Had you asked me this morning, I’d have said I thought I was in fairly good shape; a few hours a week at the gym had, I assumed, paid off. Yet this evening, at the end of two hours of training mixed martial arts (a.k.a. “no holds barred fighting”) with the New York branch of the Straight Blast Gym, I was lying on the mat, covered in bruises and gasping for air. Even now, some three and a half hours later, I’m still sweating profusely.

So, glutton for punishment that I am, I’ve signed on to train with them several times a week. And I’ll be headed back to the gym with a keen understanding of the form vs. function distinction. That six pack alone, I’ve realized, doesn’t necessarily mean you’re anywhere near peak.