Teaching an old dog new tricks

I have been intrigued by the martial arts for as long as I can remember. I grew up as the films of Bruce Lee, Chuck Norris and eventually Steven Seagal became mainstream. The control they displayed on screen, although totally scripted, was fascinating to me. Their fluid and powerful motion seemed as much of an art form as it did a display of physical prowess. I would find out much later in my life, that this interpretation was not far from the truth.

As a young boy I was fairly small and easily intimidated by others of my age. I was convinced that the "tough" guys I saw on screen derived a great deal of that control I spoke of earlier from their physical stature. I often thought, if only I was that big, I could be that tough. But as my life progressed, I grew much taller but not much bigger. Instead of the martial arts, I was drawn to a physical endeavor which seemed better suited to my thin build — endurance athletics..

For many years, even though I still enjoyed films and television that featured the martial arts, I was just a spectator. My leisure time was instead filled with hours of grueling training in a never ending quest to go farther and faster than I had in the past. Race after race, and mile after mile, the quest continued. But life eventually caught up to me, and slowly but surely I reduced my pace.

As I matured, I began to enjoy the simpler things in life. I had a family to treasure and a job I really enjoyed. Little by the little, my endurance goals disappeared. With the end of that obsession came the complacency, the obvious weight gain and all the other "joys" that go along with maturity. I realized over time that the only thing I really missed about endurance athletics was the feeling of being physically fit.

So I decided to try and approach physical fitness from another angle and answer a life long question - could I be a martial artist? Along with this decision came a flood of doubts. Could I handle this new regimen with my older and much stiffer body? Could I overcome the fears of falling and hard impacts that grow with age? But most of all, I worried about learning something totally new at what some would consider an "advanced" age?

In addition to my initial fears and concerns came the obvious question — what style do I pursue? Like most things in America, there were literally dozens of schools to pick from in my area. For some reason, I was drawn to fluid style of Aikido. Their seemingly effortless movement which subdue their opponents fascinated me. So I visited the local Aikido school and signed up. Finally, it was time to take the plunge!

I would find out through the coming months that I had made the right decision with Aikido and was blessed with a local school which fit my needs perfectly. On the first day, my Sensei made me feel right at home and reassured me that I would be allowed to learn at my own pace. He highlighted the fact that there were no trophies adorning the walls of our school and no competitions to worry about. The people of this dojo trained for many different reasons, but seemingly missing from all their rationales was the apparent testosterone driven rage of some styles.

It has been almost two years now since that first day, and though the beginning was quite rocky, I have never regretted my choices. Although I am not as smooth and fluid as some, I am beginning to see and feel the "art" inside the motion of Aikido. The physical fitness which I missed from my younger days is slowly returning. I have found a genuine camaraderie with my fellow Aikido-kai as I place my safety in their hands and then they place theirs in mine.<

I wish I could explain to you all the intrinsic benefits of this graceful yet powerful style, but like many things in life, Aikido must be experienced to be understood. It is not just about self-defense or physical fitness, and contrary to what some believe, for me it is not mystical or spiritual. It has simply become one of those rare things in life, where you can't remember what your life was like before you started, and you hope you never have to stop. — Chris Lipp