Skill and the Rules

Early in my martial arts days, I recall that I had a certain distaste for ‘organized’ martial arts. My excuses were similar to those tossed around by people who dislike ‘Organized’ religion: too much ritualism, separation from the truth, breeding ground for hypocrisy, cultivation of general ignorance – etc.

Now, I never really agreed with the arguments against organized religion, since faith seems to be an issue of individuality, therefore making problems with religion (organized or not) purely personal problems; but I was avidly against martial traditionalism in my early days, perhaps without realizing the parallel mentioned above.

In my mind, it was a matter of winning. I interpreted Musashi’s ‘victory is the goal of strategy’ theme to literally mean that the ends justify the means in martial arts just as they do in dire conflict. I feel that I understand now that this is not necessarily the case.

As is common among young and untrained fighters, I was fixated on overpowering and physically crushing opponents, using various arts to that end without regard for the art or for its employment (Musashi even noted this about himself when he was older). This is all-too-common within MMA and extreme fighting circles, and is unfortunately gaining momentum in ‘Mixed Sword-Fighting’ (an amalgamation of several unrelated sword arts pitted against each other in a single tournament). The result is a degeneration of more refined aspects of older arts whose nuance is retained through the traditional approach to training.

In swordsmanship, one finds through research that many types of swords and armor exist throughout the world and arts developed to properly wield the longer-lived varieties. Those arts that met frequently throughout history developed to counter each other, while those that never met developed disregarding other styles. With this in mind, one can imagine combat between unmatched arts, but real examples are rarely seen – and learning enough about more than one art to effectively merge them would require extensive training and experience as well as a weapon that could be used for the variable techniques. (For example, a katana could be used for saber fighting as well as Kenjustu with a little creativity; but a saber could not easily be used in Kenjustu, since it requires its used being limited to one hand – also, a katana would not be as well suited for the mounted portion of combat saber skills, since most have shorter blades and would have to be held with the right hand near the pommel instead of the tsuba. Further, a saber might be useable for Iaido, but would require stylistic adaptation to offset its more forward balance and greater length. In both cases, the limited conceivable interchangeability between the katana and European saber is based purely upon the fact that they share certain geometric elements.)

All that said, deviating too far from the arts that were developed over centuries of trial and error in real combat will result in an overdependence upon natural ability and luck and this, as Musashi put it, is not the true way.

Developing reproducible techniques that can be refined through observation and cultivating form that takes the utmost advantage of body and weapon offers the stability that one needs to defeat opponents consistently. The difference between this approach to martial arts and the approach of the undisciplined, but naturally-skilled fighter is the same as that which exists between the idea of surviving on money earned through steady employment and surviving solely on money earned playing poker.

In battle, the end goal must always be victory. Even sacrificial losses are allowed with victory in mind; but in martial arts, especially in sport and in practice, victory is an intangible thing. Both opponents fight for the sake of cultivating greater skill or to demonstrate prowess – in the end, both expect to walk away, harboring no ill will one toward another. In this case (the art) the ends should not be expected to justify the means as might be acceptable in a life and death struggle. The purpose of the art is to perfect the person, who through effort enriches the art. The victory in training is merely a side effect of demonstrating greater skill – which in turn shows the superior artist.
Once again, swordsmanship seems more able to exemplify this dichotomy between fighting to win and fighting to grow. The need to win with one blow while preventing your opponent from winning with one blow makes a focus on skills foremost. Through training, the swordsman gains the strength necessary to wield the sword, finding excess strength useful but unnecessary. Increasing speed and reaction time is a constant goal as is learning the myriad methods of employing various techniques in time with an opponent’s activity. The skills one acquires through training and experience are what wins for the swordsman, while luck and strength tend to take a side seat in battle.

It has been said that some men are born naturally stronger and some are born naturally lucky, but none fall from the womb with any skill. Since swordsmanship takes great advantage of this even plain of acquired skills, matches between swordsmen are not merely clashes of opposing will, but tests of skill – and skill can not be measured properly without established criteria.

