Karate in the Heartland: Heyman's Martial Arts Academy

Sensei Heyman (right of center), myself (center) and senior students after my last night at Renshinkan.

             It is said that amazing things are found in unlikely places. Last winter I found this saying to ring true; offering one of the most inspiring and formational experiences of my journey as a martial artist.

In January 2011, I moved from my home town in Massachusetts to the heartland of central Florida for an internship in avian ecology and conservation at a local biological research station. The town in which the research station was technically situated was actually an unincorporated community consisting of an intersection and a church, while the nearest neighboring town, Lake Placid, boasted the unimpressive title of “The Caladium Capital of the World”. During the three hour drive from the nearest airport in Fort Meyers, I saw a flat and endless landscape of cattle ranches and orange plantations with little else in between. In less than a day, I had traded droves of angry Boston drivers in SUV’s and hybrids for tractor trailers and the occasional ’92 Ford pickup. Radio stations were restricted mainly to pop, country, and musica de banda, and the most popular phrases in conversation were “Yes, sir” and “Ya’ll”. Starting my work at the station, I was more than a little dismayed at my lack of prospects for martial arts training, especially after receiving my shodan in Aikido just a few weeks before.

It was my shodan test, actually, which had delayed my arrival to the job by a few days, and struck up a conversation with one of my employers about martial arts. He explained that he had trained for a few years in Shotokan Karate, and since moving to the Lake Placid area had taken up Shorinji-Ryu Karate at a local school. Unsatisfied with my personal training regimen (despite my first read-through of The Bartitsu Compendium) I quickly made up my mind to visit my supervisor’s school and get some formal training during my stay in the South.

After plenty of waffling with regard to the timing of my visit, I finally managed to attend a class in early March. At around 5pm that evening, I borrowed a truck from my lab and drove into downtown Lake Placid for my first class. The dojo was a large garage marked by a sign which spelled out RENSHINKAN KARATE in neat red letters. I made my way into the roofed alley beside the building and to the side entrance door, which was covered in fliers, news bulletins, and points of dojo etiquette for students and parents. Removing my shoes, I placed them on a neatly organized shelf outside, and opened the door to a rush of high-pitched kiai.

Inside, at least twenty youths aged 7 to 16 stood in kiba dachi (or horse stance), one fist extended in a punch, the other chambered at the hip behind them.  As the group continued their kata in unison, I searched the room for a familiar face, and soon found my supervisor warming up in a crisp white gi at the corner of the room. Bowing reflexively as I stepped onto the padded floor, I shuffled awkwardly around the edge of the mat to avoid interrupting class and greeted my supervisor who directed me toward a nearby bathroom which would serve me as a changing room.

Passing by once more, I watched the kids class finishing their kata and returning to heiko dachi (the natural stance assumed when students are “at attention”) under the supervision of a senior student; a tall, lanky fellow in his late teens with a spotless white gi and black obi. He offered me a broad and friendly smile, which I returned with a nod, already impressed with the discipline of the younger students. In the bathroom, I changed into a pair of ragged running shorts and a faded black t-shirt—the only workout clothes I had brought with me to Florida—and listened to the sounds from the mat outside.

I was immediately struck by the loud and commanding voice of one who could only have been sensei Alex Heyman, the head of the school. “Mate!” he bellowed in Japanese with the slightest hint of a Southern accent, signaling the end of a practice drill. I hurried outside to meet him, and caught sight of a powerfully built man a bout my own height but with twice my physical presence. He stood before the class with a quiet, relaxed poise which, in concert with his broad shoulders and mane of frizzy brown hair, evoked the image of an old lion. His well-worn dogi and tattered belt spoke volumes of his commitment to the martial arts, while the lines etched in his sun-browned features made it clear no portion of his seriousness had waned in the intervening years.

“Discipline isn’t about doing what you want to do,” sensei Heyman was explaining as he stalked back and forth in front of the line of sweating students before the end of class, offering what was to be one of many words of wisdom I would hear after a hard night’s work at the dojo. “It’s about doing what you need to do.” He raised his voice for emphasis here, his face alive with earnest intensity. “This is budo! I want you all to think about that tonight, alright?”

