It’s been a few months now since I started UBfit classes at Martial Arts Planet, and I’ve come to know, at least to some extent, the personalities of each of the coaches. There have been five of them so far, rotating the shifts so that on a given evening I’ve never been sure who might be teaching the classes. This may have been a deliberate policy, keeping the MAP clients off-guard so that they never know what’s coming until it’s too late to back out. Not that it makes much of a difference in the end: Chris, Janet, Patti, Matt and Geoff, diverse in age, temperament and style, each of them personable and friendly outside of the gym, share a common characteristic once they get into hand wraps and crank up the volume on the sound system – a sociopathic lack of empathy. Put more simply, they become a mean bunch of bastards.
It’s truly amazing how this happens. It’s not like the situation with a drill sergeant who spends his entire life in a state of barely suppressed rage; with the UBfit coaches the personality change is a bipolar shift that happens in a heartbeat. It’s as if there’s some psychoactive influence in that lamentable kickboxing music that changes sweet bubbly Janet into a psychotic dominatrix intent on driving her clients into a state of respiratory collapse. Yes, the same girl who jokes along with you as you gear up before class goes through a Bruce Banner-like transformation as soon as the gloves are on. And no, you wouldn’t like her when she’s angry.
So, when I heard that Geoff was to run the Friday UBfit session, the news came as something of a relief. I’d heard of Geoff – the tall, mild mannered guy who teaches the yoga class. I hadn’t done any yoga classes at MAP, but I’ve got thirty years of yoga experience under my belt, and I know the score. Warm-up is breathing through alternate nostrils, which can’t really be classed as high energy exertion, even when you’ve got a beak like Mr. Wellstood’s. Then you move onto stretching exercises, hands and feet on the mat with your butt in the air, that kind of thing and nothing that might make you break into a sweat. And then you finish off with Savasana, which is a Sanskrit word for kipping down and getting a few Zeds. Perfect! I was going to like Geoff.
But then I’d forgotten the Bruce Banner effect. Sure, Geoff was all sweetness and light as he prepared the warm-up course, arranging bags and ropes and weights and medicine balls around the gym, as if toiling peaceably toward the common good like a young Mahatma Gandhi. But then he explained what the course was all about, and it was as if Mother Theresa had swapped her rosary beads for a set of nunchuks. It went something like this:
A full minute at each station with ten seconds to move between them, and did those ten seconds ever taste good.
And what about Geoff, the Yogi, Mr. Transcendental? He’s running from station to station, not shouting his mouth off like Chris would do, or laughing you into a hernia like Janet, but quietly urging you on, telling you it’s only a minute (only a minute!!!), encouraging you to give it all you’ve got for that mere 60 seconds before you move onto the next stage of the torture trail. And you know what? – the trick works. When Chris yells, you can yell back and tell him that’s all you’ve got; when Janet laughs, you can laugh too and use the excuse to take a breather. But when Geoff says….. You can do it. Come on, one minute, you can do it…….. not doing it is like letting down your favourite teacher at school, or handing your mother the straight D report card.
So, ten minutes into class and you’re shagged out. But Geoff knows it’s only in those specific muscles he’s targeted. So he gives you a break. Yeah, go lean against the wall for a couple of minutes, take deep breaths, recover; but make sure your back is straight and your thighs are parallel to the mat. That’s it – a ninety degree angle at the knees. No…..get those elbows off your legs, straighten up, back flat against the wall, that’s it, just another minute to go – the worst 60 second knee-trembler of your life.
Oh yeah, we’re here to do some kick-boxing aren’t we? Better get on with it because time is running short. So, two minute rounds, jab, than add the cross, then add the hook, then the body, double it up, and when the bell sounds give me 30 seconds of push ups. Now the legs: lead leg front kick, add the rear leg round kick, add the front leg round kick, double up the round kicks and when the bell sounds, give me 30 seconds of crunches. Now let’s put all that together: jab, cross, hook, body, body, lead leg front kick, rear leg round kick, front leg round kick and add some alternating knees just for fun. Getting tired? OK, go lean against the wall for a minute………no guys, not like that…………you know what I mean.
