It seems that every month or so, I get asked about whether aikido is “effective” as a martial art. I don’t particular care for this question, because you can define “effective” in so many ways. Effective on the street? Effective on the field of battle? Effective in a school? Effective because anyone can do it? I could go on, but you get the idea. We need to remember that, in the case of a physical confrontation, the winner does not indicate the best martial art, but rather the best martial artist at that time and at that place.

That said, I understand why people ask the question. Studying a martial art is extremely difficult and very time-consuming. It is only natural–I would even say it is recommended–that people question the effectiveness of their training. To those asking this question, now, I’ll give you the answer I often give: “Aikido is effective. More importantly, our training system is effective for the goals we want to accomplish.”

In aikido, we are not interested in fighting. You could even say that we are only marginally interested in self-defense. What we are interested in is balance. How to take it, how to keep it, how to use it. This is different from striking arts, which focus on how to block and how to hit. It is also (and many people get confused here) different from grappling arts (like judo), which focus on more on takedowns and pins. In aikido, we focus on how to keep our balance as much as possible, and how to take the balance of our attackers. From there, we next study what to do with an off-balanced opponent. Throw them to the ground? Set them down gently? Hit them? Any of these responses may well be appropriate–it is our job to understand the choices that are available, and how to take advantage of them as needed.

One particular challenge people have with aikido is that they only trust it partway. What I mean is this: they initialize an aikido technique, but when encounter a problem or resistance they immediately revert back to instincts. This usually means trying to hit or grapple. There are two problems here. First, there is no guarantee that strike or a takedown will work. There is a reason why MMA, boxing, wrestling, and other arts have weight classes. Putting someone who weighs 200 pounds in a ring with someone who weighs 135 doesn’t make a lot of sense. The second problem is more obvious. In aikido, we study that narrow sliver of time between an attacker’s commitment and an attacker’s connection. This seems very difficult (and sometimes is) but it really is no different than a baseball player learning how to hit a baseball. But because we focus so much on this moment, we don’t study how to hit or grapple as much. So the second problem is that we just aren’t as good at hitting and grappling!

Instead, what I encourage all aikido students–all martial arts students, in fact–is to trust your training. If the principles you study are sound, then by trusting in them you will eventually have a reliable set of movements that will serve you well. And if they are not sound, then you will learn quickly that the art is not effective and you need to move on. The bad news: this information does not come to you quickly. The good news it also shouldn’t take months or years. A good school with a good group of students should give you the opportunity to test the principles of a martial art, and you should at least get some preliminary results of those tests within a month or so. You may not be very good at the art, but at least you should have a sense of “Interesting. I think I see how this works.”

You will be surprised how much you can do when you learn to trust your training. It’s only when you doubt that you hinder your progress.

Tsuki kotegaeshi is an interesting technique. For the uninitiated, the technique is a defense against a straight punch. The response leads to a joint lock that involves the attacker’s wrist turned in a way not normally recommended. It’s an old technique, harking back to the day when someone was likely to charge you on the field of battle. Today, it is less relevant from a self-defense perspective, primarily because people aren’t normally on the battlefield—they’re in a bar, or a schoolyard. The punch is different.

So why learn the technique? The answer is simple. There is so much going on in tsuki kotegaeshi: how to enter, how to turn, how to use your hips to take balance, how to control, how to apply power, how to show restraint. This one technique packs more content than a dozen other, more “practical” techniques.

But we can take this further. Even in a fundamental technique like tsuki kotegaeshi, there are layers of functionality. For example, a lot of students get distracted by the kotegaeshi response. They are so focused on the jointlock, that they lose sight of a more basic principle: the importance of taking your attacker off-balance. To highlight this, I demonstrated the technique using only two fingers (one from each hand). This is NOT practical in any way, shape, or form; that wasn’t my intention. My intention was to show the technique in the most minimalistic way possible, while retaining the essence of the movement.

The following day, while at work, I was trying to think of how to best write some sample code for an API that I am documenting. Writing sample code can be tricky. You want the sample to fully represent the capability of the API; at the same time, you don’t want to actually write a full-fledged application (that’s the job of the developer reading the docs). In other words, the challenge with writing sample code is rarely where to start, but more when to stop.

