I'm in my 60s, I hold black belts in Shotokan (3rd dan), Judo
(5th dan), and Kajukenbo (8th dan), yet here I am, brand new to Kyokushin
Karate—and enjoying every brutal second of it. After surviving being hit, run
over, dragged, and crushed by a semi-truck, with doctors saying my martial arts
days were done, Kyokushin's ethos feels like it was made for me. It's not just
training; it's proof that real toughness isn't handed out—it's forged in fire.
The raw grind of Kyokushin just hits different, it gives me that
full-body punishment I crave: kihon drilling my stances deeper, kata sharpening
my explosiveness, bags taking my punches like they owe me money, and kumite
where every strike lands real. No padded gloves, no pulling punches—just honest
contact that dumps the semi accident's ghosts and daily stress into something I
control. As a white belt, I feel those beginner gains again—the power building session by session. It's addictive,
especially after decades of coaching others.
Donning a white belt again? Pure humility. I reject
cross-rank shortcuts and McDojo nonsense, I've called out fast-tracked frauds.
I have no desire to be a one year black belt. Starting from scratch in Kyokushin
honors the grind, years of hard work. I reject special "considerations" for previous experience. No special treatment, just sweat with the line. I'm the new
guy again, not the coach or sensei or experienced martial artist. My cup is empty I am a beginner. That clean slate lets me focus on
learning, suffering, and improving without baggage. For a guy like me, whose
exposed fakes, authenticity is everything. Frauds wouldn't put a white belt on in the first place. They certainly wouldn't take on what I am.
Osu no Seishin—the indomitable spirit—is my story, it
echoes my survival. Kyokushin demands you push through pain, fatigue, and
getting lit up, just like crawling out from under the semi truck that hit and
ran me over. Every low kick toughens my shins, every body shot builds iron abs,
turning random trauma into chosen power. Bruises? They're badges I pick, not
surprises. Kyokushin channels my post-accident resilience with a bare-knuckle
ferocity that softer karateka and frauds can't touch.
At my age, Kyokushin scales smart: structured basics, conditioning, kumite and I utilize my NASM PES know-how to avoid
burnout. It rewards my mat time—grit, timing, staying composed under fire—over
young legs. No ego culture here; it's other younger grinders saying
"Osu" and meaning it. The training fits my life. A rough and rugged fit for an older
athlete who lives biomechanics and explosiveness.
Kyokushin proves I'm cut from this cloth: raw, full-contact
training with zero bullshit. Real, battle-tested skills that forge scars into unbreakable supremacy, a spirit that doesn't bend. Several
years ago the doctors said I was done; I proved them wrong and still am. Osu.
