Thwack! My knee slams into the boxing pad my coach, Win, is holding up. “Power!” Win yells. “More power!” Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! My kneecap feels like it’s about to explode. Sweat dribbles off my nose and onto the mat, little raindrops of exertion. “Harder!” he says. “Stronger! You can do it!”
To think I’ve paid nearly $2,000 for two weeks of this.
I’m at Gym Bangarang in Mae Rim, Thailand, a leafy suburb about forty minutes outside Chiang Mai. Muay Thai is a martial art that combines punching, kicking, elbowing, kneeing, clinching and foot jabs to knock your opponent silly. It is savage. It is exhausting. And I can’t wait to learn it.
I like to travel with intention, whether it’s studying a new language, finishing a creative project, or taking a pilgrimage to my grandmother’s childhood home in Germany. But my favorite trips involve physical hurdles: hiking (Kilimanjaro), cycling (The Tour de France route), ice climbing (The Canadian Rockies). I prefer to return home with something greater than a beer belly. “Just do it” isn’t a mere slogan; I’m game for anything, the more grueling the better. This doesn’t mean I do it well. I’m mediocre at most things. But I keep trying. And so: Muay Thai in the motherland.
Thailand is rife with resorts promoting western boxing, fitness, weight loss and Muay Thai; the Thai government actually promotes the latter. The typical visa only lasts 60 days, but you can now get a special three month “education Visa” if you’re doing Muay Thai. Gym Bangarang had good reviews online; the actor Rainn Wilson shot a segment of his Geography of Bliss TV series there. I wanted a place where I could train, be served three healthy meals a day, and get back in shape after recently having had foot surgery.
And there is this: I am 56 years old. These days, my stomach isn’t as flat as it used to be and there’s a layer of skin dangling under my arms. (I believe the medical term is “batwings.”) In general, and certainly when thinking about others, I define “body positivity” to mean feeling good about oneself, regardless of size and shape. I fully believe that no one needs to conform to any one standard of beauty. But when it comes to myself…well, I’m more critical. I refuse to step on a scale, not even at the doctors, and it’s not about being a certain size, but if I’m being honest, I feel better about myself when I’m fit and strong. I refuse to go gently into the good night or into middle age, for that matter. But after an early morning 12-mile bike ride through the rice fields, an hour and a half long Muay Thai class post-breakfast, and two more hours of afternoon weight and strength training, I came upon an exquisite realization: Going gently into the good night might not be a bad idea. I’m one of the older guests; the majority are men in their 20s and 30s who are quick to strip off their shirts and display their tattooed torsos.
Gym Bangarang is situated on a quiet street with a handful of rooms scattered around the gym. The rooms are bare-boned but clean, with a bed, mini fridge, and hot-enough shower. A large pool is about a three-minute walk away from the gym, along with a drug and alcohol and rehab center whose clients do Muay Thai as part of their recovery. Some people stay off property and make guest appearances at classes, but I prefer to be part of the gang and stay on site. The gym is open air, either half inside or half outside, depending how you look at it. Shoes aren’t allowed, so everyone’s barefoot. There’s no AC, but fans blow a mild stream of cool air. It’s hot and humid; the entire country is like a Bikram Yoga studio. On the other hand, this makes stretching easier. My limbs feel properly oiled.
After the first week, I’m wiped out. Every muscle throbs; 56 is the new 55, tops. I’ve got bruises up and down my legs like the black keys on a piano. My knees have matching scabs. I pull something in my hip flexor and can only lift my left leg a few inches off the ground.
My package includes daily massages in my room, but I’m tired. Everyone is. (It makes me feel slightly better knowing that a thirty-something pulled his groin getting up off a barstool). Community is important in these types of places, for sparring, for conversation, for commiseration. A rotating cast of characters wafts through Gym Bangarang’s doors. Most are in liminal states, hoping escape plus exercise will help them figure out their relationship, career, or life woes. Some stay for months.
By week two, I feel stronger and fitter. I attribute it to the diet—grilled chicken or fish, vegetables, fresh fruit—and four hours of daily exercises. (Those in serious training, a few of whom are prepping for actual fights, get carbs). But my legs still feel like I’m wading through sludge. Win—like most of the Thai trainers, he’s a former Muay Thai champ—tells me I should just do western boxing, Mohammed Ali style: No kicking or kneeing, but lots of jabs, punches, hooks, and uppercuts. And so I do. My biceps ache, but they’re also visible, which is a plus. And the thwack, the sound of the glove pummeling the boxing pad, supersedes the pain. There is something to be said for physically releasing aggression.
And a small dose of badassery goes a long way. My scabs, which are imprinted on my kneecaps, give me some street cred, at least to me. I show them off to anyone I think might care. “This is from Muay Thai!” I say, pointing to my scars. Do I beam when my taxi driver asks how old I am, after telling me that his 45-year-old mother would never do Muay Thai? Why yes I do. I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere.
I spend another four weeks in Thailand at two other gyms in different parts of the country, mostly doing fitness classes. My body starts to feel familiar again. And a funny thing happens when I return home to New York: I miss the reverberating thwack. So I sign up for Muay Thai classes once a week in my neighborhood. The median age of other students is about 18, and I’m sure they’re wondering about the octogenarian in their midst. But I jab and elbow and kick and knee with vigor. This is my turf, too.