In a real battle, the end would be determined by the death or maiming of one combatant. Thus, in that case, using any means necessary to separate the enemy from his life is perfectly acceptable, provided that victory is attained at the end of the encounter. However, a victory of skill over skill is a bit more elusive and must be judged under controlled conditions; otherwise one would have to account for millions of minute factors that would skew analysis to the point that proof of ‘winning’ due to superior swordsmanship alone would be impossible to substantiate.

Now, to some it is enough to merely win, but merely beating the opponent down or cutting him or shooting him first is not the goal of the martial artist. That is the use of the art and its end purpose in practice, but it is not to be confused with the goal of the artist himself. The goal of the artist is to grow ever more adept, so that employing the art for practical purposes becomes more natural and consistent. This goal is what separates the martial artist from the brawler, the swordsman from the berserker, and the marksman from the gunner.

As a swordsman, I have found it more important to know that I have improved than to know that I can win a duel against this or that person. Perhaps in keeping with the archetype, I do sometimes focus on defeating an individual if they are particularly skilled, but more often than not, matches are just experiments from which I determine my level of proficiency. In order for the experiment to produce useful information, the variables must be controlled and monitored – i.e. rules must be known and strictly obeyed.

If I were to fight without the constraints of the art’s competition structure, I would be unable to tell if victory came as a result of my superior swordsmanship, or as a result of some other factor that had nothing to do with my skills as a swordsman.

As I am sure the reader could imagine, winning by any means other than honorable use of sword skills feels the same to a serious swordsman as cheating or winning by forfeit – it is simply unacceptable.

In the end I found that this is why the rules are important and why the ‘establishment’ represented by ancient arts is necessary for true expressions of ability to be judged and measured.

Perhaps in the open battlefield, it is obviously better to take the paper-rock-scissors approach to fighting, using the most effective means necessary to effect victory without regard for what that means might be or how use of such means reflects on the individual fighter. But to those specialists who wish to gain more from a fight than merely the destruction of opponents, paper vs. paper, rock vs. rock, and scissors vs. scissors is the only approach that seems logical.
Let the swordsman say to his foe, “I will fight you with the same weapon and the same equipment on level ground and I will obey your rules of engagement, so when I win it will be known to all that it was because I was the better swordsman,”

Intangible Treasure

Fox felt a bit angry about the situation in which he found himself; a kid he didn’t know was accusing him of something he didn’t do. Not only that, he was citing the camp rules, which would have Fox coughing up a dollar bill as a penalty for the crime for which he had been accused.

It had been almost a full week at the little church camp to which Fox and his brother had been sent. They were the only two their age in their tiny rural church, so they had been sent along with the children of a church with a larger congregation. As such, they were outcasts – and church children were just as cruel and cliquish as any other variety. The two boy kept to themselves, but had no beefs with any of the other campers, essentially maintaining a neutral stance regarding practically all they had experienced.

The camp itself was pleasant and far from the noise and nocturnal lights of the city. An arboreal wall surrounded the camp and cabins on all sides, encapsulating the little camp in a world unto itself. The rules were simple, and the schedule was consistent and regimented. Life was different than that which one would expect at home, but was not uncomfortable. However, one particular rule stood out on the list: Never litter or allow littering; for this command was the only one with a promise attached – anyone caught littering would forfeit a dollar to the individual who could catch him in the act and prove it to be so.

This turned many of the younger children into little hunters, spying desperately for anyone who might be so unfortunate as to drop a bit of waste within their immediate vicinity. The older kids seemed less affected by the councilors’ gutless attempt to turn them against each other, but were nonetheless inclined to search for offenders with their peripheral vision whenever they found themselves a bit short of change for one of the mess hall vending machines. As a result, the camp was clean – almost spotless – at all times, day and night.

