Alex McGreevy's Blog

Boot Camp, Day Four, Jan 14, 2010

A message to all residents of Dundela area who were woken by the screams of fire brigade sirens at 6.30 on Thursday morning.
That was my fault. Sorry.


Well, when I say fault, I mean, that was my public duty.

Thanks to a 'punishment' lap of Wilgar Street it was I who came across the whiff of gas-filled air outside the local primary school and at the risk of coach Murray wondering why it took me five minutes to do a three minute lap, I bypassed the Prokick Gym door and sprinted (yes, I did sprint) to the nearby police station to report my concern.

Within 10 minutes the area was sealed off and awake with flashing lights. Like I said, not my fault.

Anyway, all the drama took place halfway through Boot Camp and before the fire service arrived, there was time enough for coach Murray to take us all around for another lap - just to breath in the gas I reckon.

Feeling slightly woozy, we were then made to finish off the class with bursts of sprints up and down Wilgar Street.

A tough class - that I almost missed.

The 5.05am alarm did it's job. So too did the back-up 5.30am alarm. But today my eyes did not work. For some reason - possibly a severe lack of sleep - they just kept closing.

I realised they had closed again when they suddenly opened again to barely see that that time was 5.47am. No!

I'm not gonna make it. Bugger. I've missed a class. What's the point in going now? I'll only arrive late and that will only give coach Murray and the evil one an excuse to barrack me in front of the other students and then they'll punish all the class for my misdemeanour and then the class will hate me...

I'll go back to sleep.

Dam, dam, dam. What's the point in going back to sleep? Sure I have to get up in two hours to get the offsprings ready for school.

Bugger it, I'll just go, see if I can make it...

MADE IT...! 5.59am.

"You're late! You're late!" belts coach Murray.

What do I say? No I'm not sure? Sorry sure but the actual GMT is 5.59a, and therefore with 60 seconds to spare I have arrived safe and well for Boot Camp...?

I'll say nothing. Take the heat and get on with it (I wasn't late, sir!).

Ankles sore. Still.

One more class.

Whoever said , 'early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise'... got one thing right. I ain't seen anyone pay me for Boot Camp and this surely is only something crazy folk do...

Boot Camp, Day Three, Jan 13, 2010

SIX hours sleep.

Stayed in a hot bath as long as possible because for some reason the ankles are sore.
I know, that’ll be day one and two of Boot Camp causing them to swell and ache.

Tucked in. Out like a light.

Geez. I am awake. It’s 4.43am. Aggggh. I’m up before the alarm went off.
What’s happening to me?
Am I changing?
Am I too keen?
Am I mad?

I lie awake, wondering if the wind battering the window has brought with it rain or snow. It’s so toasty-warm in here.
I’ve got 20 minutes. Enjoy ‘em.

God no, it’s 5.30am. I’ve slept in! Go, go, go. Made it with a minute to spare. Day Three.

“Sir, my ankles are hurting.”

“Ah, stop your crying, you’re here aren’t you… you are walking aren’t you.. Stop your crying.”

But the ankles are hurting - and it seems I’m not the only one on tender toes.

It’s cold - again. And it’s raining.

Indoor is as toasty as it was at home. Maybe hotter. Too hot.

“This class is really going to heat you up,” said coach Murray with a smile he could only have borrowed from the evil one.

Day three was a blast - a hot one.

After an hour of intense circuit training, the class seemed to end as quickly as it has started. That’s not to say it was fun, mind.

That’s three days done. Two to go.

Bleeding ankles are sore though.


Boot Camp, Day Two, Jan 12, 2010

Ahhh. Now that’s a nice cup of coffee.
A bit odd that I’m drinking in my car at 5.45am, waiting for ‘til the last moment before stepping out into the cold for day two of Boot Camp on Wilgar Street - but nice coffee nonetheless.

It’s not so bad today. Fresh and dry but that howling wind seems to be picking up. Hope there’s no outdoor running involved then….

Warm up. Breath. Outside.

“Find a partner,” howls coach Murray… “someone your own size”.

Found one.

