A Long Ride

VIII. Here We Go Again-2

The third girl, an early twenties brunette with a coltish build, flexed her arms and mugged Bring 'em on! while everyone in the room laughed. Some of the men held their hands up in surrender.

Shocker called time and coached her boys' final round. I grabbed Blondie's gym bag and went into the men's room to change. Shorts and tank top, both gray. Some old Grant boxing boots that came up mid-shin. White with red soles and laces. Put the bag in a locker with my clothes and went to take care of business.

Bobby was working with Ace in front of a wall of mirrors. They both wore black warm up pants and blue camouflage tees, matching Shocker's outfit. What's up with the exercise uniform? Bobby stood behind the geek and coached him on proper form with dumbbells. Ace banged out some lateral raises, teeth gnashed, shoulders burning, Big Swoll spotting his last three reps. Ace gasped in relief, dropping the weights on the rubber mat. “Fried circuits!” he cursed, grabbing his shoulders.

Blondie was shadowboxing a few feet away, watching herself in the mirrors, aware of all the eyes in the background and loving the attention. I stepped beside her and launched into a series of jabs to stretch my arms and torso, then proceeded to beat the crap out of my reflection.

I didn't particularly care for shadowboxing; it was sort of boring. But it was an essential exercise for all fighters. You had to do it if you wanted to maintain fundamental skills and rhythm. Eddy was a stickler for it. He used to tell his boxers, “If you don't do anything else, run and shadowbox.” He preferred for us to shadowbox before and after a grueling workout, whether we were training for a fight or not. The discipline sticks to you after so many years. Every morning, six days a week, I run and box my shadow. Usually as a warm up, though sometimes it's all I do.

My reflection was fast. I stepped up the pace and matched him blow for blow, stepping with every punch, weight in the center, then over my front foot as I shifted out to jab and hook. I mixed up the angles, pivoting left and jabbing, dipping down, double uppercutting the body. Pivoted right, throwing quick straight-rights and overhands. When I backed away from my reflection my hands were high, slapping down phantom punches, head weaving, slipping. I feinted jabs, throwing hard, fast straight-rights behind them. Then ripped combos to the head and body, over/under patterns that constantly changed so my opponent wouldn't know what to expect. Two to the head, one to the body. Three upstairs, two to the gut. Blazing jab to the face, powerful right to the belly, shoulders twisting explosively, legs thrusting me forward a split second before I tightened my fist against my shadow's form.

After about ten minutes I was breathing hard, sweat running down my sides, sufficiently warmed up. I stopped and bounced on my toes, conscious of the uncomfortable burn and tug in my left calf, which wasn't anywhere near 100% yet. I think some nerves had been damaged. Injuries like this take a very long time to heal, if they ever do. The neural connections have to find new pathways between brain and muscle. Good thing it's not my right calf, I thought. I fight off my back foot. A weak back foot is devastating to a boxer.

Blondie grunted out one last quick combo, stopped and grabbed a jump rope. Without break she began hopping foot to foot, spinning the plastic beads impressively, blue and white blur whistling over her head and under her toes with perfect timing and expert eye-hand-feet coordination. The mirrors showed her long ponytail flopping behind a determined face, breath rhythmic, boobies bouncing deliciously. She stepped around quickly, lithely, showing off moves she learned at dance clubs. Her effortless grace combined with her curvaceous form was intoxicating.

“Keep staring like that and Bobby might have to catch you again,” the Shocker said, suddenly at my side. I looked at her. She punched me in the shoulder. “Come on, stud. You said you were working today.”

“I am,” I said, reluctantly dragging my gaze away from the sweaty goddess. “Working” meant sparring in boxing-ese. We walked toward the ring, passing Big Swoll and Ace. They were still slinging the dumbbells. One-arm rows. Great mass builders. Bobby's freakish forearms bulged, his left noticeably smaller, a result of the fractured radius he got catching my unconscious body.

I couldn't believe I passed out while repelling down the garage. I fell like twenty feet. For once I'm glad Blondie didn't listen to me and waited instead of leading everyone to our emergency rendezvous. They saw me fall. Big Swoll was close enough and strong enough to catch me. Likely saved my life. For sure he saved me from future wheelchair races.

I felt uncomfortable around him now. Not just because I felt indebted for my spine, but because he had to pull out of the bodybuilding contest he trained so hard for. And look at his arm. It was just now able to hold weight again. The old me wouldn't have given it any thought. Keep thinking like a lame and the girl-beast is going to tie you into a gay bow…

“Let's work,” I said to the boxing legend. I began visualizing us already fighting, prepping my cortex, taking slow deep breaths to influx my muscles with oxygen. The d**g came on hard, sharpening my senses to a laser fine precision. I ducked under the ropes, stepped into the battle zone.

“Biatch!” she taunted, throwing her signature blurring combo. Her hands had tracers as she gave me an exaggerated angry face. She nodded, That's what's up, and climbed up the steps, ducked under the ropes behind me.

Blondie and Ace took a break to attend to our gear. The red Ringside Products hand wraps went on quickly, Blondie's experienced fingers deftly winding the bone supporting material around my knuckles, through my fingers, compiling the last of it around my wrists. Ace was apparently a veteran of wrapping his wife's fists; he finished before Blondie.

