Waiting for the Receipt

Today was another fun-filled morning with Gus. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday never can come too soon. Even when the alarm goes off at 3:30 am, I somehow manage to spring up and out of bed, thinking about the torture camp that awaits us with great joy and anticipation.

This morning's motley crew was Barb, Lisa, Bill, and me. Barb is not up to the task of sparring just yet, so that left four rounds for each Lisa, Bill, and me. Twelve rounds in the ring for Gus seemed no easy task this morning, either. Even though he moved faster with us as we gain more experience (read: danced circles around us), teasing us with his ever-bobbing head and slippery shoulders, Gus seemed worn out. Don't get me wrong, he still killed us, KILLED us, until we were saved by the bell at the end of each three minute round. Three minutes could be three days when forced to block and slip punches and find holes to land a few of our own. All the while, mouthpiece impairing his speech, Gus mumbles words of encouragement or eggs us on with, "hit me harder" or, "um-hum, yep". We have already figured out how to translate mouthguardese.

With great enthusiasm, we charge him, hoping to hit his head, but more often getting his elbow or a gust of wind from the breeze generated by missed punches. He taught us to get in and punch him, and get out as fast. He calls it "waiting for the receipt" and apparently that is something we don't want to do in the world of boxing. The rule is to get in, nail the opponent as much as possible ("your left jab is your tape measure"), and get out quickly, as not to "wait for the receipt". Makes perfect sense. I have no desire to take any more licks than I have to, right?

When I consider his facility, I am really disgusted- how can I look forward to it? The smell inside is putrid- a cross between the nastiest men's locker room (don't ask how I know this) and rancid body odor left to ferment. Because there is no temperature control, it has been freezing in there as of late, with the welcome cooler temperatures; I can only imagine what this means with summer pending. His studio's carpet is peppered with old coffee stains, among other unidentified marks I dare not ask about, and the concrete walls are wallpapered with newpaper articles of all of his now-successful fighters he has raised up to the big league. Al Pacino and "Scarface" posters grace the walls, as well, reminding us of our bad ass status, I presume.

While under his watchful eye, we wear other boxers' gloves (until we get around to ordering our own), which repulses me when I further ponder what could live inside the leather from others' hands. We share equipment while working out together, along with the sweat that dots it("Ew- who dripped all over this?!") without regard to the germ factor.

Actually, this is a lie. I think about the germ factor the whole time I am in there. Like when I picked up one of the towels we used to do some abs on and I threw it in the "dirty" pile (as if I could really discriminate from the other pile in a heap on the floor?!); there was a snot rag Gus has used to mop up his face with post-spar, smeared with green mucus and red blood. Does it get any more vile than that? I could have vomited at the sight, but that may have been my stomach's response to the intense circuit we had just finished? We pay for this kind of fun at 4:00 am?

Yes. And I am not waiting for the receipt. It is money well spent- the cheapest personal training (and therapy) one will ever find, a KILLER workout, and a great way to stay motivated when the chips are down.