Week 10-11 The Path of the Ronin: A History of Violence

Emily left, Kiki was handed back, and Tara was meant to be collected to continue my journey. The parts—a set of spokes that had fallen off in Armenia, threatening the integrity of the wheel—ordered two weeks prior, had arrived. So, with bated breath, I returned to George's garage to pick Tara up, intent on leaving directly from there to the Georgia/Russia border to restart my journey eastwards across the desert plains of Kazakhstan, Tajikistan through Afghanistan, Pakistan, and India. The excitement of the night before was only matched by the disappointment of realising that George had ordered the wrong parts and hadn’t bothered telling me.

In the stifling heat of his garage, I tried to control my negative emotions—disappointment, anger, frustration, suspicion, and sadness. Ceding to them would lead to nothing but more despair. George tells me he may have a solution; I decide to trust him. Two more days wasted on his "plan," The temptation to throw him in a headlock and crank his neck is strong. No point getting angry at George; not only would it lead to nothing, he has my bike hostage and I still need to rely on him to fix it. It was time to find a solution.

A breakthrough came via the digital silk road of WhatsApp. A network of overlanders provided a lifeline; a young Brit soon traveling to Tbilisi agreed to bring the necessary parts by plane. This community, continuously updating each other with real-time information on routes, customs, and weather, proved invaluable.

Facing the prospect of another week delay in Georgia for parts, Tbilisi's appeal quickly diminished. The city's tall, grey Soviet-era buildings cast a gloomy shadow over its streets and its inhabitants, making the dourest Scot seem downright cheerful in comparison. Tblissi has a shelf life of three to four days, not a month. I urgently needed a way out of this rut.

Meanwhile, without accommodation, I reluctantly asked my brother Shota if I could stay with him. Despite our close relationship, intruding on his already cramped two-bedroom flat—home to his elderly parents, pregnant wife, teenage daughter, and toddler—felt overwhelming. However, it was essential for strategizing my next steps. Adhering to the 'rule of three,' a tradition mirrored in Islamic hospitality that invites travelers to stay for three days, I settled in temporarily.

With a temporary fix in place and a place to stay, I needed to figure out my next steps. Stranded in Tbilisi without my bike, my spirits dipped. My identity felt unmoored—without my bike, halted travels, and fading military ties, I was far from home and drifting. I felt more and more like a ronin, a masterless samurai from Japanese folklore, symbolized by the kanji 浪人. "Ron" represents the waves or drifting, while "Nin" means person. Historically, ronin wandered Japan, seeking purpose after losing their lords and the structure their roles provided.

It was time to reinforce my sense of self and rediscover joy through a stoic lens, focusing on elements within my control: my thoughts and actions. I decided to return to Brazilian. jiu jitsu, to ground myself in ground fighting. I found two gyms with distinct atmospheres—

one a family-oriented, low-level gym focused on self-defence, and the other a fierce competitors' gym. The family gym had a modest level of skill but was a kind and welcoming team, owned unsurprisingly by a guy named George. I trained there a few times but needed a bit more to satisfy my needs.

The second gym was competition-focused, with hard-faced competitors, somewhat colder on the outside. Competitor gyms tend to be a little less welcoming at first to newcomers. There is a pecking order, or hierarchy in place that is as fragile as the egos of those that maintain it.

Having taken a long break from training due to multiple injuries in the last year, I had neglected to bring my gear with me, so had to loan a Gi (the term for kimono) and a belt. I was offered a white belt, symbol of a complete beginner. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I had once ranked third in Europe and had been training for quite some time. There were a few broken egos at the end of the session from those who measure someone’s skill based on apparel rather than skill, an important lesson in martial arts and life: comparison is truly the thief of joy. Nonetheless, it was good to be back on the Jiu Jitsu mats. To connect with a community that has been so important in my well-being and sense of identity.

