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the time . They punch the air like it just mugged their granny, and when they kiai you need earplugs to avoid permanent damage to your hearing. Their gis are stained with sweat and pulling at the seams over steroid-enhanced muscles. They tend not to be black belts, because a key requirement for passing your black belt is the possession of control.
    And you do not want to be stuck with these guys when it comes to sparring. I soon found out my new partner was a vicious bastard, to put it mildly. He might be good-looking and have shoulders half as broad as he was long, but he had a chip on those shoulders the size of the New Forest and a natural ability to channel his fury through his fists and feet. He was supple too, as I found out when he set my head ringing with a snap kick to the left ear. There’s not many people who can get their feet up to my six foot two, but we were fairly evenly matched for height. He was half my weight again, though, with legs roughly the girth and weight of tree trunks.
    As the pins-and-needles numbness in my ear settled into a dull pain, I backed off a bit, hopping lightly on the balls of my feet. “How about we take it a bit easier?” I suggested without taking my eyes off him for a minute. His hair was thinning noticeably on top, probably a result of all that raging testosterone. He looked a bit like a young Bruce Willis, if Bruce had spent his formative years chomping on steroids and then got really angry about something.
    “Not going to learn anything that way, are we?” Bruce countered and lunged in with a jab punch to the solar plexus with his left fist that would have taken out several internal organs if I hadn’t managed to block it. I’d swear I felt the bones in my arm vibrate from the impact—I’d have a bruise there tomorrow. I just hoped he wouldn’t go for the face, as two members of staff with black eyes wouldn’t do the reputation of Jay’s bike shop any good at all.
    I decided the best form of defence was attack, and I feinted with my left arm before lunging in with a roundhouse kick. It landed just above Bruce’s kidney, the impact solid and satisfying. Even though it was barely half power, he was not a happy bunny. His chiselled features twisted in a snarl, and he drove at me like a white Ford Transit van with a red-and-brown stripe round the middle.
    I danced to one side, letting all that power and aggression fly uselessly past me; then, when he turned, too slow, I was ready for the roundhouse kick. It was full power and then some, and it was aimed at a point about six inches the other side of my kidney. Message: I can do anything you can, and I can do it better.
    I sidestepped again and blocked. Even though I only caught the edge of the kick on my forearm, it was a numbing blow—bruise number two on my beleaguered left arm. At the unwelcome return of sensation, I tried not to show how much it had hurt—Bruce was like a pit bull who could smell weakness and wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage.
    The trouble was, he already had an advantage here. Because, although he was only a brown belt, his technique was at least as good as mine, and he had all the weight and power behind it. And at the end of the day, I didn’t want to hurt him—I was the higher belt; I had a responsibility here. Whereas he’d obviously like nothing better than to see me carted off on a stretcher. At which point he’d swear blind he’d thought I could handle it, me being a black belt and all.
    Okay. Maybe Mum had a bit of a point about it not being real fighting. But it wasn’t like I couldn’t ; I just didn’t want to. Get a grip , I told myself. Of course you can handle him. So what if my black belt was so new it still had folds in it from where it had been in the packet? I felt my resolve strengthen at the sight of the killing rage in his narrowed eyes as we circled each other. This guy needed to be taught a lesson.
    Time seemed to slow—and when the next attack came, I was ready