For the first 30 seconds the wall feels so good, despite the creeping agony in the thighs. For the next 30 seconds you can’t wait to get back on the bag. Then, two minutes into the bag, the wall begins to look like an oasis in the desert. These UBfit instructors, Chris, Janet, Patti, and now Geoff, would have been star turns at the Inquisition: torture to the point of torment in one area, then shift the pain somewhere else, a little at first and then ramp it up to excruciation before shifting it again; finish the round and go back to the beginning.
Then at last it’s time for the cool down. Some of that alternate nostril stuff? Hanging out in Downward Dog? Geoff’s the yoga man, he can at least grant us a few minutes of Savasana. Not a chance. We get to hang out in plank, and just as the abs start to give out he tells us to do a side plank, body straight, supported on one elbow, the opposite arm vertical. When we begin to sag, he directs us to shift to the other side. And all the time it’s the same mantra – You can do it guys. I know you can do it. Remember, this is what you’re here for, just a little while longer.
And then we’re done…… totally done. Now that Geoff has stopped urging us on, just the act of walking to the change rooms is about as much as I can handle. I sit on the bench wondering how I’m going to get up again. I try the Geoff approach in my head: It’s just two socks; you can put on two socks. Come on, two socks, you can do it. But it’s the guys changing for the advanced MMA class that provide the motivation to get out of there – it’s not a sight to linger over.
Fridays were always a particular challenge after that first session with Geoff, and there was always the forlorn hope that at least one time he’d go easy on us. It never happened. The warm up varied slightly from week to week, but the intensity never lessened. So why then this despondency now that he’s moved to Ottawa? How can the absence of scheduled torture create a sense of loss? Why do Fridays feel not quite the same? I guess it comes down to character. Geoff drove you hard, but somehow it was difficult to blame him for it, whereas Chris inspires a genuine hatred half-way through a tough session.
But in the final analysis it has to be said that we bring it on ourselves. Why? I wonder. What drives us to keep coming back for more two, three or four times a week? Why do we pay someone to make us suffer? More on that next time, but for now, farewell Geoff and best of luck to you. You’re a hard act to follow, but I’m sure there’ll be another sadist along to take your place. Kick butt in Ottawa, and if you ever spar with Mr. Harper, give him an especially big kick from me.
This is a hearty and delicious stew. The perfect comfort food for a cool fall day!
Ingredients
Directions
So, it’s the morning after your first UBfit session and you find that life after exercise is less comfortable than before. In fact, when you first wake up you think that death might be an attractive alternative. But why? You busted your butt, kept up with the game, swung and sweated like Joe Frazier in Manilla – how come you don’t feel like a world class athlete?
Simple………………you aint one.
The Alis, Fraziers, Foremen, and even those much lesser mortals that pose as fighters on the UFC tour, all got to where they ended up by training their cardiovascular systems to deliver oxygen where and when it was needed, and in sufficient quantities to burn the fuel required for extended extertions. That’s what fitness is all about – not just building the engine but the capacity to deliver the juice. It takes time, dedication and effort. There are no short cuts, and the only way around the pain is through it.
Why? Well, let me lapse for a while into Geek-Speak…………
To move a muscle you need to expend energy. The energy currency we run on is called adenosine triphosphate (ATP), and we produce it, under normal circumstances, through aerobic respiration – that is, a respiratory process that requires oxygen. The starting point for respiration is a six carbon sugar, such as glucose, which is broken down to produce energy through two distinct, but co-ordinated, series of reactions. The first stage is called glycolysis (sugar-splitting), in which the 6 carbon sugar is split into two 3 carbon sugars, both of which are further broken down into a 2 carbon compound called Acetyl CoA. This breakdown releases carbon dioxide, but doesn’t consume any oxygen, so this part of respiration is anaerobic. Glycolysis doesn’t produce much ATP – just two molecules net gain per molecule of glucose.
