Skip to main content
facts & arguments

Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

I bow awkwardly to my partner. My bow needs work. I clench my fists, turn them inward and raise them to cover my face. I am in sweats and a T-shirt; everyone else wears the traditional white gi and appropriately coloured belt. I am a newcomer, trying out an hour of karate.

The sensei abruptly shouts something. My adversary begins a series of controlled punches at my gloves. Ten punches left hand. Stop. Repeat. Ten punches right hand. Stop.

I'm paired with a double black belt. His punches come tantalizingly close to my head, but always stop before touching. He is all discipline and focus. This guy could seriously hurt me if he wanted to.

My turn to punch. I am bar-brawlish. My pace is intermittent, sloppy. I breathe at all the wrong times. He implores me to keep punching. I'm training to be an Avenger, but feel like a washed-out Watchman. My sagging arms ache. I feel the expressionless eyes of the sensei on me. Please end this.

The midlife paunch is upon me, and I've been searching for the right middle-age exercise to keep me alive for the long term. At some point, I tired of 11 p.m. hockey leagues, playing against teams of immortal kids and carrying smelly hockey bags. I coach teen baseball and enjoy spewing out Spitz and instructing players, but it's hardly exercise. I walk my dog a lot, but can't imagine that is exactly a workout. I'm not interested in power-walking, especially with those high elbows, jerky strides and spandex, or in joining the neighbourhood group that strides around with those goofy ski poles.

So here I am, with Winnipeg's version of The Karate Kid's Mr. Miyagi. He's a sixth-degree dan who was raised in Nicaragua and coached at the Pan Am Games. Just before I pout "no mas," the drill ends. My arms sink to my hips. My partner bows and I reciprocate, a stiff altar boy a few seconds behind.

Dom McKenzie for The Globe and Mail

The sensei explains the next drill – deflecting – and shouts something unintelligible. I relish the short break. My partner holds his arms up. Rejuvenated slightly, I start. Left-hand punch, repeat 10 times. Right-hand punch, repeat 10 times. He deflects each of my blows effortlessly.

His turn to punch. I raise my gloves. His blows send them backward into my face. I need to rethink this drill. I reposition my hands. The sensei walks over and whispers something to him, probably “take it easy on this sap.”

Next come combinations of punches. Left-right 10 times, left-right-left 10 times, right-left 10 times, right-left-right. I am dizzy.

We move to kicking down the floor. Kicking left, then right. My kicks get noticeably lower as I reach the end of the room. I am clumsy, off-balance. Twist my hips, I’m told. I start thinking terrible things about the sensei. We reach the end of the room and take a 10-second breather before kicking back the way we came. I can barely lift my legs, but I forge ahead.

Two teenage girls beside me kick unwaveringly, their technique graceful, violent. I think of my own children playing Xbox in the basement. Breathe, I’m told. Everyone else pounds out an abrupt guttural sound with each kick or punch.

I decide to start snort-grunting with each exhale, channelling my inner Sharapova. Is my grunt acceptable? I’m trying too hard. Not sure if I should exhale with my mouth, nose or both. An especially exuberant grunt shoots snot out of my right nostril onto the mat. Classy. I am light-headed and sound shrill, like a puppy whining to be let in. Is it possible I’ve forgotten how to breathe?

At the end of the room, I pause and look about me. No one notices my rapidly regressing state. Or they’re being very polite. The ordeal continues. Back-kicking down the floor, switching legs. My grunting becomes bleating, bringing curious looks from the group. I wonder if I’ll start gobbling next.

Five minutes later we stop. I’m wobbly, unable to walk a straight line. I may be incapable of driving home. Sensei gathers us to the centre. The two girls demonstrate kata, a technical form that combines aesthetics and strength, a violent type of ballet. I am mesmerized by their grace and skill, but more grateful for the chance to sit on the mat.

After we cool down with a team stretch, I ask one girl why she does karate. She says she loves the sense of peace, self-respect and discipline. Geez, I’m listening to the Buddha. My mind drifts to stealing crabapples with my teenage hoodlum friends.

The hour’s up. The students spring up and bow to the sensei. I muster a groaning rise and a final bow to this man who has tried to kill me. The sensei walks toward me. “How was it for you today?” he asks, smiling. “Great,” I lie. My right rotator cuff is throbbing.

He starts to speak about the benefits of karate. He sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher. I nod, but have no idea what he’s saying. My mind drifts. In a squirrel moment, I think about where my booger could be. I smile and shake hands with the sensei. I exit the facility.

On the sidewalk, I stare at the cloudy sky. I take a slow, deep breath: like riding a bike. Wonder where I can pick up some of those goofy ski poles.

Adriano Magnifico lives in Winnipeg.