My first kickboxing class – By Indy
My mom brought home report of a class at a local gym that included punching bags and running across fields. While that has warrant to be strenuous enough, there was the added element of the intense Texas heat (today it was 100!).
I remarked that that type of class sounded fun, and, before I knew it, the next week came around and I was standing—boxing gloves on—in front of the punching bag.
The hot breeze outside the gym wafted off the fields that we would soon be trudge/jogging across. I wiggled my fingers in the gloves.
The exercise teacher joined me, my mom, and the rest of the class, ramping up the music. We gave the bags our tentative warm-up taps. I felt that I had at least some advantage—at least, more than the average American that decides to chat up a punching bag. This was because of my running in the drooling Texas heat and my previous martial arts training in an another type of exercise class.
As it turned out, I wasn’t so bad off. There wasn’t much to judge by, but I’m happy with my performance. The class lasted for almost 45 minutes—and we switched from body-weight exercise on the ground to running to beating our bags.
Once the exhaustion sets in (and I’ve noticed this in the other class), it can be hard to keep a good focus as you switch between left and right, jabs and hooks, knees and round-houses. What comes next? Right, left, right, left, elbow, knee—or was it right, left, right, elbow, knee? That can cause some decent trouble to a kickboxer trying to perform in class, but I suppose that the person you would be kicking and boxing in a fight would little care whether you missed a left hook or not.
My opponent in the class (it was the heavy black bag that hung from the ceiling) proved to be very elusive. With some time, I may discover how I’m expected to hit the bag and not have it swing out of my way, but the key to the act isn’t within my grasp as of yet. (I report that I had a sad lack of time to mull it over, because as soon as our punching, kneeing, and kicking was over, we started on pushups and mountain-climbers.)
I believe the regulars in the class enjoyed an ineffable love-hate relationship with the sweaty art of kickboxing. One particular woman fell to the ground in the sweltering sunlight and made a witty announcement somewhat to the effect that she was dying.
One of the men, drenched in sweat, immediately quipped that he would pull her car around.
The instructor counted down to start our next gloves-to-bag bombardment and the woman climbed to her feet to join us.
Usually I would wrap up a post like this with a practical application, but I didn’t bring any pithy advice back from this class; all I have now is two sore shoulders, two tired legs, and an craving for another good 45 minutes of fighting in the 100 degree Texas summer.
-INDY
