My nose has been buried between the pages of "A Fighters Mind" by Sam Sheridan for two days now. It provokes a monster inside of me that has been dormant for a long, long time. I've put down the Angry Birds, turned off Pandora and my palms start sweating just thinking about the sounds, smells and sights of the boxing gym.
Oh to be the predator, instead of the prey. A feeling that is hard to describe and if you dare, best experienced.
To go back to something so basic, so brutal, and so beautiful has certainly sparked some nostalgia. Cycling is so much different. The closest event to it is probably the Madison; where strategy, aerobic fitness and throwing down with no reservation come into play round after round.
Yet I'm still drawn to the fight, despite the risks associated and injuries involved. The broken noses, ribs, black eyes, brain injury - is it strange I don't shy away?
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