Fox and his brother enjoyed fishing, capture the flag, and various other competitions of skill; making a point to best their many rivals whenever possible. The counselors eventually became aware of the nature of the two boys’ stay at the camp, learning that they were the only attendees from their church and that even their bunkmates did not know them or anything about them. They took pity on the brothers and began to show them a bit of extra attention when the two of them showed themselves capable of holding their own in competitions with churches having much larger teams of children. They won dodge ball, they won swimming races, they won trivia games, tug of war, eating contests…the pair often facing opposing teams double or triple their number.

The days passed without incident, but it became apparent as the camping drew to a close, that some of the campers from larger schools felt a bit slighted by the prowess of the brothers from the countryside. This became apparent with the increasing ease with which Fox or his brother might receive insult from certain of the other campers. It seemed as if a few of the other children could be agitated to wrath by the slightest lapse in etiquette; a situation which irritated young Fox intensely. Nevertheless, the grossly outnumbered pair were compelled to adapt in order maintain a peaceful environment, a few times smilingly accepting slights which might normally have sparked an altercation.

In the end, it was the rule that seemed the best way to get someone at the little camp. To simultaneously embarrass someone, lower the counselors’ opinion of them, and deprive them of their money. It had the potential to be used as a potent and rather profitable weapon, were one so inclined.

Fox had just swallowed the last of his diet Dr. Pepper and set the can on the rough surface of the weathered picnic table from which he had been watching his brother play basketball with several other kids. Fox had no use for sports and often avoided them whenever doing so was an option. When the game was finished, his brother called him from the court and Fox stood from his seat as if to walk over to him. At the fall of his first step, a young boy appeared behind him, swiping he can from the table, “Ha! You owe me a dollar!”

“No I don’t,” Fox retorted irritably, “I just now set that down, that’s not littering – its right where I was sitting,”

“Sure, sure,” The boy replied with notable sarcasm, “You were walking away. You’re just acting like that ‘cause you got caught,” the young accuser rushed off in the direction of the nearest counselor without another word.

Fox watched him, appalled to silence. He recognized the boy as one of those during his stay who seemed impossible to please, always having some reason to treat Fox and some of the less popular campers with obvious distain.

Fox walked hurriedly to the counselor, encountering an accusation already in progress.

“Is this true?” the old man asked the approaching defendant, “This young man says he caught you littering,”

“That’s a lie,” Fox stated calmly, “This kid took my Coke can right off the table where I was sitting,”

“He was walking away,”

“I just stood up and you swiped it right out from under me!”

“I did not!”

Fox glared briefly at his accuser, then turned to his judge, “I know the rule, sir – why would I leave a can on the table for this jerk to pick up? The trash can is right there, why would I risk a dollar by leaving the can there?”

The counselor seemed effected by clarity of the defendant’s logic, but the rule was the rule and it was already clear that discounting the other child’s accusation would only appear as favoritism to the other campers, “Is that so?”

“On my honor,” Fox assured, “Absolutely,”

The other boy had not ceased to deny Fox’s every word, “I caught him fair and square,” he repeated, “This litterbug owes me a buck – there’s not point in arguing about it,” he held up the can, “This is the proof,”

The counselor took the empty vessel and took a deep breath, “Okay, okay, I guess you’re right. The rule is the rule,”

Fox’s confident expression dissolved into a look of disbelief. The other kid won?

The old man reached into his back pocket and drew out his own wallet, withdrawing a single dollar bill, which he handed to Fox’s accuser, “There,” he said, “That is that. I’ll settle-up with Fox latter, now run along. Let’s not have any more fighting,”

The selfish little boy snatched the dollar, seeming momentarily confused, but wasting no time in shooting Fox a victorious grin before pocketing the bill and trotting away.

Fox merely stared at the counselor, not quite sure what to expect.

The old deacon turned to him and smiled, “You’re free to go, son. Don’t worry about that just now,”

“But?”

