It’s not even a young person’s sport. This sport is for the ones who want it, who are willing to work their asses off to advance in it, and who are able to take the hits and dish out a few of their own. Boxing belongs to you. You dominating the ring is acting your age.
2. You have passion. That’s sexy.
Listen, we spent enough years pussy-footing around the world, asking everyone for permission to try things we were curious about or to unlock doors we wanted through. Now you’re the bouncer at the club of your own future. Hell, you’re the bouncer and the show. That’s hot. That’s damned hot.
3. Figure out your limits. Then bust through them.
One thing boxers have in spades is patience. Nobody learns to box in 10 minutes. Or 10 months. When you’re over 40, you have perspective, and by gawd you’re willing to claw your way to the level of fight performance you want, no matter how long it takes. Let the kids get discouraged. Let them come and go. We’re still here. We’ve seen problems and overcome them. We’re sneaky as well as badass. Be warned.
4. You’re older and smarter, so adapt things you need to adapt.
Physical limitations don’t faze boxers. I don’t do bear crawls anymore — you know why? Because they wreck my shoulders, and I need my shoulders for the ring. There is no shortage of types of exercise. If it takes me out, I don’t do it. If it keeps me in, I’m on it. And that’s all the justification I need, sucka.
5. Give yourself the recovery time you need.
Truth is you’d have more aches and pains if you didn’t box. That’s why other people take prescription painkillers rather than just aspirin. God invented aspirin (and icepacks) so that we could go on boxing. But we also know how to work hard, then let our bodies recover. Boxers know that muscles build during recovery.
6. The turkeys will flap. Let ’em flap.
E’erbody got something negative to say about boxing. We’re listening, until we’re not. Then we’re boxing.
7. Eat clean. Fuel your sport.
When you were 28, you could eat like Honey Boo Boo, drink like a college freshman, and still go out and run a 10k the next day. You still can! But the difference is that now your performance suffers. The other night I came home and found my husband in bed with vegetables. Dayum, that was sexy. Other people can eat powdered donuts in bed; their sport is laying around watching television. Veggies make for great…performance.
If you had asked me last Friday “How’s training for your fight going? How are you feeling?” you might have heard me growl and scowl and say I didn’t give a damn anymore. I was wholly, mortally sick. Of. It.
Done. Screw it, I’m outta here.
So I made the reasonable choice and did a flaming, flying swan dive down into the dark, seedy mental nightclubs where I proceeded to party down while throwing the finger to everything boxing related. To mark the special moment, I stopped into Bojangles and devoured a 2-piece fat-enhanced meal with a side of dirty (that was especially satisfying) fries AND a motherfucking biscuit. With butter.
I thought about driving up to the Krispy Kreme, but I was feeling so warm and sated after the Bo-party all I wanted to do was head home and sleep it off. I decided I could finish out with a hefty double shot of 12 year old Macallan’s Highland single malt scotch, but by the time I got home I was too wasted on fried chicken and biscuits to find the liquor cabinet.
I slept like a sabertooth tiger with a belly full of giant sloth.
And I proceeded to very studiously NOT TRAIN for the next three days.
Which would have been especially sparkling and glittery, except that prior to the flaming flying swan dive, I had trained at my cheapie $10-a-month gym with a guy who put me through an hour-long upper and lower body workout that (I found out later) just happened to hammer the holy living Elvis out of my calves and triceps.
On Saturday I was surprised at the level of pain and misery cramping up my legs and arms, and I knew I was in for a rough Sunday, because I get hit hardest by 2nd day muscle soreness when I screw up like this. And sure enough, rolling out of bed and putting my feet on the floor Sunday morning was the sheerest kind of torture. It took me hours of patient work to get everything stretched out and functional, and Monday was only marginally better.
Still, I was off the training wagon and didn’t care — upcoming fight be damned. If I could have summoned the cosmic unicorn wish fairy and been able to get in the ring and have my match Friday, Saturday, Sunday, or Monday night I would have done it in a skinny minute just to get it off the event horizon of the sucking black hole that was my mental attitude.
I started to repent on Tuesday morning. Which was reasonably smart, considering that the church of boxing was scheduled to hold high holy services just 9 days hence.
