#10: CKO Kickboxing

I was nervous about this one, particularly because on their website they insist on arriving 20 minutes early for your first class so they can give you a proper orientation. This seemed very involved, and I didn’t feel that one Rumble Boxing class was anywhere near enough instruction to prepare me for a real boxing experience.

So I got the Park Slope location of CKO Kickboxing (inexplicably smack dab in the middle of Downtown Brooklyn, certainly not Park Slope) obscenely early, only to discover that the 20-minute “orientation” they talked about in their intro email was just having me sign a waiver and buy gloves—they don’t rent! The cheapest of the glove options was $25, and the person at the desk said they would “last me a few classes” — so I guess disposable gloves?!

She then asked me if it was my first time, and I said yes, and she told me to wait until the class was about to start and the instructor would show me and any other first-timers what we needed to know. So I sat on a bench by the lockers, scrolling on my phone for a full fifteen minutes, until the trainer at the front desk beckoned for me to return. With her was another beginner, we’ll call her Emily, wearing hot pink Everlast gloves. She introduced us, and motioned across the room for our instructor.

“This is Ivan,” she said, as he materialized in front of us as if in slow motion, and gave a gentle “Hey, I’m Ivan, it’s nice to meet you”, with the slightest hint of accent. I swear my eyes popped out of my head, cartoon AWOOGA!-style at the sight of the absolute unit that was this man. Standing at 6’4 by my estimation (and I have the precision of an atomic clock when determining a man’s height) he had a thick beard, blue eyes, brown hair, and a ridiculously chiseled bone structure. And he had that icy severity in his appearance that can only belong to a person of Eastern European descent. And that is to say nothing of his body which was absolutely shredded. If I were in charge of making up his UFC moniker I’d call him The Balkan God.

Emily and I followed Ivan to the mat, which had a bunch of columnar heavy bags in four rows with a wide lane down the middle, in the center of which sat the instructor’s bag for demos. He quickly showed us the punches and kicks, let us practice for a minute, and then told us to pick bags near him so that he could help correct our form as needed. Certainly didn’t have to ask me twice to keep close.

The class consisted of 50 minutes of punching sequences, kicking sequences, and punching and kicking sequences, with intermittent stops to hit some burpees or isometric squat holds, and a few partner exercises that were very low-contact, perfect for those like me not at all ready to spar. And there was one very fun reflex training exercise, where we partnered up and took turns with one partner dropping a boxing glove and the other partner having to catch it before it hit the ground, without bending too much in the knees or at the waist.

The smaller class sizes, the way the room was set up (and brightly lit), and the fact that the music wasn’t too loud (lots of good old-school hip hop, very Jay-Z heavy playlist), all made it very conducive to being able to ask for help and nail down proper form if you so chose to improve, unlike at Rumble where you’re in the dark and the instructor might as well be a hologram. While definitely a workout class first and a boxing class second, rather than a bona fide MMA experience, it truly did scratch the boxing itch—most of the time was spent hitting the bag. And it was a hard full-body workout, leaving me drenched in sweat.

On the note of improving form, I was beating the living crap out of my right shin doing roundhouse kicks, to the point where by the end of class every time I landed one I let out a little yelp. I thought maybe it would hurt a little to connect with the heavy bag but not that bad, so after class when Ivan made himself available to answer questions I sauntered on over and asked him if my kicking form was okay, as it was hurting more than it seemed like it should. In a very virginity-coded sentence he said it’s normal for it to hurt at first, but then pointed out that I was landing my roundhouse kicks directly on the front of the shin bone when they should be landing on the inside edge of the shin. Oops.

Peeling back my leggings after class, a massive bruise was already taking shape. When I showed various friends in the hours after, they unanimously said “Wow, that looks bad”. Picture taken after going out that night, and dancing on it, for reference:

Luckily, it skipped a lot of the usual color phases of a bruise and went straight to yellow, which blends in pretty nicely with my olive-toned skin.

Now it’s time get really, really good at kickboxing so I can impress my mans.