Martial arts have been a refuge, a salvation, a repentance—my church when things get rough. It was not always the case; rather, more the opposite: a small-time delinquency with suppressed anger issues. My journey to adopt the way of the warrior was long tortuous story of violence, almost leading to my demise as a young man.

After my mother passed away when I was 18, I was a lost soul, burying my grief in drink, drugs, and violence. A young lost boy with so much anger in his heart, I would go from bar fight to bar fight. Seeing friends get stabbed, hospitalised more times than I can remember, violence, and abuse had been normalised. Roaming the streets of Brussels at night with reckless abandon led to many nights in prison cells, black eyes, concussions, bloody fists, and a hardening of the soul. A promise to my mother to go to university on her deathbed kept me from going completely off track. Arriving in the UK, I continued down this path of self-destruction, drug dealing, flirting with the underworld, and barely managing to get the grades I needed.

All the violence and recklessness came to a head in my last year of university. My girlfriend had unceremoniously dumped me. Looking for some escapism, two of my friends and I headed to a local drum and bass rave. The drinks and drugs were having no effect; I was just in a depressed and dour mood. The rave was cut short, so we decided to walk home for an after-party. On the way back to our flat, we were accosted by one of the numerous crackheads that would roam our street asking for money. Usually, I would be curt but kind to them, but the manner in which this guy came across was one step too far, and I was not in the right place to be detached and calm. I quickly told him to “F*** off,” to which he instantly retaliated with how he would kindly “cut me up like a c***." The escalation was launched; there was no going back. My friends backed away cautiously; I wasn’t going to back down, nor was he. Eventually, my friends convinced me to walk away, but he didn’t. He followed us to within 30 meters of our front door, throwing constant expletives about how he would slice me up, etc.

At the time, I always had a baseball bat by my front door. Being the useless, stupid low-level dealer I was, I would have punters come to my house; having nearby protection was a must. As the crackhead came closer and closer, I ran into the house, pulled the baseball bat out, shouted at him that if he came any closer, I would do him in. My anger-fuelled plan was to scare him off, but perhaps in me was a small voice wanting something to happen, an overflow of pent-up violence and rage. The plan failed; he pulled a knife out and ran straight for me. No stepping back now; the cycle of violence had begun. One step forward and a long swing of the bat into his legs, keeping a sharp eye on the knife. The bat took his legs out, he flew into the air, and landed on his head; this should have been enough, but a red veil descended on me. Rage, violence, and anger invaded my senses—destroy, punish, hurt—another swing to his head. He lay there motionless; the veil descended as my senses returned. “Oh fuck,” my mates stood in the door, paralysed with fear. I walked into the house and called the police, knowing that the whole street probably already had. I put the bat down, walked into my room, pulled out the half-kilo of cannabis poorly hidden in my couch, and handed it to my mate. “Get rid of it before the police arrive.” He took it out to the backyard to hide it, but greed got the better of him. He decided to keep it and stashed it in his room. A minute later, the door he was going to use to go hide the stash exploded open, armed police stormed the house through every door, blue lights everywhere, a helicopter overhead. I was screwed.

Taken straight to the police station,  stripped of all my blood-stained belongings as evidence and handed a paper blue jumpsuit. The moment I sat down, the suit ripped at the crotch; walking around the police station with my bits hanging out was a new low.

48 hours of solitary confinement, not knowing what had happened to the other guy, guilt and fear started setting in. As I sat in the cell alone, I made a deal with God that if I got out of this one, I would stop my stupid ways, no more drugs, no more fighting, it was time to fulfill the promise I made to mum. A police officer took pity on me and offered me a cigarette; I refused, it was time to clean up. After two days with no news, my mind was racing—would I be done for manslaughter, murder? Was he alive? The detective inspector finally came to interview me; he was alive, thank God!