Most of the energy from respiration occurs in the next series of reactions in which Acetyl-CoA enters a cyclical series of reactions called the Kreb Cycle, named after a dude who wore socks with his sandles. This series of respiratory reactions is aerobic, requiring the consumption of oxygen, and yields a massive 36 molecules of energy-rich ATP per turn of the cycle. So, if we can keep on delivering lots of oxygen to the cells, and the cells have sufficient sugar to burn, we can produce masses of energy through aerobic respiration and everyone is happy.
BUT………………………..
When you are unfit, when your heart pounds only on seeing the Boston Cream Donut of your fondest desires, and you attempt to use muscles that have remained passive and dormant for most of your life, the pathetic efforts of your atrophied cardiovascular system cannot keep up with delivering the oxygen you need to fuel your efforts. You pant and gasp but the oxygen delivery system can’t meet the demand. And yet you keep on working….. to a point.
What happens in this circumstance is that your muscle cells go into emergency mode and the anaerobic part of respiration, Glycolysis as discussed above, accelerates in an attempt to supply the ATP you need. Instead of producing Acetyl CoA for aerobic respiration, a significant proportion of the 3 carbon sugars produced in glycolysis are converted into lactic acid which, in high doses, is not entirely good for you. Don’t be fooled by the name, there’s nothing smooth and milky about lactate. It acidifies the blood and its production is linked to the gasping exhaustion you feel after Chris has made you do 30 seconds of head punches interspersed with burpies.
Yes, you managed to get through the UBfit session by struggling along with the fit guys, but you weren’t really keeping up – not on the inside anyway. All you were doing was going into an Oxygen Debt, accumulating lactic acid like a really painful overdraught, and having to suffer the bitter consequences of paying it all off. At the same time, you’ve put your muscles through a physical pounding, stretching and tearing fibres and connective tissue and causing inflammation that keeps you sore for days after. You may stagger out of UBfit tired and smiling, but try that grin when delayed onset muscle soreness (DOMS) catches up with you the day after – you may be tempted to say NEVER AGAIN!
So why do it?
Well, there’s good news. Keep at it, and aerobic training like UBfit strengthens and improves the cardiovascular system, making oxygen delivery to muscles far more efficient. You’ll build a sleeker engine through strength training, but endurance conditioning will allow you to keep that engine supplied with the oxygen it needs to run sweetly, so that in time you may never need to cross the anaerobic threshold again. Also, the dreaded DOMS will disappear. These aren’t related to lactate accumulation, as many people think, but represent temporary inflammation resulting from a good solid work-out. If you keep on using the muscles that hurt, working through the pain, they won’t bother you in the future, and they’ll be all the stronger for the experience. Wait too long before resuming the program and you go back to square one.
Bottom line……Man up!…….Woman up!…..but get on with it.
Like I said, the only way around the pain, is through it, but once you’ve pushed back the wall and learned to work within your limits, you’ll find that those limits become less restrictive each time you work out. Eventually, you may even want to invest in a device that allows you to determine exactly when you have reached the anaerobic threshold, and one that tells you exactly how fit you really are.
Think I’ve been writing this blog for free? Keep watching this space for my first commercial break…………
The alarm goes off at 7.00 am and I awake from a paralysed slumber. I reach over to hit snooze, but somehow my arm doesn’t want to obey my brain and I fumble about before giving up, eyes still glued shut, as blather from the K-Rock morning morons invades the bedroom. I’ve chosen K-Rock deliberately. Nothing is more guaranteed to drag me out of bed than hearing Radar Love for the twentieth time in ten minutes. But today something is different. It’s not just my arm that won’t do what it’s told, my whole body refuses to budge when I ask it. For a panicked instant I wonder if I’ve had stroke and that I’m going to be lying here until the neighbours begin to complain about the smell. I try to lift my torso, let out a wail and fall back against the pillow. My stomach muscles, the former six-pack of a lost youth, have been replaced by bands of agony that anchor me to the bed. I try rolling to the side, but this brings into play other screaming muscles of whose existence, until now, I’ve been blissfully unaware.