I put on my sackcloth and ashes and headed to Second Round for my punishment. As you might guess, I wasn’t all smiles. I pretended I’d never even thought of, never even consideredthe ring name “Relentless.”
I got in without too many people noticing, and quietly set up the ring with a double slip line. My calves wept silently. I ignored them and thought about fried chicken instead.
And Cinnabon. I thought about Cinnabon a lot.
But not my fight. I resolutely didn’t think about my fight. And I noticed something interesting.
My quads were fairly happily taking me smoothly and easily under that slip rope, back and forth like a well-oiled machine. My heart rate stayed steady and my jabs weren’t catching on the line. Everything was working. For the first three rounds, and the next three, and the next three. By round 10 I was feeling normal again. Boom. I wanted to say, Hey all you doctors out there, quit prescribing Wellbutrin and Elavil and Zoloft! Tell your patients to shadowbox 10 rounds with a slip line! After eating dirty fries and biscuits!
My coach ambled up and I confessed (some of) my sins. He was nonchalant. Rest is good, he said. You got this. Then put me through a solid pad workout for another 6 rounds. I love my coach.
Powah was mine, badasses. I did a few victory dances around the ring while he pretended not to see. He probably didn’t roll his eyes.
So I finished out with speed bag and jump rope rounds, after which I strolled home like a convict whose prison sentence has been unexpectedly commuted. And here I had thought I had flushed all my training down the toilet. I have much to learn, clearly.
Did I mention the fact that I went to the bookstore on Saturday and read the first 5 chapters of Tim Ferriss’s 4 Hour Body? I have some modifications I’m making to my training, more on that later. (My husband is all like, You’re such a control freak.)
Meanwhile, my lessons learned:
Ten to twelve weeks is waaaaay too long for a training camp for attention-deficient me. Why did I start that early? Excited, I guess. Seven weeks is probably optimal for most people, assuming one is in reasonably decent shape. Five weeks would be tight but do-able.
Factor in “screw it” days or weeks, especially if you’re doing a longer training camp.
Sometimes good enough is, amazingly, good enough. All is well in Whoville. “Relentless” rides again. After the fight, meet me at the Cinnabon.
I’m officially about 8 weeks out from my next fight, which is just the right amount of time I need to set up my training goals. About a year ago I started categorizing the main areas of my boxing training, and since then I’ve refined my system enough to find it pretty useful as I plan my workouts.
(It would be fair to say I’m a bit compulsive about organization. Obsessed, even. But people hire me for it, so I’m allowed. Note to you: try to get paid for the stuff that makes you weird.)
The acronym I use to lay out my goals is FASTER, although if you want to be picky about it — which I generally enjoy doing — you could also say FASSTER, because it stands for Form, Anaerobic Conditioning, Strength, Speed, Timing, Eating Clean, and Resting.
But first, a note about training hours…
How many hours of training each week?
Remember those awesome gold star stickers from first grade? I’ll still do damn near anything for those suckers.
So when I’m in my normal routine, I use a “medal” system for every week of training. This means I give myself a mental bronze medal for every week in which I train three times, a silver for four good training sessions, and a gold for getting in five training sessions for that week.
I used to train two hours or more at a time, but now that I’m more efficient, I train about an hour to an hour and a half each time. If I’m focused and not jacking around, I’m finished inside of an hour.
I know plenty of people who put in far more training hours, but I just don’t have that luxury. And anyway, I would die of boredom spending long, slow hours on a trail or treadmill; besides, that sort of training doesn’t produce the kind of conditioning you need for boxing (see Anaerobic, below).
I average about 4 hours of training in a normal week, but when prepping for a fight, I try to stay consistently in a 5 workout-per-week mode.
Form
Ideally, you get your form cleaned up by shooting video of yourself sparring or working the heavy bag. That way you can watch yourself and correct the sloppy stuff. You can also watch yourself in a mirror. Either way, make sure you always have a form goal you’re working on.