As I was planning my work, the previous night’s aikido class came to mind. What I essentially needed was to do kotegaeshi with two fingers, but with code. I needed enough code so that a developer would understand the essence of the feature, but avoid anything that would prove too distracting. The goal of sample code is not to demonstrate the feature per se, but to demonstrate the essence of the task that the feature accomplishes. Of course, the sample code is going to include the feature, method, or property; but it is a waypoint towards a larger goal. The sample doesn’t even have to be practical in a “drop-this-in-and-away-you-go” sort of way. It needs to give the developer just enough that they can apply the feature in a way that best suits their needs.

To paraphrase a well-known expression: a perfect sample code is not when you have no additional code to add, but when there is no remaining code to take away.

About eight months ago, I was talking to a student who was a big advocate of a couple of workout systems–namely the P90X and Insanity programs. I won’t explain these workouts here. It’s enough to say that the former is an intense workout program focusing on resistance training, while the latter is an even more intense program focusing on cardio. These workouts are known to be hard, but I have faced tougher challenges. with discipline and focus, I completed a round of each program, with good results.

But this post isn’t about my results.

You see, after I started these workouts, I began to meet people–friends, acquaintances–who also have tried these workouts. Time and again, these people told me how they had tried the workouts, but stopped after a few days because it was too hard. Or that they were doing the workouts, but only once every few days or so. At first, I smiled politely as I listened. But as the number of people i met started to increase, I decided I had to be honest as well.

These excuses, these statements of “It’s too hard” or “I only do it now and then” are nonsense. ridiculous nonsense.

You see, what aikido has taught me is that you can do anything. But to do anything, you first have to have an honest assessment of yourself, and a willingness to accept that assessment. Too often, I think people are deluded into a false sense of their own capabilities. Then, when something comes along that shatters this delusion, they can’t handle it. I see this often on the mat. Strong guys who have difficulty acknowledging the limits of their strength; flexible people who are baffled as to why their speed and agility fail them. Those who do well on the mat are those who find their limits and embrace them, who see them not as blows to their egos but waypoints on the paths to self-improvement. to quote an ultra-marathoner I heard interviewed the other day: the ego is what makes you quit; the soul is what makes you strive. Good training, good living, requires that you shed your ego, find your limits and lose, so that your soul can flourish.

This idea is difficult enough to explain to someone on the mat–you can imagine how hard it is to convey to someone who really is just looking to lose a few pounds. But I have decided to try. Now, when I meet someone who says they can’t do P90X, I still listen politely. But then I look them straight in the eye and tell them there is nothing in these workouts that they cannot do; they simply need to acknowledge that their self-image doesn’t match their reality. And as long as you can acknowledge this, you are not only okay–you are truly on the path to making your life better.

The phone call was a welcome one, and not unexpected. An old friend of mine, a fellow aikido instructor, was on the other end of the phone. I had been trying to reach him to see if he was able to come to a seminar I was hosting, and if I could provide any assistance to ensure he had a comfortable (read: economical) trip. The voice that greeted me on the other end of the line was filled with that calm resignation that comes only from someone who has made a difficult decision, and now must share the results of that decision.

“I’ve decided to close my club,” he announced.

His reasons for doing so are irrelevant here; suffice to say they were sound and completely understandable. It was also clear that while he knew he was making the right choice, he also knew he was ending a part of his life that he had enjoyed, filled with people that he cared about.

When I got off the phone, I shared the news with my wife. We talked for a little bit about his situation, and then my wife grew quiet.

“Would you ever quit the dojo? Quit training?”

I’m pleased to say that my answer was immediate. “Of course I would,” I answered. “If you or the kids needed me home more, I would quit immediately.”

That, of course, was the easy answer. Family is a valid reason to refocus your life, but it’s pretty much a no-brainer. As the evening continued, I found myself thinking about my wife’s question more and more. Finally, I brought the matter up again. (My wife, bless her heart, is used to me returning to conversations we’ve had hours ago.)