“I have been watching you,” he said, almost proudly, “I have seen you pick up litter yourself, but rather than come to me like that boy did, you just tossed it in the trashcan. You’re a strong one. You and your brother both, but not just strong in the arms and legs – you’ve got some spiritual strength too. I’ve been here a while and I have not seen many kids who would obey the rules and then go out of their way to do the right thing without being asked or seeking a profit,”

Fox smiled and looked at his shoes.

“To tell the truth,” the counselor continued, “I was surprised that boy was accusing you like that, because it really looked like you had done what he said,”

Fox looked up.

The old man smiled, “But you swore on our honor that you didn’t,”

“That’s why you gave him the dollar out of you own pocket?” Fox was incredulous.

“I did it cause I believed you when you said that,” the counselor replied, tossing the can into the trashcan, “‘on your honor’ your pretty young to talk like that, but from what I have seen, you seem to have some idea what honor means – that’s why I gave that boy a dollar. Reputation is a powerful thing,”

The child had nothing profound to say to the old man at the time; he merely thanked the counselor and rushed off to meet his brother a few dozen meters away. He never met him again, never even thinking to ask his name, but Fox would carry that last phrase with him for years.

Here the main character of the story experiences an event that acts to reinforce his developing chivalric, warrior ethos. At this point in his life, he has begun to adapt to his rural life and has added several of his rough, US Marine stepfather’s philosophies to his own knightly ideals. It is also at this point that the concept of budo begins to take root in his mind.

Weight and Strength

In recent years, I have taken the time to experiment with weight loss and gain as a method through which I would shift the emphasis of my personal performance from strength to agility, and the like.

Essentially speaking, I began this when I made the decision to move from my personal training to a more structured environment, i.e. joining a kendo dojo. Before that time, I had taken my brief karate training and expanded upon it through personal study and regular physical training. These ‘workouts’ often involved sparring with people who far outclassed me and who (in most cases) had received formal training from one fighting art or another. However, they were mostly what I would call ‘fist and foot’ arts, which traditionally tend to yield the advantage the biggest, strongest, and most durable of competitors. As such, I found that I had a natural advantage over many of my more skilled opponents, and through lifting weights, jumping rope, and working the heavy bag, I was able to approach the level of some of the more powerful of my teachers over time. In almost every case, winning at first appeared to be a matter of skill and speed, but as sparring progressed, it became more evident that real fisticuffs was a matter of hitting hard and enduring hard hits – in other words, no-holds-barred sparring often ended as a matter of situational awareness coupled with brute strength.

At the time, I weighed about 260 pounds at a height of about 6’3”. I did not appear to be of ponderous weight, due to my height and the distribution of my body mass, but I would have guessed myself to be about 60 pounds over my ideal/minimum athletic weight. That said, I rarely found it to be a problem during sparring, whether I was grappling or striking; even my swordsmanship was at the capacity of the average ‘Fist and Foot’ fighter. In fact, it was often advantageous to be so heavy, as I was able to hold my center of gravity against practically any opponent unable to shoulder at least half of my weight. In addition, I have since noted that the relatively even weight distribution (aka: the even fat layer coating my whole body – as opposed to just having a fat belly) added extra mass to my arms and legs, which yielded a higher impact inertia than would be possible with my limbs at lean mass. This, of course, was discovered once I began shedding weight which I will discuss a bit later.

I have seen parallels of this observation in Asian martial arts and sports such as Sumo and Korean wrestling styles, where being what would be considered grossly overweight by social standards is actually desirable because of the proportionate gains in impact force and the ability to retain CG control. A correlation seems to appear in old strongman photos and descriptions and can be observed in powerlifting masters around the world. Most of these men are easily overweight by anywhere between 60 to 100+ pounds, but are able to lift and move enormous loads in addition to their own bodyweight.

Having thought about this quite a bit in recent years, it occurred to me that Hollywood has essentially put the wrong image of strength into the mind of the average westerner. Guys like Arnold are indeed quite strong, but nothing compared to the upper human limits displayed by some of these rotund titans we witness pulling airplanes and throwing small cars. That is, however, not the point of this article. The point is that at 60 pounds overweight, I observed my force output to be higher than it is now that I am down to my ‘Kendo weight’ despite the fact that the muscle is still there and the weight-lifting shows that little strength has been lost.