However, he had several broken ribs, a broken jaw, and a number of other injuries. I was being charged with section 20 grievous bodily harm with a weapon. Minimum sentencing: 5 years. I was released from the police station on bail, they refused to hand me my clothes, so with my crotchless blue jumpsuit, I walked out to get a bus; it started raining…

I was six months away from graduating from university and just as close from potentially doing ten years in prison. The trial was in 6 months, coinciding with graduation.  So much for my promise to my mum. Sleepless nights filled with nightmares of prison kept me awake. I would get destroyed in prison; I wasn’t a real gangster, just a 24-year-old skinny sad and depressed white boy; jail would not be fun for me. I decided to focus on what I could control, do my studies, and hit the gym. If I was going to do time, I was going to get big. So I went to the gym for the first time in my life.

One cold December night as I left the gym, I heard what would soon become a familiar sound. Thumping leather on leather, clanging of chains, huffing and puffing, loud exhalations (no, it’s not what you think!) coming from the sports hall of the gym. Curiosity got the better of me; on the floor was a boxing class. Twenty or so people looked fiercely focused on their punching bags, moving around under the direction of the coach standing supreme in the middle, orchestrating this opera of hooks and uppercuts. A thought occurred to me; maybe rather than getting big, I could learn to fight? I had no interest in boxing or any knowledge of it. It was a weird sport that I thought only stupid people did, intent on getting brain damage, all the same, this could be useful.

The next day I turned up for beginner training. The experience of entering a boxing gym for the first time as a complete beginner is one that will stay with you for the rest of your life. The smell of old sweaty leather, the razor-sharp focus of the experienced boxers, the sounds, the judgmental eye of the coaches. The calm exterior demeanor of the people capable of unleashing total expert violence on you is unnerving. The coaches, Dezzy Bracket and Dave, two old experienced boxers—Dezzy, an old UK champ and Dave, an ex-navy boxer—are a contrasting duo. Dezzy, half traveler, half settled, with a penchant for a pint or two, is raw, emotional, and full of expletives. Dave is calm, authoritarian, sharp, and imposing despite his small stature. They rule the gym; their word is god, and we obey: faster, harder, 20 push-ups, "you're shit," "do this better," their insults and praise are everything; a word of praise from either of them is like being touched by god.

The training itself was a complete shock to the cardiovascular system. As an untrained and a recovering heavy weed smoker I was on the edge of a heart attack within the first five minutes. I could hardly keep my arms up on the boxing pads, out of breath and covered in sweat, I was determined to stick at it. The looming threat of prison was a good incentive to persevere. After a few weeks, it was time to enter the ring and begin sparring.

Sparring sessions are typically held on Fridays or weekends in boxing gyms, rounding up the week’s training. This schedule not only helps consolidate what has been learned but also allows the body to recover from the physical demands, as sparring can be quite taxing, simulating the intensity of an actual fight.

I apprehensively turned up to sparring with the other beginners. One of them, John, was a big burly Rasta, a boxing enthusiast. He was a keen fan, knew all the boxer names that I would soon learn to know. He was also much better than me, stronger, bigger, faster, and was learning faster than I was. Of course, we got paired up to spar each other. As beginners, we only had one round of 2 minutes to give it a go. He completely annihilated me, peppering me with jabs and hooks, and in no time had me against the ropes with my hands up. It was the first time I was in a fight and felt no animosity towards my opponent, I froze, didn’t know what to do.

I was getting completely owned when I heard Dezzy's loud voice over the punches being landed on my headguard. “JUST FUCKING PUNCH HIM!” So I threw a wild, blind, reckless right hook, and the round ended. John was stunned and walking backwards, Dezzy was leaning on the ropes jubilantly, “well done!” My heart soared.