Better to just lie still – after all, it’s the weekend, and I know from bitter experience that the activities of a Friday night can have terrible effects on the proposed activities of a Saturday morning. But, like I said, this is different. My mouth feels fine, not the vaguest hint of sweaty sock or cat litter, and my head seems to be functioning about as well as it ever does. There’s the fleeting recollection of dreams, but they’re just the usual stuff that I grab for as they disappear – playing pool with Scarlett Johansson wearing a mini-skirt and a rash-guard (her, not me, thank goodness); gnawing at a plateful of rare steak with my hands bound behind me; losing both arms and having to write with a pencil held in my toes, scrawling my name over and over again so that my legs are cramped and my abs are in agony………
Gradually the images gel; the rash-guard, the bound hands, the bloody steak, writing with my feet…………….OK Scarlett doesn’t quite fit but I won’t complain about that…….it’s not a hangover, and it’s not fair! I gave up my ritual bottle of red on a Friday night so that I could throw myself around at MAP, and I feel worse now on Saturday than if I’d chugged back 2 liters of the vile stuff that Prince Edward County has the balls to call wine. The symptoms are similar: an inability to rise, intense pain throughout the entire frame, an overwhelming desire to fade back into sleep and allow the weekend to proceed without me.
But then again I don’t feel that terrible sense of remorse that comes with the dawning of the day after; my brain, though tired, is slowly shaking itself back into life without a dose of aspirin to facilitate the process, and, most importantly, I can’t recall having said a thousand things on a Friday night that I really should have kept to myself. In fact, lying here, I feel as if I’ve earned the right to do just that, to lie in bed for as long as I like, not wallowing in self-pity but with smug satisfaction. As the blood begins to flow, I even begin to find a perverse pleasure in the pain. Sure, when I finally pull myself erect (I mean drag myself upright) there are knitting needles embedded in the muscles of my calves and thighs, and I shuffle to the bathroom as if I’m learning to skate on the floorboards. But there is a gratification in all of this, in discovering the sources of pain, in learning that I’m not nearly as fit as I thought I was, that there are a hundred muscles which UBfit has brought screaming into life. They need my attention, these muscles. I’ve been neglectful and there’s a debt to pay – an Oxygen Debt – and I’m going to use UBfit to get my account in balance.
Sounds weird? Maybe, but I’ll explain next time.
“Everyone grab a partner!”
I look around. There’s an obvious shuffle away from the sweaty guy with the blood-bespattered feet, the girls relieved at finding they’re present as an even number. The kid on the cement bag teams up straight away with someone who might as well be his great-granddad. That leaves me as the odd man out. Chris rolls his eyes and has no option but to play Robin to my Batman.
“OK, straight punches to the head, 30 seconds on with the partner holding the bag then switch. GO!!!!”
I remember the criticism from 5 minutes ago. Don’t swim. Straight jab with the left, the action coming from the left hip, crushing the bug under the right foot. Left hand back to chin as you launch with the right, pivoting the right hip, raising the right heel…….or something like that. It all gets a bit complicated when the brain is deprived of oxygen. I hit the bag with a big left, reset to chin, and cross with the right, keeping the head steady and the chin tucked. I think I’m doing a great job. But Chris has other ideas:
“Faster; one, two, one, two. Get as many as you can in the 30 seconds. The guy has dropped his gloves. Nail him quick and hard before he can recover. Come on, move it.”
That’s more like it. Less of the technical stuff and down to basic street fighting. Whale away while the going’s good and hope you can finish him off before pay-back time. Thirty seconds through and my arms are just about done. I begin to understand Ali’s strategy during the Rumble in the Jungle. Let George Foreman pound away for eight rounds, soaking it all up on the ropes, then nail him with a combo when he’s punched himself out. Brilliant!………….except for the first bit. Mind you, I begin to appreciate what it takes to keep the punches coming, to keep the hands up for three minutes at a time over 15 rounds. Holy cow, no wonder those guys look like they’re stuffed with ball bearings.