When I decided to focus more upon pure swordsmanship, I began to reduce my intake and change my diet a bit, thereby losing weight at a regular rate of about 1 or 2 pounds per week, reaching my current weight of around 200lbs. nearly a year later. I recall at first, feeling an exceedingly energetic feeling – something which is commonly descried by dieters after the first 10 of 20 pounds has been shed. This is naturally due to your body still overcompensating for the weight of fat that is no longer present. During the time at which the body regulates muscular output to save energy once wasted carrying those extra pounds, one feels light and energetic, but the status quo eventually creeps in.

With regular exercise and speed training, I found that I was able to offset the ‘Status Quo’ a little, but the training was not the same as wearing the weight 24/7, and a certain loss of output occurred over time. So, while my endurance steadily increased along with my speed and agility, squats seemed to get heavier and the heavy bag seemed harder.

The reader may already be aware that offsetting impact force lost by weight reduction requires an increase in velocity, so that is how I learned to compensate with punches and kicks, but I have found that the balance and ease with which the heavier me rattled the bag in the past is something I have all but completely lost – no matter how fast one swings a claw hammer, a sledge hammer will always hit harder.

That fact aside, I found that once the feeling of ‘I’m lighter and faster now’ degenerated into the feeling that I had always been so, I had the strong desire to regain that lasting ‘unladed’ feeling I experienced at the onset. At that time I was a 210 pound man moving with muscles that were used to hefting 260 pounds day and night – everything was easier then. But as my body grew accustomed to the new weight, it began to save its energy as if it suddenly realized that such effort was no longer required. As a result, I was no longer able to have that degree of muscular output without conscious effort.

So what is the solution? If being heavy gives a fighter a little bit of an advantage in stability at the sacrifice of a bit of endurance and being lighter allows for greater mobility at the sacrifice of stopping power, are they not essentially both void of the completeness a martial artist might inevitably seek? I suppose the answer is yes, but this would be based upon my own personal observation and might be answered differently by different people. The solution would require a simplified explanation of the problem, which is essentially how to maintain the middle ground wherein one still possesses the reflex output of a heavy person, while being able to use that output as excess strength due to the fact that one is not actually as heavy as his body is inclined to think. I believe that it can be achieved by regularly lading the body with the weight it once had and operating with caution until one reaches a comfort level that allows for normal movement under the load. Once the adaptation is complete, a fighter should be able to take advantage of the adaptation at will by removing the burden.

I believe that examples of this type of training have been used by monks in China as well as swordsmen in mountainous areas like Korea. If the burden is borne with regularity, the effects of its removal are more pronounced and last longer. In my own experimentation, I was able to regain my 60 excess pounds in the form of weighted clothes and a backpack full of stones. Weeks of practice with the weight on my body started very slowly. Everything was slow and deliberate at first, but eventually movement became more natural. After months of wearing weight on my ankles all day everyday and wearing a weighted backpack everywhere I walked, I found that I was slowly growing stronger and faster. Whenever I removed the packs and weights, I was able to move as if I weighed 140lbs. My body had become accustomed to carrying that extra load for such a long time that my muscle-memory had accepted the load as my normal bodyweight. I toyed with the idea weeks on and weeks off to determine if there were any side effects, but found none to speak of (provided that one works up slowly to their training weight – the body can handle vast loads, but it will be at the cost of one’s less flexible components. In order for the body to get stronger, the whole must grow together, not just the muscles. For a true change, the training must take place over time).

I will continue my training for the time being and will gradually increase weight until I am able to move freely under the burden of at least half of my bodyweight. According to my experiments to date, this could lend itself to a great deal of power for both swordsmanship and Fist arts. I look forward to seeing the results.