Here are a few examples of good form goals:
Keep your guard high and tight
Launch your jabs from your chin (don’t cock it or your opponent sees it coming)
Launch your hooks from the inside (or they won’t land)
Keep your knees soft (slightly bent)
Stay balanced on the balls of your feet
Keep your head moving
Turn your punches over
Fully extend your jab
Put your hip and rear leg into your straight right (or power hand)
Don’t square up; keep your lead shoulder toward your opponent
Keep your chin down
Anaerobic conditioning
Anaerobic (coined in 1863 by Louis Pasteur, from the Greek: an – “without” + aer “air” + bios “life”) is very different from aerobic conditioning. Anaerobic conditioning means you’re teaching your body to function at high levels for very short periods of time with a shortage of oxygen to your system.
The win here is in interval training. Nobody cares if you can run five miles because what you need to be able to do in boxing is sprint hard for two (women’s rounds) or three (men’s rounds) minutes, recover in one minute, sprint another round, recover, and sprint again.
You can do interval training on pretty much everything. Weights, jump rope, treadmill, stair runs, box jumps, tire flipping, elliptical, rowing, sprints, you name it.
Boxing Interval Training: Do as much of your training as you possibly can in rounds or two or three minutes each, with 30 second recoveries between. Work crazy hard during the round, and keep moving during the recovery. Don’t slouch over or put your hands on your knees during your rest period. Stand tall and get plenty of oxygen back in to your system.
Tabata Interval Training: I generally keep my intervals to boxing round times, but that’s not the only way to do it. Tabata interval-style training was founded by a Japanese scientist named Izumi Tabata, and someday soon I’ll write a post on Tabata training, but the basic gist is this: After your warm up, you do 8 intervals of 20 seconds all-out intensity exercise followed by 10 seconds of rest. Sound short and easy? Check out these killer Tabata-interval burpees. (Note he slouches to breathe at 2:30; Tabata will do that to you.)
Strength
For fight sports, speed and strength go hand in hand. When I do strength training I typically use light weights and high reps because I’m working for quickness and explosive power as well. Although I also slow it down and work heavier weights now and then because it’s so good for your bone density.
I’m not a huge exercise gadget person, but I do make use of dumbells, freeweights, tractor tires, sledgehammer, and medicine balls, and if I were in a fancy gym I’d be using slam ball, kettlebells, heavy rope, balance rings, and harness pulls as well.
Speed
You can build your speed by focusing on agility, explosion, and sprinting exercises. I have an agility ladder, but I’m just as likely to work along a sidewalk line or parking lot stripe. I also use dot drills, box (or wall or bench) jumps, and my general interval training to train for quickness.
You’ll definitely want to build up a set of reaction drills to use in building speed, too, and for some of those you need a partner. Practice letting your partner throw jabs at your head while you slip and duck. (good for Timing too, see below). Tie up a slip rope and work your way down it, moving quickly and lightly as you duck under and bob up on the other side.
Timing
If there’s an area in which I shortchange myself, it’s in timing. I do regular rounds on the speed bag (which really should be called a timing bag, because that’s what it trains), and once in a while I get on the double-end bag, but most of your practice in timing will come by way of regular sparring.
There’s just no substitute for learning to get out of the way than by having someone come after you with a blazing fast combo. And when you are getting regular sparring in, you’re also building timing by looking for the open shot and trying to land it consistently.
Eating Clean
My dietary outline comes mainly from the Dr. Sears Zone Diet, but I also incorporate Paleo once in a while. Above all, I work pretty hard to avoid the Forbidden Five foods (white bread, white rice, white pasta, white potatoes, and high fructose corn syrup). If you’re subscribed to my emails I love to send out recipes (as well as workout plans, training stories, playlists, random shenanigans, and free books once in a while; sign up here if you haven’t already).
And yeah, I cheat. You should too. Make your goals for eating sustainable, not ridiculously lofty. My goal in this area is usually to eat 80% clean every week. Which leaves room for spinach, mushroom, sausage, and onion pizza once in a while. (With extra garlic, yeah baby.)
Rest and Recovery
You’ve probably already heard the newsflash that you don’t build muscle while you’re training; you build muscle as you’re recovering. I have never been a train-every-day person anyway, but since I’m in my forties I’m particularly aware of a) being efficient with my time and training, and b) not getting injured by overtraining or making stupid mistakes.
