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by Loren W. Christensen
During my 49 years of training in the martial arts, I’ve heard dozens of absurd stories about ki and chi power, and witnessed many fake demonstrations. We’ve all seen over-the-top examples of such “power” on YouTube and other video outlets. Have you ever noticed how silly and ridiculous the people on the receiving end — usually well-rehearsed students — fall down? They spasm, shimmy, and stagger about in such a way it would make professional wrestlers envious.
That said, there have been two experiences during my years of training that have given me pause. Or to say it another way: they were WTF? moments. One was told to me by a high-ranking, scholarly teacher of Okinawan karate, and the other I experienced firsthand.
Several years ago, my friend John was in Okinawa training in a forest clearing with his master instructor. On one side of the clearing a crumbling building, its remaining wall made of brick. During their training, a man entered the clearing and pointed wordlessly at the brick wall. John and his master stopped and looked at him, wondering what he was up to.
Still smiling, the strange man walked toward the wall and stopped a few feet away from it. After a short pause, he took two or three running steps before leaping high into the air. John said it was a beautiful move — I believe he said it was a side kick — but there was no way the man was going to knock down the bricks.
And he didn’t.
Oh, his foot struck the wall all right, but what shocked both my high-ranking friend and his veteran instructor was that the man remained motionless at the point of impact for a three-second count.
Count out three seconds to yourself right now: one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three. That is how long he remained in that position, like a big nail sticking out from the bricks.
He dropped to his feet, turned, smiled again at the astonished men, and walked back into the trees.
Several books tell of a famous turn-of-the-20th-century male ballet dancer who did something so astonishing it sent the audience screaming from the auditorium. In the middle of his performance, he took three or four large steps and soared into the air, his arms outstretched gracefully, his legs extended — one forward one back — in full stretch. The audience gasped at his incredible height. Very quickly, though, their gasps changed to shrieks when, after reaching the apex, the peak of his arc, the man didn’t descend, he ascended even higher.
Although witnessed by hundreds of people, no one was able to explain what happened. Could it have been ki or chi? Or perhaps he leapt into the Twilight Zone.
Throughout the 1980s, I would fly to San Francisco to write articles on various martial artists for Black Belt and Karate Illustrated magazines. On one trip, I met a man named Peng, a Chinese in his mid-50s, with nearly 40 years of tai chi and chin na training. There was majesty to Peng’s demeanor, one that exuded dignity, strength, and power. His walk was graceful and so light I wondered if he would leave footprints in the snow.
A tall, slender, Caucasian man, who wore thick protective glasses and walked with careful and deliberate steps, accompanied Peng. When I asked someone what had happened to the Caucasian man, I was told the master had so forcefully jerked his arm during a demonstration it had injured — he said “ruptured” — his student’s eyes. The man had been rushed to the hospital and was still under doctor’s care.
Knowing that I was writing for the magazines, the student asked if I would like to see a demonstration of Peng’s chi. Chi on me. I didn’t like the rhyme, but I hesitantly agreed. The student told me to throw a punch at Peng, which he would lightly deflect with his forearm. I remember thinking how much harm can be done with a simple forearm deflection. I was to find out.
Peng assumed a relaxed on-guard stance, and I launched a fairly fast punch at his nose. Just as it was about to collide with his face, he ever so lightly brushed his forearm against mine. Although I barely noticed the touch, I felt an instantaneous jarring sensation that knocked me backwards into a couple of students who were ready to catch the sucker from Oregon.
My head was swimming, and my entire body felt drained, sapped. Peng and his student asked if I was okay; I lied and said I was. Others in the room laughed uproariously because they had seen Peng do this before.
When my head cleared, I was told to throw another punch but harder and faster. My ego has gotten me into a lot of trouble over the years, and this was going to be one more time.
I launched a hard and fast right cross. Again Peng barely moved his forearm, brushing my arm ever so slightly. A kiss of flesh, if you will.
This time a bomb exploded in my head and an invisible force slammed me backwards. The room spun, sounds distorted, and a hundred Alka-Seltzer tablets sizzled in my skull. A set of hands held on to me as my feet struggled for stability on what felt like black ice. The bubble storm in my head remained for several seconds, and even after it cleared my body felt . . . wasted.
My first coherent and organized thought was that there was no way in hell I was going to punch at this guy again.
Some scientists say if there is such a thing as chi, it’s nothing more than adrenaline, the hormone we all have that increases physical strength in emergencies. Peng firmly believed his power came from chi. On occasion when he threw rapid combinations he said it was not uncommon for him to hurt himself when he inadvertently struck his own body. He said he had developed his chi after many years of training, meditation, and following specific dietary restrictions. Oh, and abstinence from sex.
Since my experience with Peng, I’ve continued to hear and read stories of chi power. Most are exaggerations and lies but still fun to hear. While my experience might seem far-fetched to some, I know what I felt was real, amazing, and something I’m not sure I want to experience again.
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Loren Christensen is the author of two dozen Paladin books and videos, including Speed Training, Fighting Power, Fighting Dirty, and Fighting in the Clinch. Loren was a military policeman in Saigon during the Vietnam War and retired from the Portland, Oregon, Police Department after more than two decades of service. He has been training in the martial arts for more than three decades. He can be contacted through his website at www.lwcbooks.com.