“It broke me.” Personal experience of the first training session after a big break

Good days and good nights to those reading this column. I am Arseniy Samol, the head of video production at Champion. But today, in this particular piece, I am a “professional” amateur athlete who yesterday experienced (and there is no other word for it) his first training session of the year.

And this column is about the motivation of people like me – amateur athletes and amateur competitors who have been practically buried the last two years.

I am 30 years old, 26 of which I have been involved in sports. As a member of the AZLK team I reached the Olympic reserve, promptly obtaining a CMC in swimming. But a nasopharyngeal injury after a failed flip and not the best medics in Russia in the 2000s slaughtered my dream of Alexander Popov ‘s (swimmer, 4-time Olympic champion, 6-time world champion. – Editor’s note) career.

True, I was lucky. In school physical education was led by basketball coach Valentina Filimonova. She also put together a team in which I even won a couple of city competitions. She stubbornly refused to pronounce my last name correctly and always repeated: “You throw normally, but you don’t know how to handle the ball”. I’ve been a sincere Chicago Bulls fan ever since, sincerely trying to “knock” in the summer, sincerely continuing to ignore working on my dribbling.

I know the motivation of professional athletes firsthand. I know what it is to get up and do, perform and win medals when there is no strength, no desire, no mood, no physical condition.

I know the motivation of street sports even better: nothing relaxes me like an hour and a half on the court. Although I’ll come out of there spitting and out of breath, satisfied as an elephant and broken like an old Zhiguli.

I know what it’s like to train alone, in an empty gym, alone with myself.

One more thing: I’m the kind of guy they call “crystal” in high-performance sports. For example, like Arjen Robben (a Dutch soccer player known for his frequent injuries on the field. – Ed. note). I like the maximum, walking on the edge. It is also motivating. But it also leads, and it has led me to excessive, rather severe injuries: not fully working left leg, seriously dislocated left clavicle, shrunken joints. It puts limitations on you. Especially when you’re 30.

During a long hiatus in which I had a chance to try everything from martial arts to extreme sports, I came to a purely boyish pastime: beating up my neighbor with a steel or soft stick. I’m talking about Modern Swordfighting. It is, thanks largely to hanging out, one of the activities that has left me around for a very long time.

What it’s good for. It’s a mixed load, crossfit, OFP plus functional training of a full-contact type of weaponized martial arts. I’m far from the Asian aesthetics of wushu and karate, and somehow it didn’t work out with army hand-to-hand combat: I grew up in Vykhino and I know enough about fighting. I really wasn’t interested in it.

And here comes the year 2021. I finish the last “pre-fight” training on March 19. Three days later, I’m out of odors. I won’t go into details, I got over the disease easily enough. But the consequences were severe: the main blow came to the nervous system and the injured joint of my leg.

A year later, it’s February 2022. I pack my gym clothes, turn on the music and roll to the training on the other side of the city with a full feeling that “hands remember”, “well, I will not do five peak crossfit laps, I’ll do three”, “finally, everything, I’m ready”.

It broke me. And I’m not embarrassed to talk about it.

I couldn’t do three laps. I did an embarrassing one and a half. After the first lap, my friend, who had also returned to the section after an absence for a related reason, practically dragged me out of the gym for air.

It was utterly humiliating. I came back, took a break. And was able to do another half a lap.

We have a tradition: we write the results on a special board after each round of training.

For the first time there was an inscription “I couldn’t do it” opposite my name. I wrote it myself.

Like a slap in the face to myself. I didn’t expect it to motivate me. It’s about something else – look, kid, you screwed up here because you didn’t calculate.

After the round robin, I did a full functional workout and about six fights. My hands may remember, but the carcass of the gopher only remotely resembles that wild boar of February 2021.

It was also extremely humiliating. When, once again lying on the carpet, I stared unblinkingly at the ceiling through the steel mesh of my helmet, trying to get some oxygen, I, like anyone else in my position, thought of the question: “Why? You’re not a tournament fighter, you’re doing fine and calm, what heights are you chasing? Who needs it?”

And then came the phrase, “I need it.” I don’t play sports for someone, I don’t get injured for someone, I don’t run for someone. I don’t use my body’s capabilities for goals, dating, or street fighting.

I need it because it makes me a little better and freer. I need it because sports relaxes my brain and stresses my body. I need it because without sports, I’d be an insert between my chair and my laptop. And there for a minute and a half fight, I’m focused, motivated and ready to fight.

By fighting on the mat, I start fighting in life.

It was very difficult for me to go to the first training. But I came back from it with a smile from ear to ear.

Today, I could barely get out of bed. But the neurons of my brain were tangoing in a fit of euphoria – he still can, he still will, he’s back!