The Glowing Edge

Tag: rounds

  • Two Schools of Padwork in Boxing

    Two Schools of Padwork in Boxing

    I’m a “train for what you are going to do” kind of person.

    Yes, I put in road and trail work, stadium stairs, jump rope, and so on, and none of those things are what I actually do when I roll into the boxing ring. They do give my muscles the kind of balance that only comes from cross-training, as well as a foundation of good cardio conditioning.

    However.

    And this is a big however…

    I do most of my non-boxing-specific training in boxing rounds.

    For example, here’s one of my current favorite workouts. All the work (except for the mile) is done in three minute rounds with 30 second recovery periods. And even that I sometimes do in three minute bursts, like a fartlek run, with 30 second recoveries.

    1. Three rounds stairs
    2. Three rounds hurdles (The hurdles are so intense I actually don’t make it continually through 3 minutes yet)
    3. Three rounds jump rope
    4. One mile to finish (are you happy I didn’t say “to recover” like your coach does? Heh.)

    The point is to work hard for 3 minute segments and recover in 30 seconds, and then do it again — because that’s what you do in the boxing ring.

    So I see these guys doing incredibly lengthy memorized padwork routines and I think, this doesn’t help me. It looks super-shonuff cool, it does! But it doesn’t look like what I end up doing in the ring.

    I hear the arguments that it develops fast hands and punches in bunches, but the situation seems so forced. You memorize a sequence and move through it (like a kata in martial arts). But in boxing you aren’t throwing 32 punches in a single offensive. You have to think, watch your opponent, strategize on the fly.

    Maybe I’m just jealous. I don’t have those long combos memorized, and they do seem to carry some cool cred in gyms. I wanna be cool, just like other people.

    But I’m gonna stick with training that looks and feels like actual boxing. Check out the video below. THIS is what I think padwork should look like.

    One of the things I like about this padwork training session is that the trainer is not smacking down the punches; he lets the punches come to him. The two of them move, stay loose, and circle just like you would in a fight. It’s the real thing, not a show.

    Well, okay, it IS a show, it’s part of a press conference, obviously, but you get the feeling that they actually train like this on a regular basis. You know, minus all the reporters crowding the ring.

    Padwork is one of the things I love best in boxing.

    You get one-on-one time with a trainer or peer who is working on your game, your form, your boxing. You don’t have to share a coach with dozens of other fighters when you’re doing padwork, and you don’t have to factor in a sparring opponent. It’s aaaaalll you, baby. Whipped cream with a cherry on top.

    I don’t get much padwork, but when I do, I’m intensely grateful for it, particularly when I feel like it’s going to really move my game forward.

    Image by icantu on Flickr

  • 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.

  • Transitioning

    Transitioning

    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.

    Here’s to the next round.

    Image by akeg on Flickr.

  • 13 Round Boxing Workout

    13 Round Boxing Workout

    This solid boxing workout fits perfectly into an hour with a few minutes to spare. Set your ring timer for 3 minute rounds with a 1 minute rest.

    1. Two rounds jump rope (work through your 1 minute rest)
    2. One round stretching
    3. Two rounds shadow boxing
    4. Three rounds heavy bag; punch out (speed punches) last 30 sec of each round
    5. One round speed bag
    6. Two rounds abdominals work (work through 1 minute rest)
    7. Two rounds spin bike (work through 1 minute rest)

    If you’re putting effort into it, you should be drenched, tired and happy (otherwise you should ask for your money back). Hit the shower and head back to work!

    Image by Steve Snodgrass

  • Make Your Punches Count

    Make Your Punches Count

    Eight phenomenal non-stop rounds in the boxing ring last night with my trainer.

    I am consistently amazed at how much my boxing improves when I’m in the ring with her. I work so hard, learn so much, and have such an incredible experience.

    I had gotten to the gym an hour early to do 30 minutes of slow cardio and a long, careful stretching routine. I felt pretty warm and flexible, but wanted to preserve my energy for our rounds. I have not been training with intervals lately so I knew I’d have to work harder than usual to go whatever distance she chose. She knows I always want at least 6 rounds, but she has the capability to do far more; I’ve seen her go 15 straight rounds as fresh boxers on our team cycle in and out with her. She has phenomenal stamina.

    Last night I was a little nervous before we began; I couldn’t get the image of Bonnie’s last fight out of my mind. The jab-right combo — which instantly dislocated her opponent’s jaw and ended the fight with a first-round TKO — played itself over and over again in my head. I didn’t want to say too much about it in advance to Bonnie because I didn’t want listening bystanders to make jokes.

    It helped that she was relaxed but very serious as we geared up; this is a pro boxer coming off a big win, maintaining her form for her next fight in August. It could be a title fight. What we’re doing together is for real.

    Right before the bell rang I caught her eye. “I’m a little nervous,” I said, tapping my left glove to my jaw.

    She immediately caught on. “No need,” she returned quietly, shaking her head slightly. My fear immediately dissipated. What this woman says, you can take to the bank. The bell rang, we tapped gloves, and began to box.

