A White Belt Who Kept Coming To Class

In the spring of 2006, I was a fat man in need of a change.

I was 37 years old and a little too fond of carbohydrates and a pint. I offset this by running in the odd 5k and intermittent gym visits, but it was a lonely affair and, what’s more, one that was easily waylaid by the merest suggestion of ‘Not tonight.’

I lacked focus. I needed a programme, a target.

A year earlier, I’d visited my friends Lou and Scott in Exeter along with their two daughters who were aged, I think, 7 and 5. I worked with Lou in the mid-90s and stayed in touch when she moved to the South West. I always looked forward to these trips, though obviously we’d changed our attack on the weekends since the girls were born. This visit was a perfect example.

‘I’ve got to drop off and pick them up from their Taekwondo class on Saturday morning if that’s okay.’

From drinking till dawn to weekend classes for ankle-biters.

Sorry, their what?

They were Junior Pumas or some such. This was a local martial arts club which taught the basics of self-defence. The elder child loved it because there was an element of rules and structure which she loved, while her more anarchic sister was at the age where running around for little reason was de rigueur. I went along.

As expected, there was plenty of running around a school hall along with a bit of learning thrown in. The eldest was given a badge for reciting 1–10 in Korean while junior gleefully kicked pads in the background. She received a sticker for her pains. Come the end of the class they bowed to their instructor and roared ‘Tae-Kwon!’

I liked this.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I’ve long been a fair way down the autistic spectrum. I love rules, I love structure and I love learning. You might replace the word ‘love’ with ‘am obsessed by’, so when the kids told me that each grading came with a quiz, I was all in.

So, in 2006 I googled ‘Taekwondo class NW9.’

I was rewarded with one hit. Bacon Lane, Kingsbury. A five-minute bus ride away. Perfect. I was to email someone called Keiron.

He replied almost immediately. Why not come to a taster class? I’d need tracksuit bottoms, a loose T-shirt, a bottle of water and a degree of patience. Rome wasn’t built in a day after all, and there was an awful lot to learn. I shook off my not inconsiderable nerves and made my way to Kingsbury.

The class was led by three people. Keiron was in charge and was a Third Dan black belt (Dans start at First and go up, while colour belts – Gups – start at 10 and move down before black belt). Then there were two Assistant Instructors – Dipesh and Lynne.

The class lined up in grade order from right to left. The senior grade, usually a black belt, stands on the right at the front and the lines of four go down the ranks. Non-uniforms are lower than uniformed students even if they too are white belts. I was in the bottom left-hand corner of the room, an ocean away from Dipesh.

So, did I start on flying turning kicks? Spinning back kicks?

I did not.

Did I do lots of Taekwondo in that first lesson?

I did not.

Did I do any Taekwondo?

No. No, I didn’t.

Talk about bad timing. Lesson 1 turned out to be a fundraiser for the local hospice, where the class was tasked with delivering 500 sit-ups, press-ups, star jumps etc. New territory for me, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

With about ten minutes to go, Dipesh sought me out and taught me how to walk. That’s how he put it. ‘I’ll teach you how to walk.’

What this meant was a stance peculiar to the art. Walking stance. Gunnun sogi. It involves a long stance with the front leg bent at the knee while the back remains straight. Ideal for stability during punches. We walked up and down the hall a few times while I got used to it. Then I went home.

The next day I felt like someone had wrapped a couple of anchors around my thighs. I could barely move. That would become the norm till about red belt.

I went back on the following Saturday and started anew. Then I went to Dipesh’s extra class.

I got my first uniform in time for my first grading. Shiny white (though that would change to a light rusty orange through overuse) and with a white belt wrapped around my waist.

That first grading was a mixed bag. I’d learned a pattern called Chon-Ji. Nineteen moves, which represent Heaven and Earth. I learned the theory behind it because I’m a) me and b) autistic. I performed it with grace, elegance and wit. I was rewarded with a round of applause.

It’s just a shame that I wasn’t supposed to be performing Chon-Ji then.

I was supposed to learn two exercises – Saju Jirugi and Saju Makgi – instead. These aren’t patterns as such but exercises. Sort of pre-pattern patterns. I hadn’t learnt them, but sat quietly in a corner and worked them out. I passed and was given a yellow tag to put on my white belt.

Three months later, I was given my first colour belt. Yellow, largely thanks to my now forensic knowledge of Chon-Ji. It was to be my last new belt for a year.

On 6th December 2006, I returned home from a work lunch, went to bed and proceeded to vomit aggressively. I’m told that this continued for the next two days. I don’t remember those days at all. Not a single second. Something was seriously wrong.

Five days later I woke up in hospital, tired, confused and with a mind on fire. I had suffered an undiagnosed brain haemorrhage.

I know, yeah.

Here’s what happened: The haemorrhage, twenty years on.

My new Taekwondo classmates had no idea why I, an overkeen student, had just disappeared. I reappeared seven months later, considerably thinner and a bit shakier.

Through the months of rehab, I dreamt of two things – driving (I’d only recently passed my test, only to relinquish my licence for a year) and bowing to Keiron and Dipesh in class. They were my targets. It took until the following November for me to realise the latter.

But once I came back, I kept going to class. I learned my pattern and always, always, always the next one along.

Patterns were my thing – still are – but I could defend myself in a spar. Before too long I was entrusted with new students, and I too taught more than a few of them ‘to walk.’ I was also making my way up towards the front of the class for the line-up.

But it was more than that. I’d made new friends, both with instructors and students who came up through the ranks with me. Taekwondo had become a huge part of my life. I’ll always live with it in me.

In 2011, an instructor took off my red belt and replaced it with a black one. I remember Keiron saying ‘Now it gets interesting’ as I thanked him and Dipesh for getting me there.

He was right.

On the 12th anniversary of the haemorrhage, I was awarded my Second Dan by the man who had given me my first white belt.

Has Taekwondo changed me? Undoubtedly.

Firstly, I’m not scared of any altercation. I’ve had to use the art twice in a street setting, but both occasions were ended before they were allowed to develop. The golden rule is that you don’t use it unless you absolutely must. It’s also taught me discipline and the value of confidence.

Then there’s the art. Taekwondo is beautiful. As beautiful as nature and science, which are the most beautiful things in the world. The movement, the theory and the history are just wonderful.

What Taekwondo isn’t is an endless cavalcade of fancy kicks and Hollywood endings. My left turning kick is average at best and I still can’t do the splits. You don’t need to be hyperathletic or superhuman to obtain a black belt. Belts are as much about wisdom and experience as anything. Black belts are just white belts who kept coming to class. Black belts are for people who try and try and try regardless of their ability.

I don’t live in NW9 any more, but at Christmas I was invited to a grading by Keiron and Dipesh. It had been a couple of years since I’d kicked a pad, and I was worried that I’d forgotten even the basics.

Ten seconds into the class I was in L-stance in daebi makgi and on the bounce like I’d never been away.

It can become a template to your life. It certainly has been for me.