“You know, there are many days where I don’t want to go to the dojo. When I know the baby has kept you up all night, and you’re exhausted. When our daughter has had a hard day at school. When I’ve had a miserable day at work and just need to take a break and be by myself.

“But you know, so far, in 15 years of training, I have never regretted getting on the mat. No matter what my state of mind was when I entered the dojo, the moment I step onto the mat, everything changes. I’m there to teach, to learn, to express myself through a truly wonderful martial art. There are stories of O-Sensei in his later years, frail and sick, suddenly coming to life when he stepped onto the mat. I think I understand a little of this.

“If I ever got to the point, though, where I found myself thinking that I did not want to be on the mat; if I got to the point where my brain and body simultaneously said: ‘I just don’t want to do this!’ I would stop. I would have to stop, because I certainly would no longer be of any use to anyone on the mat–not as a teacher, and not as a student.”

I bring this up because I found it very liberating to realize that there was, in fact, an option other than training. That I was not trapped by habit or community pressure to continue. That there were, for want of a better phrase, exit criteria that would indicate the time had come for me to move on. I am sure there are stories of instructors who have kept teaching and training even though their heart and soul was no longer in it. They continue, perhaps, out of a fear of what might happen next.

For me, knowing what to look for in myself that would tell me it’s time to stop has been just as educational, just as liberating, as understanding what it is that still keeps me on the mat. Maybe, like understanding a technique requires both the uke’s and nage’s perspective, to understand yourself you have to understand your “why nots” as well as your “whys.”

The first two were not unusual. Greg and Shari are two instructors who live in Yakima, WA. They are great folks, and deeply knowledgeable about aikido and martial art training. Greg, in particular, has over three decades of karate experience, and has the dubious honor of beating the heck out of me as I was training. That may sound cruel, but it wasn’t. I refused, for the longest time, to really acknowledge that my uke was trying to attack me. Greg had no problems letting me know that he fully intended to land the punch, kick, or grab. I learned quickly from him how important it was to be ready prior to the attacker’s movements–out of all the lessons I have learned in aikido, I think this was the one I most needed. I am very grateful to him for that.

Another instructor who arrived was Oliver, who is an assistant instructor at a Kokikai dojo in New York. I admit I didn’t recognize Oliver at first–I just knew that, when he stepped into the dojo, that he was somebody who knew where he was and what he was doing. He was great fun to train with–personable and committed in his attacks and throws. He even showed me a great little way of resisting nikkyo–it was not a COMFORTABLE way of resisting it, but it did work, and in a way I did not expect.

As we practiced, I asked Greg if he would share some of his thoughts on training. One of the key elements he mentioned was a very simple one: aikido techniques were designed to deal with someone trying to fight you. This seems blatantly obvious, but it’s important becomes clear when you realize a simple truth:

Most of us, on the mat, aren’t trying to fight. We aren’t even thinking about it.

This is not a good thing. If we aren’t thinking, as ukes, how to fight our opponent, then we are not really doing our job. There is a distinct difference between an uke who is trying to attack in order to fight, and an uke who is trying to attack in order to not fall down. Most people fall into the latter category. This results in ukes attack and “freezing” in ways that are illogical, in attacks that have no power or little meaning. We are, in a very real sense, wasting our nage’s time.

Now, some might immediately counter this idea with several thoughts. For example: often we are studying balance and timing–an uke might be attacking in order to illustrate these points, to help the nage refine his or her technique. Another example: newer students don’t have the reaction time to perform a technique at normal speed; consequently, the uke slows down to provide a better learning environment. These are valid points, but they leave out the fact that you can do all this and still retain the context of a fighting environment. I can attack a white belt, doing so slowly, and still retain the intention to knock them down with my punch. I can help a senior student with their timing by focusing not on their movements, but rather by ensuring that my own attack is focused, clear, and committed.

This is hard for many aikidoka to follow. Most of us, in truth, study aikido because we don’t WANT to fight. But this is not true. What we want, as aikidoka, is to respond to a fight with movements that are more elegant and effective than brute force. To understand how to accomplish this, we need to have uke’s who attack sincerely–otherwise, we have no way of knowing if we’re being effective or not. Without a proper attack, studying aikido is like playing basketball without hoops–you might be going through the motions, but there’s no way to tell if anyone is winning the game.

