Part Reptile: UFC, MMA and Me

by Dan Hardy

  Psychedelics undoubtedly got me back on track with my life. They provide me with a greater sense of balance and perspective. I always use them with purpose. For me, it is not about taking a handful of mushrooms and going to a party. I use them to learn about myself and understand my life better. Who I was and why I had become that person. It is very difficult to explain the psychedelic experience with words. As a race we have become so estranged from it and our languages fail us. No one has yet developed the vocabulary to fully articulate what happens in a psychedelic state. But what I can say is that those ceremonies in Las Vegas reopened my eyes to how much I love martial arts and how privileged I was to be doing my passion as a job and making a living from it. They showed me how lucky I was to be able to dedicate my time and energy to something I loved, when going into the Lytle fight I had forgotten all of that. They reminded me that life as a mixed martial artist is supposed to be challenging, but it is very rewarding too. I saw that I always have options to move forward and it is up to me to choose the correct ones. I was ready to fight again.

  • • •

  The permanent move to Vegas naturally precipitated a change in my training team. I welcomed that, feeling I would benefit from some new eyes on my game. Seeing less of Nelson didn’t bother me, but I still feel guilty that I created distance between Steve Papp and me. Looking back, I didn’t explain things particularly well to Steve, but in all honesty I didn’t really understand what was going on in my head at that time. My partnership with Owen Comrie had fizzled out naturally as he was being pulled in so many directions by his family, full-time job and other fighters under his charge, but Steve had always been totally committed to me. We worked well together and it was tough to leave him, but I was convinced that a new direction was required. I wanted a team that already worked well together. I no longer wanted to manage my own schedule and try to piece everything together myself.

  I began spending a lot of time with the UFC veteran heavyweight Frank Mir. Frank, a true legend of the sport still going strong a full fifteen years on from his debut at UFC 34, had opened his own gym in Las Vegas and built a team around him there. It is a set-up more akin to what an elite pro boxer enjoys and I was happy to be able to stay out of the MMA factory model and move into Frank’s more intimate arrangement. As I was tall and long enough to replicate a smaller heavyweight’s reach, I started as his sparring partner, doing rounds one and six when he wanted a session of six five-minute rounds. We are style-opposites in many ways and that ensured we could learn from one another. I am quick and good on my feet with a countering style and high work rate. Frank, like many heavyweights, slows down quicker than lighter athletes when fatigue sets in, but he’s immensely strong and when he takes you down he can snap your limbs off with ease. We made a good team and I could be trusted to be controlled while in there with him. Other sparring partners, through either ego, eagerness to impress, or fear, get into the cage with a superstar and go all out for a KO. There are plenty of guys like that in the MMA world. I find them all the time while travelling around dropping into gyms for sparring or when teaching seminars. In seminars you can do thirty rounds with a different person each time, and there’ll always be one who tries to take your head off or rip your arms out so they have a story to tell when they get home. It is hardly ideal when what you are looking for is someone controlled and respectful who understands the point of a sparring session and won’t let ego take over. The danger posed by unknown quantities is part of the reason some gyms now insist on fighters donning headgear, sixteen-ounce gloves and an array of padding over shins and arms before stepping into the cage. I respect the rules of every gym I walk into, but I prefer not to use headgear if there is any way I can avoid it. The fact is, I get hit far more often with the protection on. My style is built around slipping punches and that means becoming adept at letting a fist whistle an inch or less past my skull. With the headgear adding an extra couple of inches all around, those slipped punches tend to land as glancing blows that can upset balance. Another problem I have with added protection is that opponents often throw heavier against a guy with headgear because they treat it like hitting a punch bag. The only time I choose to wear extra gear is closer to a fight when I’m working at close quarters doing a lot of clinch work and want to avoid head clashes or getting nicked or cut.

  The beauty of being part of Mir’s team was that I had my coaches around me all the time. It wasn’t like before when I’d work with a grappling coach, then a different striking coach in a different gym, then go searching for sparring by walking into a gym full of sharks with no one from my side looking on at all. The three main men I was now working with were Jimmy Gifford, Ricky Lundell and Shawn Yarborough. Yarborough is a vicious and excellent Muay Thai specialist, while Lundell is a grappling wizard and an immensely strong athlete, and both men were a good size to double up as training partners for me. Giff then assumed the head coach role, overseeing everything and formulating fight strategies. They were able to put their three heads together and say, ‘Okay, today we’re going to work on this, I want Dan doing this, and we’re going to achieve this.’ It took a lot of the pressure off my shoulders and allowed me to concentrate solely on improving myself as a martial artist, which is exactly how it should be.

