As promised, Jackson did an hour’s training with me this morning. He had me skipping, hitting the bags, doing combinations on the pads (“keep your elbows in!”) and other fairly violent activities.
When it got to the point when I could barely breathe, and couldn’t stand up straight, he let me rest for a minute – then he showed me some grappling technques. Which was fun. Then he had me punching again, which was not fun.
By the end he was laughing at my lack of anaerobic fitness (“Come on, give me eight more! Eight more!”) – I can walk comfortably for hours, but I’m out of practice with this fast, explosive sort of activity.
Anyway, it was fun, and I’m now back at home, sitting listening to Sky News talking about the BAFTAs, feeling very sore but satisfied with myself for getting out of bed early on a Sunday morning to train. My target for next week’s session is to simply last the hour without collapsing in a heap and crying like a baby.
Need to go and stretch now – if I don’t I’m going to wake up tomorrow with muscles that feel like hessian bags filled with broken glass. I can feel the pain approaching.