stiffer competition. Which means more struggle, more pain, more work.

    During the months leading up to a show, he weighs all his carefully prescribed food portions. He’s in the gym at 5 am before work, and goes there again after work, sometimes driving himself so hard that he has to make a quiet detour to throw up in the bathroom before returning to finish his routine. He carries his water in a gallon container, and alcohol is strictly off the list. “It’s not so much fun going out with friends,” he comments wryly, “when you’re the only one sober.” As the date of the show gets nearer, the extreme training kills libido, causes depression, and makes him pretty cranky to be around. “Every time I have a show I lose a girlfriend,” he notes. “which pretty much sucks.”

    You might say, and he would nod and agree with you, that he takes things to an extreme. “Why not just be fit?” I asked him.

    “Because anybody can do that,” he says, pausing only a heartbeat before going on. “Not many people can do this.” We sit companionably in silence for a few moments while that sinks in like water over sand. Then he adds, “I’m not an addictive personality, but I’m addicted to the pain.” I wait to hear more. “It makes me feel alive,” he says, and his grin softens the seriousness of the moment.

    This gives him an edge over other bodybuilding competitors, he explains. “I’ll work harder regardless of the pain. Or because of it.”

    He’s driven, that much is clear, but he also seems to have an uneasy relationship with the amount of attention he attracts. He cycles through gyms like some people go through cable channels, staying at one place only until he feels the weight of too many stares and interruptions, then moving to the next place. I laugh when he tells me this, and think, but don’t say, that this is also why he’s a bass player rather than the lead in his band. There’s something about him that loves the stage, but not the spotlight. When he goes to the gym it’s with earbuds firmly in place, shutting out the world and pushing him on with rock’s relentless pounding force. If you meet him out on the town he doesn’t say anything about his training unless you specifically inquire. Even then, you may have to draw the answers out of him.

    Dave seems to inhabit a somewhat lonely place without many supporters. Trainers come and go. Girlfriends haven’t stayed. Few people know or understand what he does. But he has the resolved confidence of a man comfortable with that. And it not only shows, it gleams from every smooth plane of his body.