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It's not entirely true what the headline of last week's column said (I didn't write it) - that I gave up beer - but that's besides the point. What matters is that I've traded one vice for another. I've pretty-much replaced my craving for intoxication with a rush you can only get from pain.

The adrenaline of seeing an opponent's head snap back from a straight left; the drive to go back in for more after your head's been snapped back, with a mouth-guard grin that tells your opponent that he'll have to do better than that.

I've gotten stronger and faster in just over a week. My punches find their targets more often.

At first, I hurt everywhere all the time: getting into bed, getting out of bed, getting up from my seat, walking around, raising a coffee mug to my mouth - but now my body recuperates quicker from exercise and the bumps and bruises of sparring.

My runs along Elbow Beach have gotten longer and I don't feel like collapsing after them - there's a stamina that wasn't there before.

I can do more. More push-ups and more sets of them. More crunches. I'm watching the exercises I've seen more experienced boxers do and copying them. My workout routine at home, once rigid and mechanical, is now a frenzied mix of weight lifting, shadowboxing, super sets and lightly punching the concrete walls of my bedroom. A kung fu student I once knew called it "bone to stone."

Aside from the need to get my cardio up - running is not enough, no matter how much - I try to compensate for my weaknesses in the ring with my own made up training. I took a shot to the right side of my stomach on Monday. I was winded, but managed to counter. I wasn't right for the rest of the session. I went home and decided I need to get used to shots in the stomach.

I found what I'm pretty sure used to be an old broomstick and proceeded to whack myself in the stomach, chest and kidneys with it to deaden the nerves the way Maui Thai boxers whack their legs. No wonder I hurt all the time.

Getting hit and countering with a hit of your own on regular basis changes you. You don't mind the taste of blood; few people intimidate you; you walk by large men in the street and wonder if two jabs and an overhand left would do the trick. Everywhere you go you're sort of sizing things up.

On Monday, Leo, one of the trainers, said "sometimes you wanna take a one-two if you know you can set 'em up to hurt the man." He told me he would eat a few strikes (none of which were likely to land square) if he knew he could land a bomb once the guy lowered his right.

My shinbones hurt from all the skipping. My triceps are sore from all the working out. My knuckles hurt from punching the concrete (or is it Bermuda rock? I can't tell through the layer of paint). Everything hurts from hitting myself with the broom handle. Physical pain. I'm more accustomed to it than I've ever been. I think I could take a one-two and wait for the man's right hand to drop.[[In-content Ad]]

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