    She almost always lets me throw the first combinations. Sometimes it’s spooky; you have the sense that she’s sizing you up and once she has your measurements will quickly put you on the canvas. When I’m in the ring with her I can feel her coiled power, all that potential energy swirling and packing into her body and awaiting release. Mostly I take the open shots she gives me with the sure and certain knowledge that I have one solid defense against a boxer who is better than I am: one million jabs.

    I have to throw more shots, whether they are good, bad, or otherwise. Jabs are the way to keep your opponent from thinking and planning. They keep her off of you, make her hesitate or defend. A wall of jabs is the surest way to open a path to a real shot, a solid right or a hook to the body, whatever it takes to get in on your opponent and score some pain.

    Lucky for me the old Bonnie, the pre-getting-ready-for-a-fight Bonnie, was back last night. She was content to make me work hard for four rounds while she sat back and sipped lemonade, periodically shooting a wicked punch out to make me remember just how deadly she can be.

    I was thrilled and amazed at how many of her left hooks I slipped. I got into a pattern with my combos — finally! — of punch-punch-punch SLIP. And it worked, because Bonnie loves to throw those hooks at my head when I come in at her. Several caught me clean, but many more slipped, catching no more than the edge of my glove or headgear. I was jubilant.

    In round four I began trying to throw my own left hooks. We’re both orthodox boxers but I frequently circle left on her for fear (respect, I meant to say respect) of her left hook. Last night I was circling right, having figured out the left hook but now being wary of that deadly right cross. I threw several hooks, but they were all in my arm, no body power behind them because I was staying to my right. Where the hell is Mike Tyson when you need him? I kept at it until I saw her grinning.

    “What? I’m trying to get in a left hook, dammit,” I slurred over my mouthpiece.

    “I know,” she said, “but you have to move in closer to get it.”

    Yeah, right. Move in closer to that right cross. My jaw ached just thinking about it.

    “Use your jab,” she advised. “Get in behind it, then whoomp.” She demonstrated for me.

    I tried a few times, even demanding that she slow down and let me move through it a few times on her. But when we got back into the action, I bailed. Back to a thousand jabs and slips, at least that was working for me.

    In round five she started in with her real power. “Bonnie’s warm!” I shouted to the gym. “That means cheer for me, not her,” I joked to one of the guys watching ringside. I was comfortable, in the zone, stoked. Honored that she knows she can unleash that kind of power on me, and more: I can take it!

    The gym echoed with the sound of serious blows being exchanged. I went ahead and exchanged all my chips for power and threw the hell out of what I had. She and I both roared with that crazy, brutal, we’re-in-it-now joy. I was drenched, working hard to breathe after combos. The world faded and there was only boxing.

    At the bell for the seventh round I realized a small crowd had gathered to watch. I suddenly realized that this was the first time Bonnie had been seen in the ring since her fight. I had made my six rounds with joy, with pleasure, with power. And now I was sucking for air and people were watching. Oh well, I thought, let’s see what I have left to give. And we boxed.

    Unfortunately, I caught a solid uppercut to the diaphragm toward the end of the seventh round, and all oxygen exited my universe. Bonnie knew it immediately, and I turned to the ropes and raised my arms to let some air back in to my lungs. “Just a second,” I gasped, “…need just a second.” She backed off and paced, and I cursed gently (because I find this helps) until I could breathe again.

    Ten seconds later I banged my gloves together. “Let’s finish this,” I called, and we touched gloves and worked.

    I finished the seventh round and collapsed gratefully against the ropes, finished. Except Bonnie wasn’t finished. “That was seven rounds?” she asked our ringside crowd, sneaking a look at me. “That feels so… unfinished.”

    I groaned.

    “I hate odd numbers,” she continued, laughing. “And I’m not even tired. Let’s do one more.”

    She knows I can’t resist. I’m helpless against her charm. Or else I am stone cold crazy.

    Yeah, probably that latter one.

    “You got it, Boss,” I told her, dumping half my water bottle over my head. I had no jabs left. I’d thrown everything I had. My arms were marshmallows. I got back in my corner, mentally prepared a battle plan for keeping out of range and covering up with a tight guard, and awaited the bell.

    It was true, she looked fresh. She performed with power and precision, hardly winded at all. I survived the eighth round with determined grace, and stripped my gloves off at the bell. I felt incredible, awesome. Best night of my week.

    But I was thinking later about why she was so fresh after eight rounds.

    As I looked back on it I realized that as the better boxer, she knew she didn’t have to throw as many punches as I did. She threw far fewer, but many more of hers were good or even excellent hits. Many of my jabs, which are effective at keeping her out of my space, don’t land with power or don’t land at all. They are still effective, but it means I’m throwing far more than she does. I go after her with everything I have, staying on offense at least 80% of the time, rarely resting.

    She boxes as if on very serious holiday, absolutely nothing is wasted, no moment is unplanned. Every combination, every segment of footwork, each careful moment of rest and defense is laid out like a fierce ballet. Every single punch counts.

    God, I want to box like that.

    I’m guessing she’ll give me more lessons. Meanwhile you can call me Woman of 1000 Jabs.

    And keep your eye out for my left hook, people. It may be young, but it’ll mature and bring a house of pain with it.

    Image of me sparring by Ken Hall Photography.