White Lightning Axiom: Redux: Convoy

Wednesday, November 22, 2006



A day late and a dollar short, isn't that the way it always is. So, I'm finally recovered enough to talk about Tuesday night. You see, I can be a bit thick-headed at times. For some reason, a few goofy ideas got wedged into my addled brain and I was compelled to act on them. Maybe it was the absence of the usual pounding I get from the Tyrants, but I felt it was necessary to supplement my daily routine with a bit of strife. Perhaps it was all that steak-n-taters I had Monday night. Either way, I had a bit of spare time on my hands so I thought that it would be neat to attend the Adult TSD class as well as the children's one that ran from. I felt a bit goofy attending w/o the Tyrants, but I'm going to miss the rest of the week so I could use the extra lesson. That, and since I was so easily surprised by the test, it would be in my best interests to check out what the content of the later class had to offer. First off, it is 90 minutes long. Second, the warm-up is not punctuated with requests to go to the bathroom or the admonitions by the instructors regarding what the failure to do particular activities would result in. No, it was pushup-situp hell. And then, it was an unending loop of combinations that deflated any ego I had left in reserve. The master told me to not loose hope, and that the rest of the class was happy to have me there since it gave them a rest between sets since I needed repeated instruction and correction. After the infinite loop of forms, of which I repeated my highest nearly a dozen times ... incorrectly, we went to the single move defense forms. I believe I know 1 through 5 ... of course, I learned that my sloppy punches have consequences when thrown at black-belts. You see, if I'm doing this with children who stand half my height and a quarter of my weight, I need to move in a bit closer so they can contact me correctly. Their blows to my body are like the birds bouncing off concrete buttresses after eating too many fermented berries. I was complacent. So I throw a standard punch at the highest ranking black-belt in the class, complete with my standard over-reaching lunge. THUD-CRAAACKK-wheeeezzeeee The first thud is that of his fist coming up into my rib-cage. It was supposed to be an outside block, but my lumbering mass got in the way of that. The creaking of my skeletal frame was heard across the mat as I went down like a 55 gallon sack of Jello cubes. The last noise before the brilliant flash of spreading pain was the last of the stale air escaping from my musty lungs though my gaping may, rent open by the shock of the blow. As I slowly hoist my unwilling body from the floor, my opponent profusely apologizes for the sound defeat. No, no, I'm fine ... just a few bruised ribs ... used to it, I'm a daddy. Indeed, the strident adherence to correct form will now be my mantra. This old dog does learn new tricks. Especially after a sound beating.

NOTE: This is not the person who whooped me, though she probably could with nary a spec of effort. And effort was something I was not entirely interested in exerting for the rest of that evening. I retreated to the Manor to lick my wounds. I did NOT wash the dogs. I did NOT sand the floor. I ate a bowl of mashed taters with a fist full of ibuprofen in the futile attempt to belay the inevitable. Flash forward several hours, the Capable and semi-OCD Mrs has loaded up the Family Tank II with the provisions for the weekend Thanksgiving Retreat to the FOB. I'm in charge of the 4 hour long piloting activity. The hounds, they are in charge of whimpering and whining the whole damn way. Have a happy Thanksgiving, I'll post if I can manage to reach the keyboard after feasting upon the bounty waiting for us at the FOB.

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