Katy McDermott

I enrolled in karate classes a few months ago. Schedule conflicts forced me to stop attending, but I plan to return. I’m nowhere near being able to shatter a cinderblock with my bare foot yet.

I started karate because I needed to get in shape, and given the level of dust that’s accumulated on the treadmill in my basement, I figured it would be good to have an outside place to go several nights a week. A traditional fitness club was out. I’d gone that route before, only to leave after one aerobics class, intimidated by the legions of hard-bodied members in skintight, bulgeless workout gear who clearly didn’t need to be there.

My local shopping center has a karate place, and one day I checked it out. I observed a class full of children, obviously at the advanced level already. Well-behaved moppets in neat white “gis” (a “gi” is the traditional martial arts outfit) kicking, chopping, shouting “yah!” as they executed particularly strenuous moves. At the end of the class, they bowed and thanked their “sensei,” or instructor.

How very civilized!

“I could do this,” I thought. After all, if 4^th graders were performing roundhouse kicks, twirling nunchucks like extras in a Bruce Lee movie, and flipping much larger opponents, how hard could it be?

Besides, I liked the gis. Very forgiving.

In order to prevent the “taking one class and never coming back” syndrome, I paid for a month up front, was given my gi, and told the date of the next Adult Beginner class.

“Adult Beginner” class. Sounds just right, doesn’t it?

Well let me tell you, the studio owner used both the words “adult” and “beginner” pretty loosely. There were ‘tweens in those sessions who could kick my ass.

The first challenge, however, was simply putting on my gi. The pants (mercifully loose) were no problem, although since we worked out in bare feet, I could see that I’d need to schedule regular pedicures. The jacket, while hiding the evidence of any number of chocolate truffles and triple decker club sandwiches with extra bacon, bristled with an alarming array of fabric strips which had to be threaded through specific holes and tied to other fabric strips.

The sash was the real puzzle, though. For one thing, it was about nine feet long. For another, it required such a complicated sequence of looping and folding that I knew I’d wind up looking like someone’s “My First Origami” project if I tried to do it myself. I adopted an air of casual lightheartedness as I sought help from a middle schooler. He called me “ma’am.” I longed to karate chop him then and there.

The lessons were remarkably effective, however. They started with a merciless workout (I’m convinced the sensei was an off-duty Green Beret). Do fifty jumping jacks to get the blood flowing. Balance on one foot like a sleeping flamingo. Fall over. Lunge in every direction. Hold until your thigh is quivering, your muscles are burning, and you’re beginning to question your sanity in signing up for this @#$%^& class in the first place.

Switch legs.

After the warm-up, we performed stretches with a partner. Karate classes tend to be filled with men, so I was paired off with the only other female. As this deceptively sweet-faced and petite brunette forced my leg to go to places it hadn’t seen since high school, I became convinced that she too was an off-duty Green Beret.

Once we were sufficiently warmed up and stretched out, it was time to begin the meat of the class. Surprisingly, this involved neither boards, bricks, nor cinderblocks, but rather self-defense. Within twenty minutes, I’d learned how to break the hold of someone choking me, trip an assailant by simply stepping in front of his knee, and escape from a thug who’d pinned my arms from behind. All I’d need to do would be remember these techniques during an actual mugging, as opposed to employing my more instinctive “scream and sob” reaction…

(To give credit where it’s due, most people take martial arts classes for longer than a few weeks, and the techniques themselves become instinctive. I certainly saw a few 12-year-old black belts I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley.)

The self-defense portions of the lessons were a lot of fun. I was working out and learning to protect myself at the same time. We were paired off for many of these exercises, and since they didn’t involve the somewhat immodest “stretched-out inner thigh” posture, these pairings were gender-neutral, and we rotated partners throughout the hour.

I have to admit, I gulped a bit when I lifted my eyes to squint up at one of my “opponents.” Remember the enormous villain who bites through the wire holding up a cable car in one of the James Bond movies? That size. Thankfully, he appeared to view me as his rest break, and “attacked” me with only the lightest of touches, patronizingly saying “good job” while he pretended to fall down as a result of one of my feeble jabs.

My female stretch partner wasn’t so kind, however. A nicer woman you couldn’t hope to find – outside of class. During class, she almost broke my arm and karate chopped my carotid artery while practicing a particular move. I couldn’t help but wonder what I’d done to offend her. Clearly, she didn’t know her own strength – or my own weakness.

But Bond-movie-sized “bad guys” and a bruised shoulder weren’t the end of it. Oh no. Just when we thought we’d finished, and were ready to bow and thank our sensei, he had us gather in the back of the studio and perform “line kicks.” Kick one leg, then the other, in front of you as you travel up the entire length of the gym, then back down, then up again, then down, and twice more for good measure. By the end of class, I was bright red and sweating (man, those gis are hot – it’s like wearing a sauna), and I tottered to my car on shaking legs. 

It’s too bad I had to stop taking classes. I can’t remember how to break a choke-hold, and I’m convinced I’ll get mugged shortly. Plus, I’m getting flabby again… One of these days, my schedule will calm down and I’ll start over.

In the meantime, I just hope I don’t come across a pack of martial-arts-trained ‘tweens in a deserted parking lot.