Your turn…
What’s missing? What do you include that isn’t listed here? Leave me a comment below and share your ideas, additions, and training secrets.
Walking into a new boxing gym for the first time is excruciatingly difficult for me.
In this particular case, there had been a number of obstacles to overcome even before I walked in the door. I’d heard about them, but couldn’t find an up-to-date website. Rumor had it they had recently relocated, and I knew they were downtown, but I’d driven up and down the area where I’d heard they were to no avail. Finally I learned about a larger organization with which they were connected, and boom, found a website. With a phone number.
After being re-routed to a different number, I finally connected with a human who was connected to the gym.
Nice guy, very polite and helpful. He gave me the address of the gym and I googled it only to see what I remembered as an abandoned building downtown, located in an low spot beside a parking deck. In Street View (photo above) it still looked abandoned.
Later that day I pulled into the lot and parked behind the sole other car there. A small “Open” sign hung crookedly in the front window, but otherwise there was no indication I was in the right place. I was dressed for training, but decided not to haul in my gym bag; I wasn’t ready to commit myself just yet.
Inside, the place seemed freshly sheetrocked, and a couple of silvery, unconnected HVAC pipes hung from the exposed ceiling struts. Several desks stacked with papers and a handful of metal filing cabinets populated the vast expanse of concrete flooring, and I could see a worn but serviceable pool table just beyond the reception area.
“You’re Lisa!” said the young man who had been riffling through a file cabinet when I arrived. He smiled and strode over to shake my hand.
Second Round, which is affiliated with a non-profit called Haven House, serves youthful offenders and gang-involved and at-risk youth between 11-21 years old. I was deeply aware of how incongruous I would be there, but I’d twice sparred boxers from their gym, met one of the coaches, and was feeling more and more like I needed to check them out.
I got the walk-through, signed the waiver, and worked one-on-one for about an hour in a light, checking-your-basics kind of overview with one of the coaches. I strained to hear his soft voice with its heavy island accent in the echoing gym, which with empty except for two teenagers watching surreptitiously from the nearby weight pit. A brilliant yellow canary trilled and fluttered in a tiny cage near the heavily reinforced doors.
A coach I recognized strode past, a handful of teenagers trailing behind. “Hey, Lisa!” he called, grinning broadly, and I was thrilled that he remembered me from when I’d sparred some of his fighters.
“Hey, Coach Massey!” I returned, waving.
When the first coach was finished with me, we stopped, he packed up the canary into his van, and headed out. I sat in the parking lot for a while, trying to figure out what to do next. Finally I went back in and perched awkwardly on a desk in the gym, hoping to watch and learn. People were starting to drift in, wrap, and begin their own routines.
Suddenly a familiar face entered my field of vision and I was instantly high-fived, hugged, and effusively welcomed by Reggie, one of the peer coaches I’d sparred the week before.
“You came!” he cried. “You came to work with us! I told you you should come.” He punched me lightly on the shoulder and I found myself smiling back. Reggie’s charm is hard to resist.
He stopped grinning and raised his eyebrows, suddenly serious. “You got a hell of a right on you. You got some power is what I’m saying. That was some good work.”
I flushed. He turned and pointed out a young woman just coming into the gym. “There’s your girl,” he said. “Didn’t you spar her one time?”
I had. She’d been fierce and incredibly tough; I had been on my own turf and because of that advantage, plus my height, I probably should have pulled my shots more than I had, but she never lost heart and she gave me hard game without stopping. We’d had three solid rounds.
“So what you gonna do tonight?” Reggie asked.
“I dunno. Watch? I’d like to train, but I’m not sure how to get going…” I trailed off lamely.
People had been incredibly welcoming to me, but there’s still that awkwardness that can only be addressed by gearing up, training hard, and showing that you have something to bring to the ring.
Reggie was off like a shot, had a word with Coach Massey, and suddenly I was in the flow, working in unison with the other boxers, moving from drill to drill, the sweat dripping off me to leave dark splotches on the concrete floor.
I put my lead foot inside a tire with another boxer and we worked the inside game, circling and punching. I did a series of burnouts on the heavy bags, dropping to the concrete to slog through 50 push ups when I didn’t top 100 punches in the first 30-second burnout period. (I broke a hundred every time after that.) The coach lined up weight benches end to end and we did two-footed hops side to side over the benches all the way down the line (miserable). There were medicine ball drills that made my forearms scream for an end to it all.
