Credit: Natasha Clark
I’ll comfortably admit that I ate four Rolo cookies last night and haven’t been for a run since New Year. I’m not sorry. While I enjoy exercise when I force myself to do it, it’s not a frequent occurrence, and the idea of going to a muay-thai kickboxing class filled me with dread.
I arrive wearing my friend’s yoga clothes which I borrowed half an hour beforehand, and clamber up the dark, dingy staircase into the KO Bloodline Gym on Lower Clapton Road.
The room stinks of sweat, testosterone and then…my own fear. I perch myself on a stool and watch the previous class throw their last punches, listening to the thwack of legs against plastic as perspiration drips down their backs. The walls are filled with photos of fighters and classes, and there’s plenty of KO merchandise to purchase. One side is covered in floor-length mirrors.
Speakers around the room blare out a playlist called ‘work-out hits,’ which Harvey, who looks about seven years old, complains about loudly. “Starships? Not this again,” he grumbles.
There was only one woman in sight, and she was clearly no beginner.
It occurred to me I might die here. I texted my goodbyes.
First was a 10-minute warm up. Standard. I can do this, right? Three young men and myself, led by an instructor, were commanded to complete circuits of sit-ups, push-ups, tricep dips, and other exercises I’d never even heard of, interspersed with skipping.
Though thoroughly versed in the art of playground skipping from the age of five, these hard, black plastic ropes were nothing like the soft, friendly, fabric ones with silver tassels I had used as a child. In trying to keep up with the boys I tripped multiple times, the rope feeling like an elastic band snapping at my bare feet.
10 minutes in, and I couldn’t decide whether I was about to faint or throw up – I should probably have eaten more than half a sandwich before bounding around like this. I down half my bottle of water while trying to maintain the appearance that I am perfectly fit enough for the class, before we move on to the main bulk of the session.
The instructor asks me if I have ever “trained” before.“Is it that obvious?” I reply.
We pair off. The two more experienced (and clearly fitter) men cling to each other to avoid me and my partner, who is relatively new here too, having completed just three lessons.
I don some bulky arm pads (which are a lot heavier than I expected) and take to the floor. Our instructor shows us the starting position (both hands up defending the face, head down, feet apart at 45 degrees), directs us the correct way to move around (with the stronger ‘tiger’ foot in front, the other dragging behind, mirroring your partner), and flawlessly demonstrates a kick with his calf to the torso area, which is defended with pads.
My partner is 6ft 4in, and has to lower his pads for me as we alternate attacks. He occasionally forgets, resulting in me aiming spectacularly incorrectly. Without playing to female stereotypes, my spatial awareness is poor.
Elbows in, face down, opposing foot forward, no run-up. Step forward, swing and slap. My poor calves weren’t made for this, and neither were my knee-length sweat pants. I hope I’m improving, but it’s hard to tell.
Next we are shown how to make a jab, a left-hook and a knee strike, teaming it up with the calf kick to form a routine. This requires me to put on a pair of fetching boxing gloves, making me feel like the Hulk. Alternating between the routine and being the punch-bag requires constant attention, as I have to consistently move into the correct position. After a while, even holding up the heavy pads for my partner to jab at is exhausting.
He’s clearly trying to work out a few anger issues. Even with my foot propped back to push back against his punches, I topple backwards with the force of him every time. He’s apologetic, but this is not a women-friendly session. I am told they do run them, and feel I might have progressed further there.
For feminism, for my own self-respect and for the sake of the Hackney Post, I fight through the nausea.
The warm down was just as horrific as the warm up. My body regularly shakes after intense exercise, so I could barely lift myself to do a press up. Breathing a sigh of relief as the clock hit 8.30pm, I tremble into the changing room and slump on a bench to find my earlier ‘healthy’ self had only packed fruit for my post-workout sugar hit. What was I thinking?
Despite being unable to laugh, cough or sit up for the next few weeks because of my aches and pains, the adrenaline rush of keeping up (just about) with a group of incredibly fit men punching and kicking to their heart’s content was thrilling. Not one for the weak or faint-hearted, muay-thai is a huge boost to a girl’s self-confidence – it is intense and draining, but incredibly fulfilling.
