Punching Out
My Self-Delusion of Physical Fitness
By Natnicha Chuwiruch
I was gasping and wheezing, making noises that I did not think my body was capable of making. My eyesight went blurry, my forehead was covered with a thick layer of sweat, and my legs were burning from pain.
I hate exercise.
I especially hate cardio with every fibre of my sluggish body. I wished I could be in bed watching old episodes of Breaking Bad on the television. I back up for no one when it comes to the best practices of sloth. But exercise? I was a rookie.
I signed up for a boxing class at Boston University’s FitRec center for three reasons:
1. I had two credits that would have gone to waste
2. I never take advantage of having a free student membership at the gym
3. Being forced to work out would actually put me in the gym
It has been three weeks since my semester at school started in September. In those three weeks, I endured six days of boxing classes. In those six days, I suffered through six hours of pain. Six hours of jogging, then backwards jogging, then side-way running, then what is called, the “karaoke shuffle.”
Here’s a little history on the karaoke shuffle. It was invented by a sadist.
You have to run sideways while alternating your left and right legs to the front. If we factor in my lack of coordination, inability to walk — much less run — on flat surfaces, and loss of vision after an extended period of physical exertion, my karaoke shuffling is not a pretty sight to witness. And we haven’t even gotten to the real boxing part of the class yet.
As I karaoke shuffled my way around the gym along with the large group of students in the class, it seemed that every single person there was more athletically fit than me. Even the kid with an asthma problem was shuffling past me.
I was pathetic.
I thought to myself, maybe if I quit smoking, I’d have a better chance of not keeling over and dry heaving in class. But let’s not fool ourselves. Things aren’t that dire yet.
That cat would knock me out in five seconds
I was inspired to find someone who was worse than me at boxing. Someone who would make me feel better about myself and that way, restore my ego a little. So last weekend I jumped on the train to Somerville. I went on the green line from Griggs St to Park St, then onto the red line from Park St to Downtown Crossing, then onto the orange line from Downtown Crossing to Sullivan. After enduring the one hour and ten minutes trip, I finally arrived at the corner of Broadway and Cutter St. The area was desolate, except for a couple of men who would walk by and wink at me. Fearing for my own safety, I counted the things I learned so far in boxing class and tried to figure out what moves I can bring to the table for self-defence.
Cardio drills. That’s all I got. Maybe I can karaoke shuffle circles around them.
The Sidyodtong Martial Arts Academy silently stood in front of me. No one was inside the building. I called the owner, Mark DeLaGrotte and he said no one would be there until 5 p.m.
I had an hour to kill so I smoked a handful of cigarettes and tried my best to put on a tough face so that no one would mess with the Asian girl who was all by her lonesome. It was surprising how it seemed that no one noticed my cowering puppy dog eyes whenever a man on a lowrider bicycle passed by. I have my father to thank for my borderline extreme paranoia of strangers. It was because of the emotional scarring he had inflicted upon me — he showed me news clippings of women who were raped and murdered since I was old enough to comprehend what death meant — that I registered for boxing class in the first place.
Finally 5 p.m. rolled around and I was in. I was allowed to sit in on one of the Thai kick boxing classes. I hoped to find a person that would motivate me into bettering myself in my own boxing class. Seeing someone in worse physical condition than myself wouldn’t hurt either. I admit, I was hopeful that by watching Thai kickboxing in action, my Thai genes and heritage would kick in and improve my own game. My quest to find someone more pathetic than myself had begun.
A mixed group of six students stood in the gym. They turned around and made a slight bow with their hands flat against each other, a ‘wai’ in Thai, and saluted their teacher. Then they turned around to salute the only Thai person present in the gym. He was hanging on the wall in a photo frame. His name is Yodtong, the original Thai kickboxer of which the gym is named after.
The students’ teacher was Mark Massay. He loomed over his students and told them to start jump roping. His bright red t-shirt, a stark contrast to his dark brown skin, was stretched to its full capacity to hold in the bulge of his stomach. His short shorts rose up his tree trunk-esque legs with every minute that passed by, barely covering his genitals. It was enough.
A remix of Lana Del Ray’s Summertime Sadness was playing in the background as the students jump roped, did push-ups, sit-ups, then jumped some more. They followed the sharp beep of a timer on the wall with barely a break to catch their breath. Once their warm-up was done, the sound of electronic hip hop beats changed into the beating of drums, the small ching of hand cymbals, and wooden pipes. The Thai classical music was a signal that the start of their real training was about to begin.
I knew immediately that my quest to find someone sadder than myself has failed.
Every single one of the students trained harder than I did. They were pushed, but they liked the push.
They paired up and began sparring with one another. They jabbed, they kneed, they kicked. It was fast. It was intense. It was inspiring.
Four of them were students in the advanced level. One of the students, the only woman in the class, had studied Thai kickboxing for 4 years. Her sparring partner was a small Asian man whose head was on the same level as her shoulder. Despite her gender and his size, the pair kicked harder than any of the other students in the class. Sweat rolled down their foreheads as they fought each other. Every time her leg kicked against his stomach, a loud echo resonated around the gym.
Massay circled his students, like a lion in charge of his pride. Every once in a while he opened his mouth to ask for “more flow” in their movements.
Once the class was over, the students ‘wai’ each other and Massay once more before they left to get changed.
I left the gym feeling good about myself. Maybe if I push myself, I can do what they do.
I walked back into the Boston University gym last Tuesday, still freshly inspired. I had my gym bag over my shoulder and I walked into the class with my head up high. I was proud, confident, and completely energized.
The instructor blew his whistle and it was time to jog. My moment had come.
Five minutes in and I was leaning against the wall gasping for air as the kid with asthma ran past me a second time.
I hate exercise.