If you had asked me before I went to Second Round to train whether I was in shape, I would not have hesitated to tell you yes. Hell, yes.
I’ve changed my position on that.
Other than the periodic shouts of encouragement from the coach, and a few congenial shoulder bumps from Reggie, no one spoke too much; we were all working too hard. It was a wonderful place to be.
Later that week Coach Massey spoke to me about accepting a boxing match in Memphis in a few weeks.
I was still feeling the shock of transitioning into a new gym. “I don’t know, Coach,” I told him. “I just got here. I don’t even know if I’m ready.” I paused, watching the young men around me gear down.
“You train with me for three weeks and you will be,” he replied, grinning and flashing his gold tooth. I nodded wryly and rubbed my aching triceps. Those burnouts had kicked my ass. “Besides,” he added, “I’ve seen you in the ring. And you’ve had two fights in the past six months. You’re ready.”
In the end I asked him to let me try and settle in with the team for a couple of weeks, then I would decide.
Meanwhile, I’m feeling the pain of transition dissolve slowly into the pain of getting in top-notch shape.
I’ve been offline, trying to catch my breath between wave sets and wipeouts.
The turbulence of job shifts (I’m now working from home rather than from an office in another city), training shifts (my trainer moved out of state, my fight is coming up in April), and other big and small events and financial re-arrangements have significantly changed the shape of my days for the past month, and I’m working to discern how I will fit into my own life for the next bit of the future.
Out of necessity I withdrew from nearly all of my social hubs and just tried to hang on. Now the first and biggest wave of the set has passed (that was the biggest one, right?), and I’ve wiped out but I’m upright, catching my breath and trying to figure out how to meet the next one, which I can already see coming. Hell, I can see ten of ’em from here.
I’m in transition, I know this feeling.
In boxing, we work to get good at transitions. The entire purpose of training with intervals, for example, is to get good at physically working hard (sprinting, punching, etc.) for a 3 minute period, then to recover well in 30 seconds or a minute in order to work extremely hard for another 3 minute space. During that recovery time you mentally shift into neutral and try to convince your body to slow down. Deep breaths, hands in the air if you have a stitch, slowing down the heart rate as much as possible. Standing straight, never bending double with hands on your knees. Straight and tall, breathing, looking forward.
I’ve rarely been aware of much outside my boxing corner during the periods between rounds. I don’t hear the perpetual thump of hip-hop over the sound system, the rapid-fire gunning of the speed bag, the shot calls of other trainers in the gym, or the thwack of leather meeting leather on the heavy bags. All those external stimuli are drowned out in the deafening roar of my blood and the heavy buzz of focus that narrows your vision to a 20×20 square of dirty canvas and the ropes that give it boundaries.
The one thing I can hear — and in fact what I am listening for — is a corner.
During the period between rounds, your corner is telling you that you performed well, that you can breathe, that you are okay. You stake everything on believing them.
After a few seconds your corner begins to set your course for the next interval. She outlines a strategy, notes what strengths you should employ, and points out the lapses in your opponent’s style or form and how you can take advantage of them. And in all of this, more than anything else, your corner communicates that she believes in you. I know few powers on earth more significant than that one.
When you are in transition, you need someone to believe in you.
Someone to remind you of the many things you already know, to point out the skills you have worked so hard to build, and the goals that brought you to this point.
As I write this I am one week into training for my next fight, without the trainer I’ve loved, learned from, and counted on for the past two years . Her life has undergone a series of changes as well, and now she’s in New York launching her next big thing.
I’m sporting a black eye just turning to green and nursing a severely strained shoulder. My normal training schedule is completely wonked because I’m no longer at my office, no longer enjoying the work perk of a fitness gym one block from our building. I’ve missed two weight sessions and am looking at a week of restricted activity because of this injury.
I can feel myself thinking, “Well, you aren’t off to a great start, are you?” I took my first round hard, and am having a hard time figuring out how to get through the next.
Listening for the voice of a corner.
