My eyes hurt. I can taste the iron in my blood every time I take a breath. The street is rocky and uneven and the ten degree incline feels more like forty five to my tired legs. My head is pounding in unison with my feet and every step is a triumph. Stumbling along, I gasp at the icy air around me, forcing it way down into my lungs and releasing it back into the night where it condenses and floats away from me in little puffs of wet smoke. My calves are so tight I can barely lift my legs and so instead drag my feet through the recently formed mud, not caring as much as I will tomorrow about the layer of grime now caked onto the suede. Soon I’ll be home and able to collapse onto the heap of blankets that is my bed, but first I must navigate half a kilometer of unlit, unpaved alley.
Two hours ago I had just stepped into my local gym, ready for my first karate lesson. It had been over a month since I had last been able to partake in any sort of athletic activity and everyday I could feel my body becoming stiffer, slower, and weaker. At this point, a gym with a martial arts instructor felt like a godsend. This particular gym had everything you expect in a gym: a giant blue mat on the floor that spread from wall to wall; a plethora of extremely worn looking exercise equipment gathered together in a far corner; pictures from the 90’s of overly muscular men and women plastered everywhere; upbeat hip-hop and pop mash-ups blaring from overhead speakers; a bathroom; a shower room; and a distinct, musty odor. When I arrived there were already men running in a small circle around a handful of inconveniently placed load-bearing pillars. After setting down my things and changing dress, I joined the men in their warm-up, careful to keep my own circle as wide as possible, without running into the walls or equipment, in order to avoid dizziness. The following hour and a half were a blur of stretching, running, jumping, pushing, pulling, kicking, punching, blocking, squatting, and sweating. No exercise was ever over until at least half of the students in class were lying on the floor in the fetal position, groaning. When this was achieved then it was time to stand up, shake it off, and move on. The only thing I remember distinctly is that on one particular wall there was a strange combination of words, flags, and pictures that gave me pause: a South Korean flag, a collage of Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan pictures, the word ‘Karate’ spelled in Arabic, the word ‘Taekwondo’ spelled in English, and above all of this, the words ‘Full Contact’ in English. It was at this point that I realized that this class was, above all, a fighting class and didn’t adhere to any particular style or principle other than ‘keep your guard up or the teacher will slap you in the head’.
When class was over I collapsed in a heap on the floor in the corner, unwilling and unable to make any effort at maintaining some semblance of dignity. This approach did have its upside in that by the time I was able to stand again, the line for the shower had dwindled down to two or three people and soon I was able to take the first hot shower I had had in a month. Despite the fact that I could barely lift my arms high enough to wash my hair, or face, or chest, this shower alone was worth the seventy dirhams I had paid for three lessons a week and open availability to the equipment. After drying off and changing, I hobbled out into the chilly, mountain air, took one deep, painful breath, and started the long journey home.