Too Old and Slow for Taekwondo?

In my head I’m facing my opponent. He looks dangerous in his gear—black helmet, hogo red side out, black teeth guard. He has that “You’ve bit off more than you can chew” look in his eye. He appears to be about 23 and 185 pounds. He comes at me with a front leg leading double roundhouse and a kihap that sounds like a wild Indian of the old West. Nonplussed I leap into a jump back kick and connect solid with his chest. He is stopped, but only for a moment. He jujins and moves to throw a neck-breaking axe kick, but I am ahead of him—I’ve leaped into a jump spin hook and I feel nothing but the sponginess of his helmet against the bottom of my foot. I land nimbly on both feet to see him collapse to the floor. He is still conscious, but incoherent from the tremendous speed of my kick. The referee gives the eight count and then raises his hand to me. I’ve done it again and rip my helmet off sending my sweat flying. My family, friends, and dojang mates scream my name and I graciously bow in their direction.

I wish that it isn’t just in my head where this happens, but it is. As it is I am a forty-four year old father of eight children. I have never in my life been very athletic although I’ve always participated in various sports. In sixth grade a girl beat me in a 50 yard dash. That was devastating. In high school a cheerleader dead lifted more weight than I was able to. I wasn’t so devastated then. I guess I was getting used to it. In softball I had to be satisfied with hitting the ball just over second base. There are no grand slams for me, but at least I generally got on base without forcing any other outs. While playing on my church basketball team I dreaded it when someone passed me the ball. I think they generally dreaded passing me the ball, but sometimes there was no other choice. So how did a middle-aged, non-athlete like me find himself in taekwando? That would be where my wife and children came in.

Did I mention I have eight of them? My wife has a friend who put her child in taekwando. My wife took advantage—or was taken advantage by—one of those “Three free lessons!” ploys and took several of my kids in. She was excited about what she saw and called me the next day to tell me all about it. “Ty quon who?” I said. I had never heard of it. I wasn’t interested. Martial arts were for the movies or for those weirdoes you meet every once-in-a-while who thinks they can levitate and block bullets with their bare hands. But my wife kept after me and after a couple of days I agreed to stop by the school on the way home from work to have a look. I came home nervous that night. No, I came home afraid. I was afraid because I knew that I was going to join. I knew I was going to join because I was afraid—I was afraid of taekwando. I saw them kicking. I saw them doing forms. I saw them sparring. It was terrifying, but I knew I just had to do it. I needed to do it. It called out to me and told me that it was what was missing in my life. I signed up the following week.

So there were my four older kids and I going to class. My kids looked natural there on the mat. It’s like taekwando was created for kids. Taekwando doesn’t look like it was created for adults. Do you know what I looked like at forty years old, 250 pounds, 6’1”, in a white belt, standing at choon bi with a bunch of kids? I looked like a man who wanted to learn to levitate and to block bullets with his bare hands. But I didn’t care. I was doing one of the craziest and most exciting things I had ever done in my life. My instructor made me feel special, not stupid, for doing what I was doing and I was ready to learn anything he was willing to teach me. I wanted the black belt. It wasn’t just the black belt, but I wanted the legendary skills that black belts are believed to have. The day came and I tested for and received my black belt. That was a day I will never forget. That day also marks the date that martial arts became more difficult for me. It was after that date that I started questioning what I was doing in the martial arts—especially in Olympic taekwando where competition is a major factor.

After the bright glow of that special day died away I was able to look around and take stock of my situation. I was 43 years old. I was a big fellow with short legs. I was a non-athlete. The only thing I could do fast was talk. I had earned my black belt sure enough. I had learned my techniques. I had learned my forms. I had controlled my fears and sparred in several tournaments. I had put in the years of work. But in spite of all this I had to fight feelings of depression as I watched lean teenagers fire off roundhouses that break the sound barrier and float on air as they delivered jump spin hooks. My frustration was almost debilitating when I went to sparring classes where the oldest person present was half my age and ten times faster. Even while wearing my hard-earned black belt I felt like a white belt as their kicks rained down on me and I kicked nothing but air. And what was I after these experiences? Just a little older and slower. It occurred to me that perhaps I was just making a fool out of myself like the middle-aged dad who tries to take on teenage mannerisms in order to look younger. I wondered if maybe I could be using my evenings better than by spending them at the dojang trying to do things that the young could do well.

In spite of my frustrations and doubts I decided to compete in an international tournament. I had never competed at the black belt level. The idea scared me to death. But to validate myself and the black belt I had earned I reasoned that I needed to prove to myself that I had the courage to get in the ring in a tournament setting with another black belt. I didn’t need to win, but I needed to show no fear and to fight as hard and as well as I could. Of course I wasn’t stupid. I knew that at an international tournament they would be strict about keeping us in our age and weight class. I didn’t need to worry about being paired up with a 185 pound 24 year old black belt. Putting myself in the tournament ring with someone like that would be foolish. But still I had met plenty of strong, healthy 40 year olds at the gym and knew that I might draw an opponent who could make those four minutes on the mat miserable for me. I met my goals at the tournament—I showed no fear and I fought as hard and well as I could and I came home a happy man. It was through this experience—not just the tournament, but everything that led up to it--that I found the purpose of taekwando in my life.

When I made the decision to go to this tournament I knew it would probably be the only national or international tournament I would ever compete in. I wanted to make the best of it. I went into Rocky mode. Beginning two months before the tournament I was careful about what I ate. On non-taekwando workout days I did aerobic workouts and lifted weights. On taekwando nights I worked out with focus and determination. On Saturdays my 19 year old son, also a black belt, put me through some grueling, private workouts at the dojang. It was after one of these workouts while driving home still soggy with sweat that I realized how happy I felt. It was the time spent with my son. It was the exhausting workout. It was the approaching date of the tournament and the incentive that it was giving to my life. It was the entire process that was making me feel happy and alive. What would I be doing if I weren’t working out and exercising and driving toward a frightening goal? Watching TV? Puttering around the house? Whatever it was it wouldn’t be something that was as good for me and making me as happy as taekwando.

Did it matter that even after all this work I still wasn’t any better or at least much better than the mediocre, middle-aged taekwandoist I had been before all this started? No, it didn’t matter one bit. My happiness wasn’t based on the skill level I was achieving. If being happy in taekwando means you have to be as good as the successful 19 year old competitor then taekwando is a shallow activity with nothing to offer the world but a little entertainment . What was then and still now is making me happy with taekwando is simply practicing it! Do I want to get better at Taekwando? Do I have hopes of getting better? Yes and yes. But it isn’t the getting better at it that matters in the end. It is the doing it while trying to get better.

I have to drive an hour from the office in the evenings to reach my dojang. That hour drive after eight hours of demands at the office often leave me tired and a little ornery by the time I reach the dojang. As I stiffly get out of my car the thought of going into the dojang is not appealing. I need to go home, put my feet up, and read the paper. But I do go in and an hour later it never fails that I come out filled with energy and a smile on my face. It doesn’t matter if it was forms, or techniques, or sparring—the activities brought me back to life.

Currently, in addition to working for my second dan I am teaching now at my master’s dojang. I love teaching. It almost brings the same level of happiness that my own workouts bring—almost. Perhaps every young student that I teach will surpass me in taekwando ability due to their age natural ability. But none of them will ever surpass me in the happiness I feel during and after my own taekwando workouts. That is the beauty of taekwando and any martial art. Although individuals might not be equal in ability, the martial art gives the same level of happiness and life back to all practitioners—old and young alike—who practice with the right attitudes. Taekwando is good for me. It makes me happy. No matter how slow and old I get, I plan to keep practicing it until I can no longer stand.