In other words, to quote a favorite game of mine: “You must fight!”

B: You teaching tonight?

Me: Yup. That’s the plan.

B: You might have a visitor.

Me: New student?

B: No. Some guy. I think he used to train with us.  Stopped by looking for you.

Me: Hm. Okay. I’ll keep my eye out.

After this exchange, I didn’t think much about it. Work has been very busy since I returned from leave. (As evidenced by the fact that I haven’t been keeping up with my blog entries as I had hoped.)

When I arrived at the dojo, my family was there. Although we weren’t having a kids class, my daughter wanted to know if she could hang out at the dojo while I taught. As it’s summer, I had no problem with spending a little extra time with her (I never do), and my wife, I am sure, was happy to have only two kids to deal with for an hour or two. This is when the dojo becomes an extension of my living room. The 20 minutes or so that I have before classes start is often when I get to catch up with my family. Without this time, there would be a couple of days each where I simply wouldn’t see my kids–a hard sacrifice to make, but one we recognize as part of running a second business. Fortunately, all of my students understand this, and it’s not uncommon for one of them to start warm-ups while I say goodbye and get ready to train. I don’t know how I’d survive without that, actually.

Anyway. We had about 10 minutes before class started, and in walks a very tall individual. For a moment I didn’t recognize him, and then it dawned on me. It was an old student of mine, from the days when I taught at the YMCA. Back then, he was around 14 or 15. He was a good kid, doing his best to hold his own among a group of really big guys. (Well, except me, of course.) When we moved into our new space, he joined up, only to quit shortly thereafter. He had an ankle issue that made training on the mat increasingly painful. Once he left, I heard from him maybe once or twice, but I didn’t think much about it. I figured he was in high school, and his time on the mat was done. He was ready to move on to the next challenge.

The person who walked in was the same kid, and yet wasn’t. Now close to 18, he was taller than I am. (This is why I never tell anyone they’re shorter than I am. I tell them they’re shorter than I am… “for now.”) He was getting ready to go to college in a few weeks, and felt like he wanted to stop by the dojo and say hi. We chatted about how his family was, and about what he was going to study at school. He asked about how the dojo was doing, and was glad to hear that we had grown so much since when he left. I figured he was going to stick around for a few minutes, but to my surprise he stayed and watched all of class. He even entertained my daughter, who figured this guest was also her guest, and so she should make conversation pretty much incessantly. She’s good at that.

Afterwards, as everyone was heading home, this former student looked at me. He had tears in his eyes, which surprised me. He told me that he wanted me to know how much he appreciated all I had done for him, and that I had been like a second father to him. I was truly, deeply touched. I had no idea that I had affected him so strongly. Even now, as I write this, the emotions of that moment are very easy to feel. For him, it was a moment where he got to thank someone who he felt was a help to him as he was growing up. For me, it  was  a moment to realize that, through the dojo, I have an opportunity to impact people in ways that I cannot predict nor fathom. I remember him being on the mat, and I remember treating him with respect, honesty, and I remember doing my best to teach him what I knew of aikido. To me, this was no less than what anyone else deserved, and yet it clearly had an impact on him that I could never have predicted.

I worry a lot about the dojo, sometimes. I worry about its finances. I worry about the number of students that show up for classes.  I worry about the time it takes away from my family, and whether it’s worth the sacrifice. Moments like these, where it’s revealed to me that I have really helped someone, make all of these worries vanish. Moments like these are when I understand why people become teachers–you may not always know the impact you have on your students. But when you do, it’s profound in a way unlike anything else.

One would think that this is a pretty basic, intuitive idea. One would think you don’t have to train in a martial art to realize that getting hit in the face is a bad idea. One would think this, but one would be wrong.

On the mat we were studying defenses against shomenuchi. Shomenuchi is your classic sword strike. The direction is completely vertical, with the target being the top of your opponent’s head. Most of the time, the attack is practiced empty-handed; however it’s also one of the few techniques in which we’ll use the bokken, jo, or tanto.

