One Month In At Atos

So, it’s been just over a month since we left the UK (give or take a couple of weeks, let’s call it “creative license” rather than “plain old laziness”).

We spent the beginning of November in Boston (more on that trip later) and the shift in location and temperature, along with some chunky moments holed up in a hotel room, gave me an ideal chance to look back and reflect on our metaphorical journey.

When we were planning the San Diego leg of our sabbatical, our ideas as to how it would be were mixed.

We were excited about training at an elite BJJ gym, and harboured fantasies where we would indulge in matplay on an almost 24/7 basis, soaking up information at warp speed.

On the flip-side, and given my six months or so of sporadic and psychologically troublesome training, I was also secretly terrified that I might rock up for my first class, get smashed about, cry pitifully and publically and then give up for good.

I’m not sure how well I kept this feeling under wraps – we did have a couple of roundabout discussions about how the trip might be a great chance for me to take up drawing.

As it happens, and perhaps unsurprisingly given the “let’s chuck everything we know out of the window and do something different and unplanned” nature of the trip, the reality of the first month has worked out, well, different from our predictions.

First up, and I’ve mentioned this before, the intensity of the Atos training came as a big shock.

This is a reflection on me rather than any of my UK teachers or clubs, but there are ways to use chitchat, loo breaks and brand new whitebelts with zero defence to cruise through a class. That doesn’t happen at Atos. After each session you will want nothing more than a four-hour bath, your body weight in carbs and hibernation.

If you’re on a whirlwind gym tour, or are ramping up for competition season, there might be logic in charging on through the physical destruction regardless and just clocking up the mat hours. But as I crashed straight into illness at the beginning of week two, and with a full eleven weeks ahead of us, I was forced to reassess.

So, one month later, what’s different?

Well, first up I’m training less.

I know some of you will see that as a step in the wrong direction, but I’ve realised that going into a session exhausted, sore and bitchy is a guarantee that I’ll forget the techniques, perform horribly in sparring and leave the class feeling frustrated. Jiu Jitsu is a sport where you ask people to bully you, there’s no room for a simultaneous “it’s so unfair” inner monologue. And whilst one or two off days might be par for the course, skipping the rest and then experiencing a 4:1 ratio of sh*t:passable was threatening to kill my love of the sport entirely.

It’s still a work in progress, but on those days where my gymwards journey is plagued with “Oh, the wind is too cold/my rucksack is too heavy/the bus driver is too rude” type commentary, I just turn around, head homewards and try and get back on form for the next session.

On the subject of unfairness, Atos is a place where pretty much everyone is likely to be bigger, stronger or more technical than you (more normally a combination of the above). There won’t be anyone you can tap for a quick ego boost and you will work your excuses all the way down from “they’re a world champion black belt,” through “they’re a world champion brown/purple/blue belt” to “they just won the kids section at the Worlds.”

Around the time I got schooled on the mats by a 17 year old, and out-Bulgarian bagged by a couple of 11 year olds, I learnt that a new definition of “a good training session” was necessary. These days I try, and again, it’s a work in progress, to give myself a pat on the back for smaller things (like movement, defence, stamina, attempting new techniques etc) and chuck the tap count in the bin.

It’s not the only comparison I’m giving up. My fallback position, and one which has threatened to ruin my BJJ path more than once, is to self-flagellate with the “you were better back in 2009” mantra. Despite being distinctly rose-tinted, and housing a very public burnout, I always envisioned the me of three years ago as fitter, faster and more invincible. And I used that belief to ruin pretty much any session I had since (the good old “well, it was ok, but you gotta work to get back to the pinnacle of yesteryear” defence).

In a rare talking (rather than shouting) moment, and after a particularly gruelling Saturday conditioning session, Coach Nave suggested that a start point of now might be a more helpful foundation for progress. I’m 39, I’ve got some injuries to work around, and my life outside the sport is incomparable (I have one for starters). For the coming months that’s the base material I’m working with.

So, that’s where I’m up to after the first month.

Because I’m only hitting the mats when I feel positive, training is a pleasant experience about 80% of the time (when it’s not, I look at factors that might have played a part before falling into the pit of despair). Thanks to the “no water, no breaks” regime, I’m getting used to challenging myself, and not just throwing in the towel. I’m starting to perform better, and to get my confidence back. And I’m noticing the wealth of new techniques on display at Atos (even if they’re used to kick my arse) and feeling inspired to get to grips with them.