Chris takes his 30 seconds to show that he can punch three times more quickly than me and five times harder. I’m not impressed. Ten years of this and I’ll be way past him. But for now I have to deliver rapid body punches for the next 30 seconds, again all from the hips, elbows in and gloves angled to get in under the ribs where it hurts like Bejaysus.
It only takes one good one and you’re down. I remember Jimmy Green, the runt at school, digging a bony elbow into my solar plexus as I was throttling him from behind. I sniggered manfully as I pushed him away before finding myself a quiet corner to die in. End of my bullying career. How Ali managed to take all that pummelling from Foreman during the rope-a-dope in Zaire I’ll never know, but I can appreciate just how shagged out Foremen must have felt after hundreds of all-out body punches with Ali taunting “Is that all you’ve got George?”
“Is that all you’ve got Steve?” Chris is reading my mind. At half the weight, almost half the height, and pasty white, he’s no Ali. But then again, I’m no George Foreman either.
And yet……………there’s an undeniable “what if?” that has come creeping into my mind since putting on the gloves. Yeah, it’s one thing to beat up on a padded bag and imagine all your enemies, ancient and modern, soaking up the punishment you’re dishing out, but what if you were really in the ring with someone intending on putting you down? It’s OK to knock that tennis ball against the wall, but don’t you really want someone on the other side of a net. Playing patience passes the time, but it’s not high stakes poker. Penthouse was OK for solitaire at 15 but eventually……Anyway, you get my meaning. Is this how it starts? Can the road to UBFit lead to duking it out in the ring?
THWACK!!!! The 30 seconds has passed and Chris hits the bag before I’ve got a hand on it. The padding gets me square in the face, nose first, and I’m blinded for a second by the blow. It’s distinctly unpleasant. I imagine the hit concentrated on the end of a fist belonging to someone who knows what he’s about; not some girly-bag, but a few square inches of concentrated force with 160 pounds of body weight behind it.
No, UBFit does not lead to cage fighting; at least not for this puppy. Rub my belly if you like, but leave my nose alone……………
Here is another recipe I came up with when stuck with what to make for supper and needing to use up some ingredients in my fridge! I love couscous because it literally takes minutes to make and it’s so versatile – you can add anything to it. This seems like a sparse dish; however, the sweet potato really fills it out. I’ll admit, I don’t have real measurements for this recipe, so adjust to your liking. Makes approx. 4 servings for a side, 2 as a main.
Bring 2 cups of water to a boil (I just use my tea kettle), pour over couscous in a bowl, cover, and let stand for about 10 minutes or until couscous is light and fluffy. Meanwhile, bake the sweet potato in the microwave until easily punctured with a fork (about 5 minutes). Uncover couscous, add almonds, cranberries, green onion, olive oil, salt and pepper, and the juice of one lemon. Remove the skin from the sweet potato and mix into the couscous mixture. Enjoy as a meat-less main or as a side dish.
“Back on the bag. Jab, Cross, Rear Leg Roundhouse Kick.”
Thirty seconds has made all the difference. The muscles that were screaming for oxygen have had time to take a long slug of 20% O2, and I’m ready to go again. (Yeah, I know that 20.9% is dry ambient, and 20.5% is sweat-saturated ambient, but there’s got to be more than just water vapour diluting the oxygen in this place. I take a surreptitious whiff of pit to make sure it’s not just me.) My heart, which had moved throat-ward during the first few rounds is back down where it should be and thudding away at a healthy lick. I remind myself why I’m doing this, at least in part: father, grandfather, and two uncles all gone to join that Great Sensei in the Sky before reaching their sixtieth birthday. I’m entering the fatality zone for the male members of the family, and it’s time for a cage fight with the Grim Reaper.