“Right, group one, follow Mark for a run. Group two, piggy-backs to the top of the street.” My partner, thankfully, is lighter than I. He’s carrying 10stone. I’m carrying his 9 1/2stone.

Easy. Easy that was until reaching the peak where the sudden and sapping weight gain almost broke my spine - sure, of course, it was coach Murray leaning on me too.

Day two is much tougher. The cracked metatarsal in my left foot - from kicking an elbow when I should have been looking a few weeks back - is starting to play up. Annoying.

“Okay, group two - off on your run.”
And off we go. The Strandtown police must think the looney school has broken out as we bypass the station and into the face of the gathering storm.

A few minutes later and it’s a sprint to the top of a hill. My God, it’s cold.

“Okay guys, shadow boxing at the cinema.”

Shadow boxing at the cinema? What must this look like to some poor soul on their way to work at 6.30am?

Is it not bad enough to be driving in this darkness to start a day’s work and then come across this sight?

Indoor again.
Punch drills. Easy, right?
Punch drills look easy - and the first round is. It’s the eighth, ninth and tenth that are not.

The howl comes around again: “Sprints. Push-ups. Star-jumps. C’mon. For 10, for 10. Sit-ups. Shadow. Sprints, sprints, sprints, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”

Take a bow.
Day two.
Your done.
Yes… yes, we are done.


Boot Camp, Day One, Jan 11, 2010

Is that rain or snow outside? Can't quite tell as it's pitch black, it's 5.06am and both my eyes are still half-closed.

Blast, it's sleet. Heavy sleet. And it's supported by a howling wind. Oh, let's go back to bed.

No, no. I must not. This is a committment and I must commit. I am not alone, I tell myself. I am not the only fool slipping into training gear as quietly as possible so not to waken the kids - especially the youngest who once awake, never sleeps. Can't wake the missus either - or I'll never hear the end of it.

Ah, that coffee tastes good. Hot, strong. Just what the doctor ordered.

I sit alone in my car, both hands on the travelling coffee cup Santa so kindly delivered two weeks ago. Wilgar Street is dark, silent. In just over two hours this street housing Billy Murray's pauperish yet purposeful kickboxing gym will be bustling with traffic - the sound of running engines matched by the raucous, boisterious squeals emanating from a nearby school playground. But for now, it's no-man's land.

A couple of people file into the club. It's time to go in. Time to face this thing they call Boot Camp. Time to begin the countdown to my first competitive kickboxing bout.

Oh, what am I doing here? I'm 39 this summer. I have two kids, a wife, a car and darn good job. I ran a marathon last year. Surely I have nothing more to prove?

C'mon. C'mon. Open the door. Get out of the car. C'mon.

We're in. We've started. We're halfway through. This is okay. Scratch that. This was okay... then coach Murray and his thoroughly evil sidekick coach Masterson tell us to don our running shoes.

My God, has the sleet stopped? What are they gonna make us do?

Sprints? Seriously? Sprints at 6.30am. You're on something, right?

"If you can do three laps and beat your time on every lap, you will be fit to fight," said Mr Murray with frightening ease.

"You should be doing this in less than three minutes. Remember, three minute rounds is what you are preparing for."

Right, less than three minutes. Did I mention I was almost 39?

2:35. Not bad.

"Okay, well done," said coach Murray. "Now off you go on a relaxing lap."

Cool, a relaxing lap. It's day one. He mustn't be going to make us to three laps.

"Okay, take a breather. Right, lap two. Beat your time. Go!"

2.56. Buggered. Third time round... third time round I'll be lucky to be around.

No third lap. Yes! Back inside - to the cold.

"As this is day one, we are letting you off lightly. Make no mistake, nothing is light after today except your heads," we are assured by coach Masterson, who clearly enjoys his hate-figure role in proceedings.

Letting us off lightly...? Don't think so. The second half of the class is all-action circuit training before a knees-up wind-down.

It's over. It's over.

Is it okay to cry now... is it?

It's 7.15am. The house is warm... welcoming. Time for the school run. Time for work. Time for the normal daily chaos that is just so easy.

I have something to prove...