The plan for month two involves a shift in schedule to focus on BJJ first, and conditioning second, and to take in more classes taught by the man himself (Andre Galvao). Along with that all important sofa time, of course…

Version 2.0

I have always wanted a tattoo.

Since teenagehood I have been obsessed with ink, piercing, scars, anything that leaves a mark, or a story on the body. I’m probably the only person who has a session of Chinese cupping and feels sad when the bruises fade.

Given my fanaticism, you’d expect me to be head-to-toe covered in permanent art. But the truth of the matter is I’ve always been afraid to make that commitment. I’m a love-it-or-hate-it type of person, and my taste is wildly fickle. Plus, I’m still a bit scared of my mum, and my mum hates tattoos. For 38 years I’ve made do with obscene levels of tattoo groupiedom around friends with ink (sorry to everyone whose arms, legs and chests I’ve creepily pored over) and talk of “the best tattoo in the world I’m going to get at some unspecified point in the future”.

This trip, however, was about a new start - a different way of living and some alternate ways of thinking. Yes, it also featured Brazilian Jiu Jitsu quite heavily, but more than that I was beginning to recognise some patterns in my behaviour that were really counterproductive.

The eternal fearfulness that meant I never really stepped into something unfamiliar in case it worked out badly.

The “martyrdom” that meant I prioritised keeping everyone else on side over making myself happy (undoubtedly the misery that accompanied the martyrdom drove friends, family and partners up the wall).

And the desperate desire to be the best at everything that continued way past school and university, and regularly ran me flat into the ground.

With my 39th birthday hurtling round the corner, I had a real moment of clarity – one that said “You’re about half way through life, and you haven’t really started living yet. How much longer are you planning on waiting?”

It was time for a reboot, a Lisa Version 2.0. Taking the last 38 years as a test run, and using it to build something stronger, braver and more “in the moment”.

I wanted something to mark this commitment to change, something that wasn’t detracted from by “but what ifs?” And so, with roughly three days planning, and five days before we left for the States, I got 2.0 tattooed on my ankle.

Obviously this was a few weeks ago - the new Lisa Version 2.0 might be badass, but she’s still a bit scared of Mum Version 1.0 (we’ve got 2 months to go before the Christmas reunion, so maybe the UN can settle matters before then).

The tattoo itself was done by a very good friend of mine, MMA fighter Pete Irving. He’s currently apprenticing as a tattooist and it was my way of taking my pals with me on my travels.

As it happens, the 2.0 tattoo has come in handy in other ways. When I handed in my notice, got rid of my flat, sold my possessions and moved across the globe, I assumed change would happen automatically. After all, pretty much every element of familiarity was gone.

And the first week was definitely new and exciting, filled with an adrenalin-type rush. Our brains quite regularly couldn’t comprehend the enormity and consequences of chucking so much into the air, and so we flipped into holiday mode, bouncing merrily between beaches and BJJ mats with glee.

Around the middle of week two though, I started noticing a shift, one that was making me a little sad and deflated.

In an environment where everything was chaotic and unfamiliar, we had started building frameworks that made it more like the old life.

We didn’t have jobs to go to, but we had a gym schedule, classes to hit, people who expected us to be there. We had chores to complete, laundry to run, breakfast slots in the motel to wake up for.

Instead of the “letting go and uncovering what I really want to do” mantra I had recited to myself, we were both finding ways to organise, and hurry, and prioritise. Rest was squeezed in between things, a commodity that would enable the other stuff on the “To Do list.”

I’ll be honest here, I don’t think it was accidental that we slipped back into “I’ll get round to it after…” future mode.

Racing on and "achieving", be that belts, jobs or weight loss, is tough. Standing still is sometimes more intimidating. What if you don't like where you're at, see mistakes that you've made, or mourn opportunities you've missed?

But without stopping, it's impossible to really change. After all, you have to take stock to even know where you're starting from.

At times where I notice I'm reverting to old habits, it helps to have a tiny 2.0 on my foot.

It reminds me to keep changing. I don't want it to end up as a faded, meaningless piece of nothing – the proverbial dolphin tattooed on a drunken hen night.

And the funniest thing is that after 38 years of "what will I find that looks good enough forever?" type stress, the design itself is secondary - it's the permanence I like the most. It is, and was, a way to mark a snapshot in time. And at least it doesn't say #YOLO.