“Double up the Jab-Cross! Two round house kicks to follow – bang, bang. Put some body weight behind it. Angle the lead foot and pivot at the hip.”
There’s a certain grace to the movement, the hip rotation with each punch, the angular step to bring the rear leg into play, lead hand up to protect the chin and rear hand down as the body leans towards horizontal, rear hip turning to launch the foot at the target. One of the girls has got it down beautifully – a brutal ballet. By contrast, I catch sight of myself in the mirror– some bald old guy slugging away with all the elegance of a geriatric in a line-dance.
Chris is in my face again……
“Not with your foot. Strike between foot and knee. Hard shin bone against soft flesh. Aim for the floating ribs. Come on, vary the height of those kicks. Think where you’re going to place them.”
I’m not sure this makes sense – how this kickboxing thing would go down with the street-fighters. Kick someone with my shin? You’ve gotta be kidding me! The guys I grew up with wore steel toe-caps to take out knees and shins as the opener to any skirmish. And as for this round house thing, I’m dropping my rear hand outside my hip, and if the kick misses….. guess what’s up for grabs!?!? None of the yobs I knew as a youth would miss a chance like that. Still, Chris is the boss; maybe with that black belt of his he knows how to do the bollocks-retraction trick.
The kick is trickier than it looks. Maybe it’s the aversion I’ve got to whacking something with my shin, but it’s always the upper part of my foot and toes that make impact. It doesn’t seem to bother the kid on the concrete blue bag whose shins must be made of tungsten. Even my feet are beginning to feel it as I step, kick, bring down the foot and kick again. We’re doing three consecutive kicks now, working the lateral abs and making me think it’s time to sign up for a hip replacement.
“Stop what you’re doing, you’re making a real mess.”
Chris doesn’t look too friendly, and it’s not the kind of encouragement I’d expect from a coach during my first class.
“I’m doing the best I can buddy. What’s up – disappointed I can keep up with you?”
“No, you’re making a mess of my gym. Look!”
He points to the mirror, bespeckled with blood, and then to the mat where red puddles merge with the pools of sweat. The kicking has opened a cut on my big toe…….. that should have been covered up before the session, or if you weren’t prepared to do that you should have been kicking the bag properly, and now I have to interrupt the class to get you a Band-Aid and clean up the mess………
It seems Chris likes his gym spick and span. As for me, I think a few splashes of blood on the walls add a degree of credibility. The others in the class look at me with concern, and I tell them it’s nothing, just the opening of an old wound. But I’ve mistaken compassion for impatience; they’re cooling down just when the class is heating up. Blood and sweat are fine, but let’s not have any tears – just slap on a patch and get moving. Strange to say, I feel the same way. Now that I’m into this thing I don’t want to slacken the place. I’ll clean the blood off my legs at home, and already I’m fabricating a tale for my wife…. yeah honey, but you should see the other guy…….
But there’s still 15 minutes left to go, and Chris is going to take it up a notch to compensate for the interruption. I’m about to become less popular than ever…………….
“Gloves On!”
The noise that passes for music at Martial Arts Planet fills the gym. It’s a throbbing 4/4 beat to match the rhythm of the Jab-Cross combo, and played loud enough to drown out the expletives as Chris urges us to punch harder, faster, higher.
“Come on, jab cross to the head, keep your hands up, move around the bag, stay on the balls of your feet, put your body into it, rotate those hips. COME ON!!!!”
The girly-bag is soft, and I throw a left jab followed by a right cross, burying my fists into the cushioned foam, SMACK-SMACK, then dance to the side, and SMACK-SMACK again. There’s a visceral pleasure in this, and the bag takes on a variety of identities as I launch punch after punch. It’s the Geography master at grammer school who caned me across the back-end in front of the whole class. SMACK-SMACK Mr. Gilchrist and down you go. It’s the bank manager who refused me a student loan and looked so damn smug while doing it. SMACK-SMACK you stuck-up piece of crap, and there’s one to the gut for good measure – OOF! It’s the immigration officer who turned down my application after two years of waiting. SMACK-SMACK to the head……… and a kick to your heart if I can find it.
