Body, Brain, Community, Flow

“READY?”

“Ready!”

“NO, NO WAY. THAT DOESN’T CUT IT. READY?”

“READY!”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

“READY!”

“FATIGUE IS ONLY AN EMOTION!” the coach roars.

Thirty women of all ages and shapes and sizes, run the drill—right, left hook, right, set—sweating, burning, aching, breathing in short, desperate, controlled bursts each time our gloves hit the bags.

“Fatigue is also a feeling, though” the woman holding the bag next to mine mutters and her partner gusts out a laugh before bearing down again, her focus zeroing in on the spot in front of her eyes, the imagined nose of her opponent.

Shuh, shuh-shuh. We breathe in unison, venting our reserves of steam. What will we do then, when it’s gone? Breathe. Breathe. “STOKE THE FIRE!” Thirty seconds is the longest stretch of time in the universe. We’ve fallen into some event horizon and are trapped in this drill—right, left hook, right, set, right, left hook, right, set. Our gloves weigh at least as much as a star and all the planets. We drive forward from the ball of our right foot, each successive muscle group grabbing energy and sending it along to the piston of the arm. BAP! Shuh! Now the left foot, welded to the grimy floor, the body torquing as one unit into the hook, elbow up, thumb up, weight recoiling into the right foot to gather and surge up again into the right fist. BAP-BAP! Shuh-shuh!

Nothing left. Just a flickering of blue spirit along muscle fibers. Light ebbing. We’re only halfway through the drill.

Part of my attention is stolen from the drill by the familiar differential query tree: Am I tired or am I dying?

I’m a 57-year-old woman with a heart condition. I can’t. I can’t. BAP… BAP… shuh… shuh. What was I thinking? This is insane. Eight months ago I was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. Heart attack? Vascular spasms. Tests, tests, tests. Images of my heart in ghostly greyscale. Radioisotopes in my blood. “PAIN IS IN THE MIND!” coach shouts, pacing between the rows of bags. Is this true? Some pain is real pain. Part of my attention is stolen from the drill by the familiar differential query tree: Is this breath “out of breath” or “short of breath?” Is this the pain of muscles performing to their limit or is it the pain of constricted blood flow in the major arteries? Am I pushing through my limitations or am I crashing up against them? Am I tired or am I dying? I picture my stents bursting out of my chest like bolts from an overheated boiler.

But they don’t. The stents are fine. The pump keeps pumping, fortified by seven months of incremental rehab under the watchful eyes of a nurse and a physiotherapist, days and days at the gym, taking tiny steps forward, inching toward this moment. BAP! BAP-BAP! Shuh! Shuh-shuh!

Somehow defying gravity, our weight continues to shift on the rhythm of the drill, right foot, left foot, right foot, roiling water sloshing through us, some kind of elemental force, a tidal momentum keeping us swinging. There’s no point fighting the tide. But I start to flail, elbow dropping, a sharp stab of warning through my left pinky finger as my fist hits the bag at the wrong angle. I lose the rhythm, fall out of the flow. I founder.

“THERE ARE NO WOUNDED ANIMALS IN THE ARMY OF THE VALKYRIES!”

There are no wounded animals in the army of the Valkyries. The part of my brain that remembers being an English professor protests that it’s a mixed metaphor.

There are no wounded animals in the army of the Valkyries. The part of my brain that remembers being an English professor protests that it’s a mixed metaphor. Am I going to be some kitty cat that needs carrying, scooped up by Asgard’s greatest warriors? It’s an absurd image. I stumble, lose the rhythm again. “DON’T THINK! I CAN SEE YOU THINKING! DO IT!”

I feel a lash of breeze. The woman beside me, a small knot of wiry form and attention, is making her own weather with the power of her swings. I draft along in her wake, let her momentum sweep me up. Breathe. Set. Leap in, lightning flashing along my limbs, sweat stinging my eyes. Lift the elbow, hit square. BAP! BAP-BAP! Shuh! Shuh-shuh! Suddenly I feel great. I feel like a machine. Sparks fly. My partner holding the bag staggers back, only half-joking. Shuh! Shuh-shuh!

“TIME!”

Groans. Eye contact with the woman at the next bag that says, holy shit, we did it. Exhilaration. Gloves tapping gloves. We did it. Breathe. Breathe.

“READY?”

Oh, my g—

“I SAID READY?”

“Ready!”

“I’M SORRY, WHAT?!”

“READY!”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

“READY!”