“Hai, sensei!” the students replied almost immediately. I was again impressed by the seriousness and discipline of the students at this school, though that made what came next all the more impressive. “Good!” Exclaimed sensei Heyman, displaying dazzling white teeth in a joyful smile; the seriousness had faded in a moment, replaced with a magnetic combination of encouraging positivity and indomitable cheer. “Then let’s finish up class. Smile! It’s Monday!” A few students giggled, and there were smiles all around. Standing straight, sensei turned toward the shomen.

“Shomen-ni, rei!”  he called to the group, and who bowed to the front of the dojo. He called again, and turned, exchanging bows with the students. Next, they bowed to the senior students of the class, and finally to the parents and observers at the rear of the dojo. Each time, the students, urged on by sensei’s infectious energy and enthusiasm ("Come on, like you mean it!"), yelled out  “Arigato gozaimashita!” as loudly as they could. After a rush of applause, the class was over and the students dispersed with their parents, leaving myself and several other adult students to continue stretching on the mat.

I was promptly introduced to sensei Heyman—who insisted that I call him sensei Alex—and was immediately disarmed by his easy smile and intense curiosity about my past training. He chatted excitedly with me for some time, occasionally demonstrating techniques we were discussing and having me do the same, all the while grinning delightedly at our exchange. The type of arm-flexing, "sizing up", and other egotistical exchanges occasionally unavoidable in the meeting of two martial artists were notably absent, yet the void left behind was filled by inescapable, sincere excitement of a passionate martial artist.

My first class was indicative of the rest of my experience at sensei Alex’s dojo; a thrilling combination of modern techniques and ideas with traditional attitude and discipline. The class began with extensive calisthenics followed by deep stretching and conditioning exercises. By the time warm-ups were finished, nearly twenty-five minutes had passed and I was already thoroughly winded.

My fellow students ranged from their mid teens to their fifties, and showed a unique combination of the discipline and intensity of traditional karateka with the kind, unassuming, and laid-back attitude of good old Southern hospitality. As the class moved on to padwork, I found myself shuffling down the mat throwing kicks higher and faster than I had known I could, spurred on by sensei Heyman’s roaring encouragement. When sensei moved on to another pair of students—he paid impressive amounts of personal attention regardless of the size of the class—my partner turned to me, shaking his hand with the focus mitt still attached, and flashed a broad smile. “Whoo-ee!” he cried leaning in to whisper in an accent that was almost Texan. “Now son, this ain’t your first rodeo, is it?” “No, sir.” I gasped as I struggled to catch my breath, chuckling despite myself. Before I knew it, we were off again, and I had neither the time nor the energy to realize I was grinning all the while. The class finished with a handful of beautiful forms which I struggled to follow and the same spirited bowing and applause. Again, there were smiles all around once formalities had been carefully observed.

Driving home through the orange groves that night, I rolled down the truck's windows and inhaled the intoxicating sweetness of the orange blossoms, still sweating as profusely as when I had left the mat twenty minutes before.  Given the time to reflect on my night, I realized that a central motif of my experience—and that which impressed and pleased me the most—was the smooth and natural combination of attitudes from disparate cultures and disciplines. Sensei Heyman’s school was the best of both worlds, where modern sports medicine alternated with the traditional techniques of karate’s cultural heritage, where budoka discipline blended with the friendly and down-to-earth attitude of rural America. Before and after class, my fellow students included a preacher, a diner chef, a tractor salesman, and a handful of high school students, but on the mat I was surrounded by karateka; humble, disciplined, and effective.