As I cycled home that night after training, I burst into tears. Not sad tears, not frustrated tears, not angry tears, tears of release. I had found my tribe, I had finally found my church. A place where I could unleash my rage, where I could burn my angst, express my anger at the world. Where my efforts were recognised, where everything you earn is through blood, sweat, and tears. A place where there is no hiding, a place of truth. There are no pretenses in the ring; there is just you, your opponent, your skill matched against his. You are laid bare in front of the world. Only your heart, skills, courage will get you through. You will suffer, you will lose, you will be in pain, but you grow, you learn, you get sharper, stronger, fitter, and with it comes confidence and serenity. It was my first step on the way of the warrior. John never came back after that round, no one knew why.

From that day onwards, boxing became my life. I abandoned all my old so-called “friends” and pretty much lived to box. Slowly my body was getting stronger, my stamina started increasing. From training three times a week, I was now training every day, sometimes twice, including hill sprints at 0500 hours with the other better boxers.

 The court case was still looming over me, and so were the crackhead friends who knew where I lived and were often circling around my house like hyenas hoping to catch me off guard. I found out through my barrister that the said crackhead was arrested two days after leaving the hospital for breaking and entering an old person's house. Nonetheless, the crown prosecution service was hell-bent on seeing me go down. As the court date approached, so did my final exams. My grades suffered but managed to get a pass and complete my degree, 2:2…

The day of the judgement had arrived; my aunt had bought me my first-ever suit, it seemed  a shame that it would serve to dress me up prior to going away for a while and not my graduation. I quivered in embarrassment for what my mum would think but was grateful for my aunts unwavering support throughout.

My dad and I presented ourselves nervously to the courtroom a bit early. We were ready to say our goodbyes. The inspectors in charge of my case were there waiting outside the courtroom and greeted us with a distant nod. I entered the accused box, the judge was engrossed in my case paperwork. After a few minutes, he looked up at me then the crown prosecutor, a youngish-looking arrogant posho. The judge addressed my barrister. "This is a clear case of self-defense, case dismissed." He looked at me, "You’re free to go, Mr. Clark." The look on the posho’s face was priceless. I couldn’t believe it. 6 months of fear and anxiety waved away in less than 6 minutes. The inspector came to shake my dad's and my hand when I came out, saying it was a travesty it even got this far and explained that posho was a jobsworth prosecutor trying to make a name for himself on my case. The judge saw through him and rejected it. I was free to go home. I slept for a week.

This incident altered the course of my life forever; martial arts became my salvation. I would eventually travel to Thailand to become a Thai boxer where I met my good friend Ross from the Royal Marines Commandos that influenced me into joining the Army.

In the Army at 32, I met Rob, a compact and seasoned 42-year-old, veteran of many campaigns and it my eyes old as f*** (Rob, if you're reading this, I'm being generous with the age and size). Initially sceptical, I viewed Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu merely as grown men in pyjamas rolling on the floor—far from my robust Muay Thai background where a single punch or kick could end a fight. Fresh from a strenuous tour in Afghanistan, bulked up and pumped on dubious pre-workout supplements, I believed I could easily overpower Rob.

Accepting his challenge, I was quickly humbled. Despite being older and half my size, Rob masterfully twisted me into submission within seconds. The swift defeat was a shock—my raw strength was no match for his technique. Frustrated yet intrigued, I faced him again only to find myself gasping for air and overwhelmed by the same outcome, again and again and again. Gasping for air and feeling like a human pretzel, I was hooked.

This humbling introduction to Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu unveiled its core principle: it’s not the size of the fighter but the finesse of the technique. BJJ leverages body mechanics through joint locks and chokeholds, allowing a smaller person to prevail against a larger adversary effectively. This martial art, emphasising ground fighting and grappling, proved to be a crucial skill set, transforming my approach to combat and self-defense, and marking the beginning of a new passion.

This journey from reckless nihilism to adopting a disciplined martial life saved me from myself. Now, in times of frustration and anguish, I know I have a church I can go to, a community I can revert to where I can expel my demons, without the use of drink or drugs. A community where I have earned my place, where the communication is true and honest. Where you wear your values through the actions you take on the mats, a place where I can feel safe.