My father was in the airforce and had been so most of his life. So I had spent most of my younger years in the Orient, being transported from one airbase to another, never really in one place long enough to lay down any roots. There were at that time many negative points to living that way and very few positive ones. But there was one thing that I had developed and that was a passion for Martial Arts.
I had met and trained with so many instructors, various styles of combat arts and taken in so much about them. Mainly I had a boring life back then except for the seeking out and training in Martial Arts Kwans, Dojos and Dojangs. Each style seemed different yet there were similarities. When I learned something I wrote it down and illustrated it roughly in my old notebook. I would neglect not one technique. I had several instructors and not one of them was alike in either personality or the techniques they procured, but they all knew their art.
The good thing about this was that I loved the combat arts, so the time passed quickly and before I knew it ten years had passed and I was the ripe old age of twenty-one. It was then the early seventies and my father was called back to Buckinghamshire and we finally settled to a less mobile life. I looked for a Martial Arts club but found nothing. I was qualified in several combat styles so I decided to open a Dojang to teach Tang Soo Do, the style that I was most qualified in. The seventies were a time of style and self-expression and I advertised the club and got a lot of sensation seekers who didn�t stick with the rigorous training routines that I had been taught. However some did stay and enjoyed this Korean Martial Art.
I never kidded myself that the road to being successful would not be a long one. I did an exhibition in Birmingham showing my jumping and spinning kicks, breaking boards and bricks. Many people stood watching. In particular there was a gang of bikers, jeering and shouting which spoiled my concentration. I picked out the biggest of these bikers and asked if he�d like to come up and have a crack at me. He was a large man, about six feet two tall, and had a long ginger beard. His smiles turned to that of contention yet I couldn�t see his eyes through the mirror sunglasses he wore. I could see only myself and I looked small. His mates poked fun at him, calling him chicken, as he seemed reluctant to face me.
But boldly he came bounding up the gantry to the matted area and the city centre fell into a hushed, contemplative silence. He stood in front of me and said, in his best tough guy movie voice, �Come on then, Hong Kong Phoey!� I was ready. Because of his height, I had to bring him down somehow. He swung a big clubbing right hand at me but I slipped it and side kicked him hard with my left lead leg to the knee. I felled him like a tree and he went down with a thump.
He picked himself up but only partially because he couldn�t lock out the leg I�d just kicked. I had the edge now, or so I thought. He reached inside his scruffy denim jacket and pulled out a bike chain, the biker gang�s main weapon. �Now, little man, we�ll fight my way!� he exclaimed.
The heat was now on and I�d just lost the edge I thought I�d gained. He started swinging the chain at many different angles and I moved around trying to evade the weapon, looking for the gap in his armour. I remembered what Master Chen had said about being under pressure, that I must focus my strategy and believe it could work. He caught me on the inside of my arm with the chain and severed the tendon in my right bicep muscle. Blood started to come through my clean, white dobok. Then he swung the chain inwardly and I blocked that arm and with my left, I struck him to the base of the jaw with my palm. He fell backwards and as he did I kicked him hard in the groin with a left front kick. He dropped like a stone. The fight was over.
There was a hushed silence and then the crowd clapped and cheered, except for the biker gang who just looked on in surprise. I quickly packed up and rushed myself to a hospital as I was losing blood fast.
A week later I was flooded with telephone calls from people who wished to learn my art. Word had spread like wildfire. I now had a proper paid job, as my Birmingham club became a success.
A week after the incident as I went to my Dojang some twenty bikers were waiting outside for me. My heart sank as I approached. The biggest of them, the one I had slain got off his motorcycle and began walking towards me. I stepped back to gain some distance. He said, �No! Forget that stuff. Don�t you think we�ve had enough?� He shook my hand and said, �You are the man! No one has ever beaten me.� He took off his �Road Rats� vest waistcoat. �Here man, you have my colours. You�re an honorary member now�. I smiled inside and out and breathed a sigh of relief. I put on his colours and all the members of the gang clapped.
Later on, all the gang started training and pretty good they were too. I still have some of them as instructor�s years on. But I�ll never forget the day that I took religion to the natives.