Testing was brutally traditional, including repeated executions of forms (we would have to stop and start all over if out of unison, or if someone made a mistake) with meticulous attention to detail, and endurance tests which culminated in throwing over 1,000 consecutive punches at full speed, a feat I hardly knew I could tackle. Yet the weekend after, ranks were awarded (along with hugs and hearty handshakes) at an all-dojo barbecue in front of a lake in town. Again, sensei Heyman’s dojo combined the rigor and reality of real martial arts training with a more “country” attitude of community and hospitality. A rank certificate for 9th kyu (the lowest attainable rank in the discipline) now hangs proudly on my wall beside my blackbelt certificate in Aikido.

The school owes much of its great attitude to sensei Heyman himself, who is a constant and unmistakable presence on the mat, shouting out encouragement and advice alike in a booming voice. I was repeatedly impressed by his attention to detail and ability to pick up on the slightest errors of form or even attitude in practice. If ever my mind wandered after a long day of working in the field, sensei Alex would catch on immediately and startle me back into my training with an energetic shout. During every aspect of training, from stretching to sparring to pad work, he openly challenged students to perform beyond their perceived limits, but remained positive, patient, and supportive throughout.

One of my favorite elements of sensei Heyman’s teaching style was his use of  training "wheels", which were periods of several weeks in which classes focused on a particular aspect of karate training. For my first few weeks, the class focused heavily on flexibility, devoting the majority of class toward intense partner stretching exercises and isometric conditioning. In the month I spent in this intensive stretching regimen, I found myself able to throw kicks higher and more smoothly than I had in the past; more than a year later, I still find myself more flexible than I was before training at Renshinkan.

Near the end of my stay in Florida, sensei Heyman called me into his office after class and asked if I would be willing to teach my own training wheel with the adult class. Naturally, I was floored, and at first objected on the grounds that I was too inexperienced to teach him or his students; I had only just received my shodan in Aikido, while he had been training in several martial arts longer than I had been alive. He waved my flustered objections aside and fixed me a patient smile. “You’ve got everything you’ve learned in your lifetime.” He explained, gesturing next to himself. “And I’ve got everything I’ve learned in mine. It’s all different knowledge.” He continued, smile broadening gleefully. “ It’s when we can come together and share that knowledge, that suddenly each of us can have the experience of two lifetimes. I want to see what you do. So teach what you know, Charles. I want you to try being sensei.  It’ll be a blast!”.

Charged with his characteristically indomitable enthusiasm, these words expressed the relaxed, welcoming, and progressive attitude at Sensei Heyman’s school, and explained the origin of the mixture of modern and traditional ideas which make the school great. This perspective alone had struck a chord in me and won me over, but that notion aside, I wasn’t about to tell a shihan I wouldn’t instruct his students.

For the next six weeks, I taught formal Aikido classes to groups of shorinji-ryu students at Heyman’s Academy of Karate, starting with the basics of ukemi (rolling, falling, and protecting one’s self throughout a technique) to basic throws, joint locks, and finally jiyu waza (freestyle practice). I was immediately surprised by how readily sensei Heyman’s students took to Aikido, despite the fact that the style of practice was worlds away from their sparring sessions and forms and the range at which techniques were performed was closer than they were accustomed. I taught what I knew and only that, sticking to basic ideas with which I felt comfortable and admitting ignorance to those concepts with which I didn’t.

My most successful teaching tool was to teach Aikido in Karate terms. That is, to show how proper body positioning (and posture, movement, etc.) to execute an Aikido technique is identical to that required to perform a karate technique. By keeping one’s hips towards ones partner, for example, an Aikidoka maintains stability and power in performing ikkyo ura, while a karateka keeps their weapons in line with their targets.

Naturally, sensei Heyman grasped my Aikido within minutes, and by the time I had finished explaining a movement I would find that his technique was far better than mine. “Good Karate is good Aikido.” Sensei Alex told his students, a statement which he showed me applies more broadly to the other martial arts, and has been a core tenet of my training philosophy ever since.

After training with Sensei Heyman for about four months, I returned home to Boston with a changed view on the compatibility of both styles and cultures in the martial arts. I feel immensely fortunate and grateful to have had the opportunity to train with him and his students, and to have had shared my martial “lifetime” in return.

Check out a recent article on sensei Heyman's Lake Placid dojo.