A very classic defense against this type of attack is irimi-nage. As your opponent attacks, you raise your arms in a shomenuchi defense (think throwing a beach ball up in the air with two hands and you might have a rough idea of how it looks). Then, you close the distance, moving along a slight diagonal line. This causes your uke to miss, but just barely. You can now turn and place one hand on top of the uke’s striking arm and the other on the back of uke’s opposite shoulder. From this position, you ride uke’s reaction to stand back up, tilting them backwards.

It’s at this point that I think people get confused. Most attackers, on the mat, simply let the nage determine what happens next. They stop engaging in the attack and let the nage just tip them backwards until they fall down. The nage is who drives the momentum in this situation. This is incorrect, and for a very good reason.

The technique in this case has the nage’s arm on top of uke’s striking arm. Once the uke is tipped backwards, there is nothing–NOTHING–the uke can do from getting hit in the face. The other arm? Too far away. The striking arm? Too low. The uke’s face is absolutely defenseless. Fortunately, we study aikido, so most people assume that their partner isn’t going to make use of such an obvious and devastating vulnerability. This is a critical error on the uke’s part. When a nage effectively defends against your attack, you have two simple goals:

1. Attempt to regain balance.
2. If you can’t regain your balance, escape without injury.

It doesn’t matter that you are on the mat and your partner is your best friend. These two goals always apply. In the case of shomenuchi kokyunage/iriminage, this means that as soon as you realize you’ve missed your target and you’re off-balance, you should try to stand back up. If the nage has done their job correctly, you can’t stand up because of your loss of balance. You’re still vulnerable, so you have one direction left: down.

So, when you attack with shomenuchi, and your nage effectively does iriminage, it is not their job to drop you to the ground. It is your job to drop in order to protect yourself. Try this. It dramatically changes the technique’s dynamics, and makes a lot more sense.

And don’t get hit in the face.

I’ll get to ki exercises some other time–it’s a broad topic that just about any Kokikai practitioner has thought through any number of times. Today I’m thinking more about warm-ups. In our dojo, our warm-ups start with some ballistic stretching. Ballistic stretches are essentially stretches with movement. We warm up the back and the hamstrings, the spine, and the arms. We then do a few static stretches, focusing on the sides, the calves, and the lower back. Every dojo has a slightly different take on how to do the warm-ups, but the general pattern is about the same.

The same, but is that necessarily correct?

I’ve been starting to do a lot more cardiovascular workouts and weight training. When I do these workouts, the pattern of warm-ups has some simple, but perhaps important differences. The primary difference is that these workouts start with actual warm-ups. Running in place, jumping jacks, and so on. The idea is to get the blood moving, to ease the body into realizing that it’s about to work. Then come the ballistic stretches, followed by a couple of static stretches. These warm-ups feel really good to me–by the time I get to the stretches, my body is, as you might expect, warmed up and ready to go.

Another difference is that, in our dojo warm-ups, we typically count to 10 or so for each movement. I’ve heard it said that this helps everyone learn timing. The students use the count to match the timing of the instructor, which later helps them understand timing during technique. That may be true, but the downside is that a given dojo has a variety of students, with a variety of body types, levels of physical fitness, and levels of flexibility. In my non-dojo workouts, there is very little to no counting. Instead, the warm-ups are done for 30 seconds to a minute, with the idea that each participant do as many or as few as they feel is best for their body, and at a pace that makes sense for them.

So, armed with these thoughts in my head, I changed the way we did warm-ups at the dojo. It felt almost sacrilegious, which is funny considering how Kokikai is known for constantly re-evaluating our techniques. We started off by doing some simple warm-ups to get the blood moving (although I held off from running in place, for some reason). Then we did the same stretches we normally did, but I had everyone do them for 30 seconds at a time. We followed these with static versions of the same movements, so we could try to work on our flexibility a little bit.

As we moved into ki exercises, we reverted back to our usual methodologies. But, as I said, that’s a topic for another time.

