For the past two months or so, I’ve been working out twice a week (boxing and running). It’s the first time since college that I’ve been regularly sweating it out, working my muscles, huffing and puffing, tiring myself out until I have to bend forward to my knees – using my feeble arms for support. I love how the sweat on my forehead trickles down to my eyes, temporarily blinding me. I don’t wipe it off with my hand or glove. I wait for it to drip down further, or run faster or punch harder until they wiggle off my face and dissolve into the wind.
I’m more conscious of my body this time around. I’m at odds with how my lungs are holding up through 5-7 kilometers, though my legs tighten up as soon as I start running. I run with a different array of people in comfort. Some are old, some young, some riding in a wheelchair, some wearing running shoes, and some wearing basketball shoes.
There’s also a handful of runners who are vastly different from us. It looks like they’ve spent considerable time under the sun. They are incredibly light on their feet like clouds around a moon glow, their calves are as thin as my forearm, and have two water bottles tucked in their running pouches. There’s this fantasy to look exactly like them: skin, feet, and equipment.
In boxing, there’s a mounting obsession to master the fundamentals. In a jab-straight-hook combo, I keep reminding myself that after delivering the straight with my right, my left hand should remain at eye level in preparation for the hook. The essence of every punch lies in twisting the hips. I’m getting better at generating power in my straights, whether in one-offs or in combos. With the hook, I don’t feel I’m twisting my legs and hips with precision, especially in jab-straight-hook combinations.
I thought I would be intimidated by the other people in the gym whose straights on the pads sound like gunshots. On the punching bags, their hooks sound like a human chest getting bludgeoned by a sledgehammer. I could feel their beady eyes staring at me while I clumsily worked on the speedbag. But when I turned around, they were minding their business, working on their forms, making sure they were twisting their hips with every blow. We’re more similar than different. There’s a desire for perfection, the acknowledgment and acceptance of our own weaknesses. We all know nothing. And that’s okay.
Punch Time Clock 