Crazy! Who knew I was carrying all this resentment after so many years?
“Burpies!”
Chris is at it again – down into a sprawl, jack knife to the feet and launch into the air with arms outstretched above his head, then down into the sprawl again and repeat. 30 seconds of this and I’m ready to hurl, but the timer sounds for Round Two and we’re back on the bag.
“Jab, Cross, Lead-Hand Hook to the Head, Body, Body. MOVE IT!!!!!”
It’s a fluid combo that pounds your opponent all the way to the mat. Feels good.
So here’s yours Johnny Healey, and try chewing on my candy with those teeth – CRUNCH! Here’s some for you Phil Maclean, and ask my girlfriend if she thinks your face is so pretty now –THWACK! And as for you Brother Leonard, this is hardly Christian but let’s talk Old Testament for a moment and an eye for an eye – SMACK, CRUNCH, WHACK!
“Mountain-Climbers! 30 seconds. GO!!!!!!”
Just as well; I was getting a bit psycho back there. But now there’s no time to dwell on imaginary vengeance as I hold myself in plank position and pump alternate knees to chest. Half a minute of murder and then the buzzer sounds and I creak to my feet.
“No slacking! Alternate Jab-Cross 30 seconds, Body Hooks 30 seconds. NOW!!!!!!”
Fifteen seconds in and my arms begin to drop, the jab-cross combo falling from head, to neck to chest. Chris is all over this.
”Keep your hands up. Move those hips. Hard. Come on. Hit it hard! FASTER!!!!”
I can’t do it.
“YOU CAN DO IT!”
I have to stop.
“DON’T STOP!”
I’m going to barf.
“DON’T BARF!!!!”
OK, he doesn’t say don’t barf, but it’s as if the bastard is reading my mind.
The last cross goes in and it’s a relief to drop the gloves, lean into the bag and pound away with body hooks. It’s almost restful for the first 5 seconds, but then Chris leans against the bag from the other side and urges me on. He’s not shouting now, the drill sergeant has turned coach and he’s teaching me how to dig, how to translate power from the hips into the ends of my gloves, how to put my whole body behind a punch that will lift the bag off the mat. Twenty five seconds of this and its back to jab-cross. You’re swimming, he says, and I agree. Sweating like a constapated elephant, I gasp, but he doesn’t mean that. You’re flinging your arms out sideways. Keep them straight. Out then back to guard. Crunch the bug under the ball of your foot. Pivot at the hips. Put your body behind it. I adjust my form, keep them coming, and am tempted to let just one sneak around the bag and lay him out. He’s saved by the bell.
“Take a break. Grab some water. Thirty seconds and then we start with the legs.”
Thirty seconds. Who knew thirty seconds of rest could feel so sweet. Half a minute of pure relaxation. UBfit certainly gives you an appreciation for the simple pleasures of life.
At least until it starts again……
Another recipe packed with protein, thanks to both the lean chicken and cashews. This is a delicious meal, that contains just 300 calories per serving. Enjoy over brown rice or soba noodles.
Chicken, Snow Pea, and Cashew Stir-Fry
In a small bowl, whisk together soy sauce, cornstarch, sugar, chicken stock, sesame oil, and hot pepper sauce, set aside. Cut chicken into bite-size peices and set aside. Cut snowpease diagonally in half. Seed, core and cut red pepper into bite size chunks. Set aside. In a wok or large skillet, heat vegetable oil over high heat, stir-fry chicken, in batched, until browned, about 3 minutes. Transfer to plate. Add snow pease, red pepper, cashews, garlic, and ginger to wok, cook until veggies are crisp (a few minutes). Return chicken and juices to pan, toss to combine. Stir in stir-fry mixture and simmer until glossy (about 1 minute). Makes 4 servings.
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