Gym Bangarang is situated on a quiet street with a handful of rooms scattered around the gym. The rooms are bare-boned but clean, with a bed, mini fridge, and hot-enough shower. A large pool is about a three-minute walk away from the gym, along with a drug and alcohol and rehab center whose clients do Muay Thai as part of their recovery. Some people stay off property and make guest appearances at classes, but I prefer to be part of the gang and stay on site. The gym is open air, either half inside or half outside, depending how you look at it. Shoes aren’t allowed, so everyone’s barefoot. There’s no AC, but fans blow a mild stream of cool air. It’s hot and humid; the entire country is like a Bikram Yoga studio. On the other hand, this makes stretching easier. My limbs feel properly oiled.
After the first week, I’m wiped out. Every muscle throbs; 56 is the new 55, tops. I’ve got bruises up and down my legs like the black keys on a piano. My knees have matching scabs. I pull something in my hip flexor and can only lift my left leg a few inches off the ground.
My package includes daily massages in my room, but I’m tired. Everyone is. (It makes me feel slightly better knowing that a thirty-something pulled his groin getting up off a barstool). Community is important in these types of places, for sparring, for conversation, for commiseration. A rotating cast of characters wafts through Gym Bangarang’s doors. Most are in liminal states, hoping escape plus exercise will help them figure out their relationship, career, or life woes. Some stay for months.
By week two, I feel stronger and fitter. I attribute it to the diet—grilled chicken or fish, vegetables, fresh fruit—and four hours of daily exercises. (Those in serious training, a few of whom are prepping for actual fights, get carbs). But my legs still feel like I’m wading through sludge. Win—like most of the Thai trainers, he’s a former Muay Thai champ—tells me I should just do western boxing, Mohammed Ali style: No kicking or kneeing, but lots of jabs, punches, hooks, and uppercuts. And so I do. My biceps ache, but they’re also visible, which is a plus. And the thwack, the sound of the glove pummeling the boxing pad, supersedes the pain. There is something to be said for physically releasing aggression.
And a small dose of badassery goes a long way. My scabs, which are imprinted on my kneecaps, give me some street cred, at least to me. I show them off to anyone I think might care. “This is from Muay Thai!” I say, pointing to my scars. Do I beam when my taxi driver asks how old I am, after telling me that his 45-year-old mother would never do Muay Thai? Why yes I do. I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere.
I spend another four weeks in Thailand at two other gyms in different parts of the country, mostly doing fitness classes. My body starts to feel familiar again. And a funny thing happens when I return home to New York: I miss the reverberating thwack. So I sign up for Muay Thai classes once a week in my neighborhood. The median age of other students is about 18, and I’m sure they’re wondering about the octogenarian in their midst. But I jab and elbow and kick and knee with vigor. This is my turf, too.
