I went for my first night's training at Tiger Schulmann's gym last night. I breezed through the doors with oodles of confidence, certain that I was in reasonable enough shape to wing it through the exercises, kicks, punches and fight poses. Oh, I was so very, very wrong.

I was given my own gi (a traditional karate uniform) and asked to report to one of the black belted instructors named Nick. A small group of motley beginners assembled and we all shifted uneasily, already offering up wobbly excuses for our lack of physical bearings and the procrastination that led us there. The gym employs traditional principles of karate and martial arts, with a firm emphasis on discipline and hard training. Once you start the program, you are assigned a class schedule. If you do not show up at the class, they call you. They hunt you down. This is boot camp. Once you make the commitment, they fully expect you to do the work.

This was made abundantly evident when we were told to hit the mat for a series of sit ups and push ups. Ordered to press on with push ups when our arms were shaking like the trunk of an Aspen tree in gale force winds, we did so. Commanded to do fifty sit ups with a lumbering man sitting upon your feet and supporting your legs with a death grip, every rise upwards was work, with my abdominal muscles (I know they're down there, somewhere) straining painfully. And the fun was just beginning.

We were taught defensive stands, fight positions and how to fell an attacker with a sharp knee kick to the chin. We learned how to deliver a jab, an upper cut, a cross punch or a lethal kick square in the solar plexus. We donned boxing gloves and swung like giddy children at the pads held aloft by the instructor. I cleared my head and focused, thinking of all the irritants of the day. Take that, accounts receivable clerk, who won't process my expense report! I strike at thee, selfish man on the subway, who is taking up two seats because he refuses to move his backpack! Feel the wrath, media director, who won't recommend our magazine for the new launch campaign!! I rather enjoyed that.

The final lesson was an adaptation of the etiquette of this arena. One is asked to use some Japanese vernacular when addressing instructors, when replying to commands and when saying good-bye and hello. One must bow to their instructor at the completion of the session and shake the hands of every member of the class. We then met our regular class instructor, Limon, a former US champion kickboxer (I wanted to chime in, "And a fruity beverage!" but I have the feeling he would not find this funny). The man was shorter than I was, but was as wide as an industrial meat locker. And solid. And a little scary. Something tells me he will either be the salvation of my fitness or the cause of my premature death.

So I arranged my class schedule. Initially, two nights a week of basic core and one night a week of submission grappling. OK, I know, that sounds like a Friday night in a singles bar, but it's actually a modified form of wrestling which is supposed to build strength, flexibility and lean mass. I have a feeling I'll be spending a lot of the time pinned to the mat screeching "Uncle!" but I'm going to try it anyway.

Off for round two.