Dude probably has a calculus formula for it, my subconscious chuckled.

Shocker and I stepped into jock pads that fitted thick foam over our clothes, the bands securing around our waists and legs, making my junk claustrophobic.

This s**t again? My Johnson shifted in complaint.

Shocker's apprentices emerged from a gear room holding two sets of 10 oz. Ringside gloves, blue with Velcro wrist straps. They tossed them to Blondie and Ace. Our significant others put them on our hands, pulled the straps tight. I loved the feel of my bound, hard fists inside the light gloves.

Tools… I love my tools.

Next came the headgear, also blue, thick foam that encased our entire heads in protective cushion. The padding was low on the forehead and high on the cheeks, which limited peripheral vision but prevented cuts. I couldn't stand headgear, and normally wouldn't wear it. But sparring with a master like Shocker made me swallow my pride and allow Blondie to stuff my arrogant head into its protection.

Blondie gave me a good luck pinch on the nose. It hurt badly – my eyes watered. She put my mouth guard in. Stepped out of the ring in “my” corner. I looked across the twenty foot square circle and saw Ace put his girl's guard in. He ducked under the ropes, stood behind the corner post and held up his stopwatch, fiddling with the buttons. The girl-beast bounced on her toes, shaking her arms out. I did the same, taking deep breaths to quell the jitters in my stomach. Why am I so nervous?

Because this girl could very well hand you your a*s, some prick's voice said.

Shocker glanced at her trainees. They watched her with pure adoration. They would absolutely s**t their shorts if they knew who she really was. She pumped a glove at them, Watch and see how it's done, boys, then yelled at me, “Hundred and ten percent, Mister President! We have to set the bar for these guys.”

“Ten percent body, one-hundred percent brain,” I replied.

She looked at the four young men standing ringside. “Remember what I told you about boxing being more mental than physical?” They acknowledged. “What you'll witness here is that I won't be able to out punch this guy.” She leaned over the top rope toward them and winked conspiratorially. “I'll have to out think him.”

Bobby's booming chuckle overrode the younger men's.

Uh-oh. She seemed mighty confident. This chick had years of experience fighting in the pros, on a world-class level. Her credentials were intimidating. Our previous match was a real fight, and it could be argued that she won. I'm five inches and forty pounds bigger than her. But she isn't human. I've lost fights before, and I'm not scared of her, exactly. I was only worried about the embarrassment of losing to…What? What is she to me? Hopefully I won't get slapped around too much before I can adjust to her game.

Ace looked at me. “You ready?” he said with an excited smile. I nodded. Shocker turned and blew him a kiss. He thumbed the watch. “Time!”

“Let's go Baby!” Blondie encouraged. “Work behind that jab! Keep her on the end!”

The part of my brain that maintained a constant sense for music alerted me to the commercial break ending on the radio. I brightened for a second, anticipating the motivational drive a good rock song usually evokes. But someone had changed the station. The elation came crashing down as Alicia Keys started her build up to This Girl Is On Fire.

As you know, I believe everything is better with a song that fits the setting. I like this song. But it fits her setting.

“b***h,” I breathed, cursing the Odds.

As I feared, Shocker took heart from the jam, and with her gain came my loss-of testicles. They put on drag slicks and nitrogen raced into my stomach somewhere. I realized I was supposed to be watching her gloves and head, her “box,” focusing on her hands to react defensively, eyeing her head for offensive strategy. Her compression sleeve held my attention, however. It seemed to glow like iridescent scales in response to her energy. Exo-skin. The Shocker stepped in a circle ripping off jabs that looked like a blur of reptilian strikes. “I love this song,” she mumbled around her mouth guard, a pink horseshoe of rubber with tiny white lightning bolts for teeth.

She came out of nowhere. Pap-pap-pap-pap! Her speed was such that the combination resounded like a single blow. I snapped a right-hand, blinking as it sailed by her weaving head, eyes shutting tightly as she looped an uppercut under my arm, into my chin. “Mmm!” That was sneaky.

I pushed away so I could use my reach, attempt to keep the speed demon on the end of my punches, prevent her from darting to the inside. I feigned some jabs to see which way her head would jump, getting a sense of timing. Then faked again, throwing a hook where I thought her head would be. Bip! The fast light blow touched her headgear. The feeling of achievement was short-lived. She fired right back, popping me in the nose with an overhand counter. As I lifted my arms to push her away she was already under them, ripping loose a three piece to my stomach and ribs.

“Oof! Arrrmmm!” I said to her, spittle ejecting.

“Practicing your Vietnamese?” she queried breathlessly, banging her gloved fists off my arms, shoulders, not really trying to find an opening, just keeping something on me. “That was pretty good. It means 'Ow,' right?” She shoved away to recover.

I followed, smiling at her trash-talk. She earned the right, I conceded. Can't deny her that. I said, “Behind this frustrated, no-way-a-girl-is-getting-out-on-me face, I'm actually very impressed. I haven't seen combinations like yours in years.”