A lot.

Thus far, I've enjoyed thirteen years of aikido, including five distinct styles, six different dojo, and more seminars than I presently care to count. In that time, the following injuries have come my way: a torn knee ligament; a twice-broken nose; a dislocated finger; mat-burn to the point of bleeding from the knees, heels, toes, knuckles, and face; a chipped tooth; a black eye; a couple slight sprains of the wrists; innumerable relatively-minor bruises and cuts; and no small amount of damage to the ego. To be certain, there is more, happily forgotten, for now.

This sounds, perhaps, like a lot. But I train a lot: three hours a day; six days a week. Compared to the peril, violence, and plain-old accidents of normal life (car wrecks; potato peelers; drunk guys and psychos) it's not a bad ratio for what some might describe as a part-time job in a full-contact sport. Tonight, however, I've reached an ignoble impasse. Tonight I suffer pain I cannot blame on any particular strike, joint-lock, or throw. Tonight I am, simply, sore. It hurts to stand. And walk. Even breathing must be done in proper measure. (Almost) worse than the pain is the mystery of its source. I've been putting forth a little extra effort lately, and I am more often industrious and athletic on the mat than I am lazy. Yet, though I can't single out any specific recent training for blame, my body feels pushed to a more dire limit than I remember it previously knowing. Wisdom teeth surgery sore. Disastrous teenage romance sore. Santa Claus truth sore.

Maybe it's the eight soon-to-test nage for whom I am presently designated uke, and their attendant preparation. Maybe the years are catching up to me even worse than I'd suspected. Maybe, rather than writing and complaining, I should have just gone to bed, instead, but tonight I feel impelled to begin a long-ruminated project, participating in that dubious literary tradition of sharing my pain with the world, and so I begin this blog of just how much aikido hurts.