18 hours in just ten paragraphs

So, last Friday was the Day Of Travel. Post binning, bagging, boxing and baying, this is what I’m left with.

Suitcase number one is holiday clothes. We are banking on California living up to its ‘Sunshine State’ reputation. On the upside, vest tops and cut downs don’t take up a heap of space.

The drawback is that since we stashed our winter garbs up in the Warminster loft, London has decided to get all autumnal on our asses, which lead to me going out in Havaianas whilst this was happening.

Here’s hoping the desert air can cure another bout of snottiness.

Suitcase number two is Brazilian Jiu Jitsu apparel. Whilst the boyfriend’s primary motivation for picking the US of A is to worship, correction, *train* at Multiple World Champion Andre Galvao’s Atos academy, my own dalliance with the sport has been touch and go of late. Still, I’d hate to have an epiphany and then find I have nothing to wear.

The mini suitcase is full of camera equipment, leads, computer harddrives etc. It’s breaking the two bag rule a bit, but it’s hand luggage and we’re hoping to wear and ditch some of the other stuff on the way back.

Onto Heathrow airport, and flight BA 273. By some strange twist of fate, the Worst Possible Idea’s launch day was accompanied by The Day I Was Picked As The Security Control Passenger. Or so they told me anyway. Between online check-in and boarding the vehicle, I was stopped and sent back twice, had my belongings unpacked twice, and was patted down twice. After five separate incidents where staff surreptitiously flicked over their paperwork to confirm my name was on their secret list, even I was questioning my connections and wondering if I’d accidentally joined an extremist sect. After all, I do like talking to strangers and I’m not the best at concentrating.

Boyfriend and I took up residence on the plane, which was kindly chilled to match the outside air temperature (at 30,000 feet). I bravely battled on by stealing every blanket in the vicinity, doing my best ET impression and tucking into the free wine.

Ten and a half hours later (three of which were spent unconscious on my part) we landed, and were greeted by Homeland Security, and an hour-long queue. If anyone is thinking about illegally hopping into San Diego, I’d say skip it, those guys have a talent for analysis that would shame Sigmund Freud.

This is what people look like after half a day in the air travel system. The rings under my eyes could be exhaustion or a migration of mascara, by this point I was past caring. It was time for a taxi to the illustrious-sounding ‘California Suites,’ our home for the next two weeks…

Losing the baggage, or losing my mind?

I heart stuff. From the coffee table books, to the cupboards full of shoes, to the tatty old bus tickets “just in case I need to remember”, I am a master-hoarder.

But in light of the recent decision, stuff doesn’t work anymore. Stuff needs storage, and storage costs money. And second to stuff, having enough money in the bank to pay for a hotel room or an emergency plane ticket is what makes me feel secure enough to embark on the Worst Possible Idea.

So it’s time to delve into the deepest, darkest corners (both metaphorically and literally – I actually have a space in my room affectionately known as ‘”the mouse cupboard”) and embark on a clearout.

Operation Ditch The Baggage operates on three levels:

1) If it can be sold on eBay, list it. Even if only raises 99p, and involves a painstaking triage of “how much will it cost to ship to Tasmania?”, “what is the measurement around the inside of the armpit?” and “can you send me a photo of the underside of the sole?” type questioning, followed by hours in the post office queue (a place where time stands still and iphone signals are zero) it will be uploaded. Even though it makes the minimum wage look like a “Get Rich Quick” scheme in comparison, every penny counts when it comes to the Travel Fund.

2) If it can’t be sold on eBay, it goes to charity. I need all the good karma I can get.

3) If it’s not really selling type stuff (that’d be the old bus tickets then) it goes in the bin. I will admit to misusing wine at this point.

The upshot of Operation DTB is a house full of boxes, carrier bags, rucksacks, envelopes and courier parcels for about four weeks. I make a few hundred quid (extra thanks to the boyfriend, flatmate and my mum for donating their unwanted bits to the eBay cause) and some new friends (my word, not theirs) at the Post Office. I have a lot of weird dreams (sorting through 20 odd years of old letters will do that to you) and end up with two 23kg suitcases of holiday-based belongings and some house things which we will stash in the boyfriend’s mum’s loft.

