Cardio Boxing

Cardio Boxing Blast,
Or: How 3 Inglorious Little Bastards Taught a Boomer Babe the Finer Points of Life in the Cardio Fast Lane.

By
Laura Dion-Jones

Right about this time of year, everyone's heady New Year's resolutions seem to dissolve into thin air. So, more and more people are asking me what else they can do to help reinvigorate their diet and fitness plans - but with a new spin on it. "Like, what else would you do for daily cardio," they want to know.

Well, with the help of a few guy pals from East Bank Club, I found an exciting alternative to the customary cardio choices out there and last Monday, my own cardio routine took an unexpected hit: I had my first "official" boxing lesson with Glen Freedman, EBC's boxing coach extraordinaire and 2 of his astute students, Howard and Pat.

Let me just say this much: when I decided to send them an email of thanks for the experience later that evening, I could barely move. By 6:45 my shoulders screamed in their sockets, and by 8 PM, I could barely lift my arms at all.

As the paralysis progressed down the rest of my body and I realized I couldn't move a muscle, let alone think to type an email, I crashed till the next morning.

Boxing's definitely cardio in the fast lane and not for the faint of heart - make no mistake about that. But if you're looking for an intense cardio burn to revive or jump-start your daily workouts, this could be it.

I barely got through the rest of my weight workout after our lesson ended, staggering around the club trying to get my bearings and keeping my eyeballs from spinning smack out of my head.

After sweating like a guy with the guys for an hour, I totally blew off my usual daily hour on the Air-Dyne. I figured enough cardio is enough for one day. I warmed up, pre-boxing, logging 30 minutes on the Nu-Step, so I knew I was in real good shape.

I'm also sure I'd get used to the impact on my shoulder and upper back bones eventually, but the rope jumping has me beat for now. I can't seem to spring myself into the air like I used to, but I'm sure I'll get the hang of it with some practice.

However, when I told my Russian athlete trainer, Sergey, I flunked the jump rope portion of my lesson, he said, "Vy vould you vant to do zat, anyvay? I ztrongly vould recommend you didn't even try zat vit your hiztory!" Looks like I might have to find an alternative to the boxer's traditional rope jumping warm-ups and between-set practice. Hmm.

The best part of the lesson next to the sweating, punching and ballet of ducking and dodging was listening to the guys' "man-versations" - one of my all-time personal fave pastimes. Stems from growing up surrounded by nothing but boys.

Of course, I'm dramatizing this a bit, but boxing is a form of cardio in a much bigger way than what I'm used to or almost anything else that I've ever done. It ranks right up there with rock wall climbing and the Triathlon as far as the sweat and exertion factors are concerned and uses every single muscle in your entire body, as well.

And, gals, don't worry about getting punched in the face just yet. I like my face just the way it is right now, too, but beginners aren't at the actual mano-a-mano sparring stage. You have to master the preliminary steps first - learning the punches, jabs, dodges and ducks, fancy footwork, rope jumping, etc., and, thankfully, that could take a lifetime.

Plus, there's a whole 'nother etiquette and choreography that comes with boxing. And I doubt if I'd ever want to actually spar with another human on purpose, anyway. It's that out-of-the-norm, more intense cardio burn I'm starting to crave.

As I mentioned, right after the boxing lesson, I was a tad punch drunk - a bit wobbly on my feet. Downright shaky's a better description - for a few hours after, actually. I used muscles I haven't used in decades, perspired like I haven't since I helped build the Pyramids, and can see where this boxing thing is really a terrific workout.

And, wow, those guys sure do work up a super sweat of their own. Howard had rivers of it running off his nose from the exertion he put in. And I heard today that he boxes with Glen three times a week! What a glutton. Once a week would be enough for me right now. And Pat, on the other hand, moved like a butterfly and stung like Ali.

For a mildly OCD germ freak, one might want to purchase one's own wrist and hand wraps as the tapes used on me were a tad "gym-smelling," if you know what I mean.

The musky scent I whiffed throughout the lesson harkened me back to the days of walking into CVS high school's gym during wrestling practice. All that musk and testosterone permeated the air smelling just like the wraps around my wrists and hands, and, well, let me just say, I couldn't beat a path to the Ladies Room fast enough after class to wash up to my armpits with soap. But that's just me.

And my two boxing mates didn't seem to be phased by the smell in the least, but then, they each have their own set of gloves and stuff, so no one else's germy sweat-smell trapped there.

Plus, they're guys. What more can I say?

Once Glen wrapped my sensitive artist's hands with great care, he slid 16-ounce gloves on me for extra protective padding. So, besides swinging, punching and pumping my arms in a way that I'm not normally used to, I had one-pound "weights" Velcro-ed to each of my own mitts.

The guys' gloves are much lighter, but then they're used to the routine and have "guy hands" which are more hardy and resilient than mine or most other gals.

Then there was the "jewelry thing" for me to contend with. Those who know me know it took a few minutes for me to de-bracelet and de-ring myself. Why I don't think ahead in these circumstances is beyond me. With my regular walking and cardio routines, I don't have to remove a thing. I don't even have to think. For wall/rock climbing and boxing, all the swinging, jangly jewels and accessories have to come off. One could lose a digit or an errant earlobe if not careful.

And to be a little fly-girl on the wall while the two boys each took their own turns with Glen was a hoot! The guy talk was a scream, and half the time I didn't even know who they were talking about, boxing-wise, but it didn't matter. It was the language they used that had me roaring.

Then once they got around to dishing about "Celebrity Rehab," it was worth its weight in gold just to be there, hiding out on the other side of the big punching bag, practicing my jabs, eavesdropping, snorking with a huge grin.

I especially love the "Clint Eastwood" gleam Glen gets in his eyes like a proud papa who's lived ringside and done it many times before, but is still as passionately interested in each and every student as if they were training to fight Tyson.

I always thought boxing to be violent, but after interviewing Glen and Howard on my radio show the week before, my interest was piqued - not to run out and watch every flippin' fight that comes down the cable on TV, but purely for the cardio, strength and endurance-building workout it delivers. And, at my age . . .

At the end of the hour, just when you think the clock has almost run out and you're home free, Glen pulls yet another pro trainer's trick out of his boxing bag and makes each student lie on the floor, on their back, and do ab and core work that would dust the average individual had I not had the privilege of six straight years of once-a-week private Pilates lessons under my belt.

When you come right down to it, a lot in life is all about having a strong core and that's no BS. Man, what a lesson, not only in boxing, but in life skills, as well.

So, as I said, by 6:45 that evening, all I wanted to do was kill those Three Inglorious Little Boxing Basterds. Every single muscle, every fiber, every nano-meter of my body hurt. Not only from the vigorous punching and jabbing, but from using parts of my frame that have been asleep for a long, long while. All right, from the laughing, too.

From what I've heard and observed, Glen is truly the Obi-Wan Master of boxing in the Chicago area and I have a new respect for all three guys.

Boxing is a Zen-like experience of life in the cardio fast lane while getting one's butt kicked, metaphorically speaking, of course.


Laura Dion-Jones
550 N. Kingsbury St #120
Chicago, IL 60654
312-933-7325
2-1-10©
dionjones@aol.com
http://www.lauradionjones-com/
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