And there has been a new voice — entirely unexpected, but there nonetheless.
When I called Terri “The Boss” Moss, promoter of the upcoming Atlanta Corporate Fight Night, to let her know my job had changed, my trainer had moved, and I’d been injured and might have trouble getting ready for my fight, I was expecting her to be polite as always, but privately frustrated and annoyed. After all, she has a lot riding on this event, a thousand details to oversee, and lots of boxers to coach.
What I got was a corner. The voice of an experienced boxer, a woman who knows how training can go awry, who understands the position I am finding myself in, and who immediately began the litany of “You’re doing fine. Breathe. Here’s what I want you to do.” It looks like I may be driving down to Atlanta for some serious corner time.
I have to say this about the women boxers I have met during this strange and beautiful journey: you are the most incredible women I’ve ever known. I can’t imagine how I would have made it without you. Thank you for the hard training, the indefatigable spirit, and most of all, the graceful cornering.
The first week of December I re-injured my shoulder, and spent two solid months in physical therapy and out of boxing. I became the cardio mistress (wore my thigh-high leather boots, carried the whip) but the intense PT schedule meant I had to give up some of my regular workouts. I got sloppy with my diet and ate depressively and now I’m five to seven pounds past the weight I like most to be.
I have a plan: move less, eat more.
Wait! No, I remember, it’s move more, eat less. (The funniest part of that Mad TV vid: “Bullcrap, you don’t know me!”)
And to that end, I’m picking up my workout schedule and writing out my meal plans again. As you may already know, I typically follow The Zone (by Dr. Barry Sears), which controls weight by controlling insulin. It’s not a low-carb or a high-protein diet, but rather a protein-carb-fats balanced diet. I used to use the one-third / two-third rule: eating one part protein (lean meats) and two parts low-density carbs (fruits and veggies) with a sprinkling of good fats (mostly monosaturated, like you find in olives and almonds).
But I got sloppy about it.
Now I’ve decided to work with the “blocks” that Sears outlines in his books. In the back of each of the books I own there’s an index of sorts that lists lots of healthy foods and tells you how much of that food equals a block. Most women want to plan meals with 3 blocks of protein, 3 blocks of (low density, which equals fruits and veggies) carbs, and 3 blocks of good fats. Guys can do 4, 4, and 4.
I invested in a scale so that I can actually figure out how much 3 ounces of something is, and I’m measuring everything until I get a sense of the amounts again.
So, here’s my meal plan for my first day back in the Zone:
Breakfast
2/3 cup (cooked) steel-cut oats = 2 blocks carbs
1 cup raspberries = 1 block carbs
2 soy sausage links = 1 block protein (can’t bring myself to get 3 blocks)
3 tsp slivered almonds = 3 blocks fats
Snack
1 graham cracker = 1 carb
1/2 tsp peanut butter = 1 fat
1 mozzarella cheese stick = 1 protein
Lunch
3 oz chicken breast = 3 protein
3 cups broccoli = 1 carb
2 cups fresh sliced strawberries = 2 carbs
3 tsp almond slivers = 3 fats
Before boxing snack (one set of blocks from my dinner)
half a Zone bar (gawd, I love these, esp the peanut butter ones) = 1 carb, 1 protein, 1 fat
After boxing dinner
1/2 Zone bar (in car, on way home) = 1 carb, 1 protein, 1 fat
1/4 cup black beans = 1 protein
1/2 cup hot salsa = 1 carb
1/3 tsp (a drizzle) olive oil = 1 fat
This outlines a pretty stringent Zone day, and as you saw, I didn’t quite get the breakfast balanced. But for me the really tough part about this plan is the period between lunch and boxing. The best way I know to do it is to eat lunch about 1 or 2 pm, so that I’m not perishing for food by 6, when I’ll tuck into my Zone bar.
But I’m resolved to get on the plan once again. I’ll keep you posted.
Still, I was off the training wagon and didn’t care — upcoming fight be damned. If I could have summoned the cosmic unicorn wish fairy and been able to get in the ring and have my match Friday, Saturday, Sunday, or Monday night I would have done it in a skinny minute just to get it off the event horizon of the sucking black hole that was my mental attitude.