Two weekends before we leave, we drive the housey stuff up to said loft. Despite a bit of pre-pickup wonkiness (“I might have forgotten which pedal is which in the car”), I discover a natural affinity with the white van man.

You might imagine that these emerging talents, coupled with the newly minimalist belongings, would result in a state of inspired zen calm. Not exactly so. Half the time I’m gleefully transferring 99p increments from PayPal into my bank account, overloading the charity shop, and slinging black sacks into the bin. But in the early hours of the morning, or whenever the wine wears off, I also find myself wondering if I’m perilously close to a breakdown. Is this spiritual cleansing, or some crazy nihilistic attempt to delete my entire existence? Would I be able to tell the difference?

I find myself staring at empty cupboards, thinking “Christ, I had such great storage in this flat, will I ever have such brilliant hanging space again?” The final round of goodbyes, and encouraging “We’ll miss you” declarations prompt legions of “I love my friends and family so much, and I’m so happy, and sad, but mainly happy, actually I’m not really sure” teary meltdowns, to the bemusement of my boyfriend.

But as the last few boxes are offloaded, and my place in the flat is slowly transferred over to the new inhabitants, it dawns on me that even if I’m veering closer to cuckootown than San Diego, it’s a decidedly one-way street.

The seed of an idea

Anyone who knows me, knows I love a list. I also take pessimism and risk-assessment to award-winning levels. If there was a yearly trophy for ‘Most Likely To Find 100 Obscure Reasons Why Something Will Go Wrong’ I’d have a cabinet full.

Whilst that particular skill comes in handy in my work as a television producer (“Watch out for the moving vehicle/rain-bearing cloud in the east/man making V signs in the corner of the shot/imminent presenter meltdown”) it has on more occasions than not, also made me miserable. And (as I’m sure my other half will testify) a bit of a pain in the arse. I might yearn for a life full of arthouse-inspired passion, but when you can shoot down even a walk to the corner shop within milliseconds (“What will we buy, how does that fit into the eating plan and should I take a jumper?”), it rather kills the spontaneity.

I’ll be 39 at the end of October, and with the encroaching birthday comes the realisation that I’ve probably spent half of my life governed by an over-arching need to stop everything going belly-up. In jobs, houses, relationships…I’ve stuck it out with the mantra of “it might be grim, but imagine if it got worse.” Ironically quite often it has – I’ve lost jobs, boyfriends and houses anyway – but even when things are going ok, I’ve managed to find something to fret about. I’ve had dream jobs (filming all over the world for MTV, spending all day thinking about colour palettes as a Creative Director, chatting on Facebook in the name of Social Media Strategy), and I’ve had a fairly dream salary bracket too. I’ve still found something new to worry about - what my boss will say if I take a day off, whether my shiny new laptop will get stolen, whether that mark on the leather sofa will cause me to lose the deposit on my flat. In short, I’ve built some very gilded cages for myself.

When I met my boyfriend, he was planning a six-month sabbatical, a trip across the world to train Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. And whilst our relationship developed, and the prospect of missing him loomed ever larger, another less-romantically-admirable emotion was building too. I was jealous. I’d watched friends, family members and exes follow their dreams (or even just a whim) and head off to foreign shores. And they all seemed to be doing ok. And yet I was still tied to that sofa, watching my bank balance, sniffling into my tissues (I have a real talent for colds) and muttering “Well, that’s great for them, but there’s so many reasons why I couldn’t do it.”

I don’t know why or how or when, but there was a moment where I just got bored of myself. It was probably less “Carpe Diem” and more “For Pete’s sake, how long is this game going on for?” but I came to the realisation that a few potential mistakes have to be better than a lifetime of feeling mildly disgruntled.

At the end of the day, it was just a decision. Right or wrong, I am going to put trying to control everything on hold, and just live a bit.

It started with a click...

Yesterday afternoon, we booked two tickets to San Diego. On 28th September, me and my boyfriend will be off to 'America's finest city.' So far, so same as the other 31 million tourists who drop by.

Before we fly however, we'll get rid of our houses in the UK. We're ditching our jobs. We're eBaying and bin bagging and loft stashing till we can fit everything left into a couple of 23kg suitcases. And we're hitting the runway with an Esta, a two week budget hotel booking, and not much else.

Where we end up this time next year, both mentally and geographically, is a gamble. This could be the worst possible idea. On the other hand, it might just work out.