Today we had a prospective student get on the mat. She’s a student, and was very upfront when she arrived with her friend (who is a current student at the dojo.)

“I want to try aikido, but I don’t think I can afford to train until I graduate.”

I found that interesting, because most people wouldn’t try something until they were at least closer to being able to start the activity. Nonetheless, I had her fill out a waiver form and get on the mat. Throughout the entire class, she was attentive and respectful, but I kept getting a hint that there was something that was bringing her to the mat, something that compelled her to try a martial art even if our modest membership dues were outside her means.

Towards the end of class, I asked if anyone had any questions. When no one did, I thought I would take things a step further. “Anyone have a particular attack or situation that has been on their mind?” The visiting student raised her hand, and asked how we would handle a “bear-hug” style attack. As we started studying various options, I tried to emphasize the mental aspects of how to deal with such an attack. For example, cultivating a sense of staying relaxed is critical, as it can help you prevent the attacker from lifiting you off the ground. (Nothing is more comical, in my opinion, than an attacker attempting to lift you and suddenly realizing that they can’t!) It turns out she has an ex-boyfriend who grabbed her in a similar fashion. It turns out he wasn’t trying to attack her, but the experience was deeply unsettling to her. And that is what brought her to the mat–she wanted to have some idea of how she could feel just a little safer.

I hope she found a little of what she was looking for when she came to the dojo. Yet, there is a part of me that wonders: what price do we put on our sense of personal safety? We’ll pay money to go to a gym (whether or not we use the gym is an open question); in fact, we spend money on all sorts of things that we don’t use. But we’ll let our own sense of personal safety languish. Training at a dojo is, I admit, more expensive that some basic gym memberships. However, the cost becomes cheap when you consider that you have a dedicated instructor who is there to help you. (Check out how much it costs to have a personal trainer at a reputable gym. Even group sessions can be really costly.)

I have no problems with people being financially responsible. In fact, I encourage it. I do wonder, however: what price would you pay to have some measure of confidence that you could handle yourself in a physical confrontation? If you’re staying up late at night, fearful of what someone might do, you cannot afford not to train. Find a local YMCA (I started my dojo there) that offers martial arts classes. Of course I’m going to tell you to study aikido. But if you can’t do that, study something. No one should live their life being fearful of someone else.

Without having Sensei in the immediate vicinity, or even a more senior instructor close by, I’ve tried to come up with a few approaches to help ensure that I still have some focus on improving my technique, as opposed to simply sustaining it. One method that has worked well I refer to as my invisible role model. This is my take on the “What Would <insert someone’s name here> Do?” mentality. The difference is, I deliberately don’t think of any one person in particular. Instead, I hold in my mind’s eye a picture of the ideal aikido student, and I try to emulate what I think this individual might do in a given situation. Doing this, I have found, helps me set my ego aside and look at a challenge or issue objectively. It certainly doesn’t always give me answers, but it helps me think about the questions.

Over the past few weeks, I have been on leave to spend time with my newborn son. This week is my last week; come Monday, I will be back in the office. I must admit that I have some anxiety over my return. Part of this anxiety stems from my concerns of what happened while I was gone. Did I leave something undone that I should have taken care of? Did I miss something that resulted in causing other people more work? Another part stems from some of the people I work with. I am part of a great team, but there are some folks that are more challenging for me to deal with than others. How am I going to deal with these people when I return? What can I do to build stronger working relationships with these people, or affect change if that’s necessary?

As I’ve thought about these questions, and as I have tried to deal with some of this anxiety, I had a thought. Why have I not tried to apply my invisible role model to my work life? Let’s put an image of the “star” employee in my head. What would this employee do to handle some of these situations? It’s odd, but while I may not know what I would do, I sometimes can figure out what someone else should do. For example, take the question of how I might deal with some of the people I have to work with. With my ego in the equation, it is difficult for me to see how I should handle the situation. With my ego removed (or, let’s be honest, most of my ego removed), the path is much clearer to follow.

As my return to office life looms before me, I can give myself some measure of peace. I may not know exactly what’s in store when I get to my desk on Monday, but I at least have a methodology to help me figure out the right course of action for what might come my way.