  I love working with Giff because he is so passionate and committed. He started life as a boxing trainer, working pro corners in South Boston when he was only thirteen. He began a life-long friendship with Dana White when they were both young men, and later became Lorenzo’s personal boxing coach. When they brought him into the UFC, they sat him in a hotel room with every UFC ever recorded and told him to watch and learn. Giff absorbed it all like a sponge. He enjoyed working with me because I came from something of a traditional boxing background and had the natural footwork and head movement you associate with prizefighters. In comparison with ex-wrestlers, who can sometimes struggle to grasp those basics, I was a fun project for him. He described his approach to me as throwing a bag of toys on the floor and watching what I instinctively picked up and played with. He would take me on the pads, but his real genius is figuring out game-plans and putting them into operation. I believe that part of the reason Giff is so good at his job is because he never had his own fighting career. That can be a problem for coaches for two reasons. Firstly, there is always the danger of a lingering jealousy if the pupil ends up surpassing the master’s own achievements. That risk never exists with Giff because he has always wanted to teach and nothing else. It takes a special person to excel in this way, and I think that with the grappling arts at least you need to have had your hands on people to understand how things work, but Jimmy has certainly succeeded. He doesn’t crave the spotlight and never has an agenda. Every move he makes is decided upon with his fighter’s best interests at heart.

  The second potential issue with ex-fighters coaching is that many fall into the trap of trying to teach how they fought when that may not be the best style for their fighter. Both Owen and Steve taught me the styles that suited them, some of which clicked immediately while the rest simply didn’t suit my physical attributes and strengths. Steve, who I still train with when I’m back home, recently discussed this with me as we reflected upon our training camps together. He also said that now I’m not so fat he can see how long my arms are and would do things differently to maximise my reach! Giff naturally takes each fighter on their own merit and designs a game-plan specific to them without being influenced by a previous life in the ring or Octagon. He is very open-minded and always wanting to learn himself. He is also very analytical and obsessed with how each fighter should approach a bout, and the fact that he is free from ego and honest about his own strengths and knowledge means he is happy to call for help from other specialists when necessary. If he devised a tactic for me to utilise switching my stance, for example, he’d then call Ricky in to drill it with me until it became second nature. I loved everything about Giff’s approach to fight preparation.

  I
also loved just being around Frank. He is such a family man: part of the reason he built his own gym was so his wife and kids could always be there with him. Plenty of neighbours and friends were always milling about too. It was rather hectic and chaotic at times, and I sometimes found it difficult to cope with it close to fight time as I am more reclusive than Frank, but it was an environment that worked for him and I could only respect that. I sometimes wish I had had the resources to create my own space and fill it with whatever I needed to fuel me before a big fight, but unfortunately I never reached a point in my career where I could afford it. I often think back about what it would have been like to be able to truly explore my potential. If there is a target for us to aim for as a species, it must surely be to create a social structure where people have the freedom and resources to explore their true potential in whatever endeavour they choose. I much prefer that to the reality of life today where the vast majority simply work to help drive a lopsided economy and line the pockets of a select few. Nevertheless, I had a team around me and was grateful to them all for taking me in and being so generous with their time, knowledge and resources. It was also nice to be preparing with another fighter that would share the card with me at my next fight. I was ready to compete again. I felt like a new person both physically and mentally.

  • • •

  I was now training to face Duane Ludwig, a guy who had been a real inspiration to me throughout my career. Back in the early days when MMA footage was hard to come by, I would send off for DVDs of fights from some obscure events in Japan and South America, or the likes of King of the Cage and Gladiator Challenge where Ludwig was busy making a name for himself. I felt like I had watched his career progress in this way and was delighted for him when he made it into the UFC in 2003. I loved watching Duane fight and saw a lot of my own style in his game. He came from a kickboxing background and was trained by the one-and-only Bas Rutten, the first European UFC champion and a personal hero of mine. I liked how Ludwig represented Muay Thai in the MMA world and held him up as an example of the success I could achieve in the game. Back then, most of the main guys in the UFC came from wrestling or jiu-jitsu backgrounds, so seeing his polished striking skills on display was a joy to behold. I remember watching him bite down on his gumshield and blast away at someone against the fence or stepping to the side to find angles like a championship boxer too. He looked devastating in any striking range and that was exactly how I envisaged myself fighting if I ever reached the Octagon.

  One thing I’ll never forget about that fight week was the support I felt from everyone linked to the sport. We were fighting at the MGM Grand Garden Arena in Vegas, which effectively made it a home fixture, but the warmth of feeling towards me ran deeper than affection for an adopted local son. From fellow fighters to fans to media to everyone connected with the UFC organisation, it felt like they were all pulling for me. I was just about keeping my head above water in the riptide of a four-fight losing streak and if I lost this one, not even a tweet from Lorenzo would save me from going under. You always receive a lot of good wishes from all and sundry in the run-up to a bout, but this time they were heartfelt. All the behind-the-scenes staff that work tirelessly to make the UFC what it is paused and took a moment when they approached to wish me luck. Often their kind words were delivered with a direct look in the eye and a hand on the shoulder too. They weren’t the bog-standard platitudes I had grown accustomed to and I had the impression that people were genuinely willing me on, as if they were invested in me winning as much as I was myself. They all gave me strength and I’ll be eternally grateful for that support.

  Ludwig was famous for recording the fastest knockout in UFC history when he sparked Jonathan Goulet inside a handful of seconds in 2006. It was with his signature punch at the time, a compact right hand starting with his fist close to his chin and thrown straight out with a twist at the end as it connected with an advancing opponent. The way he kept his elbow from flaring out and minimised the body rotation meant it was a very well-concealed punch. It was almost like a jab that nobody saw coming and he relied on his innate and exquisite timing to ensure the blow did maximum damage as he placed it perfectly on the tip of his opponent’s chin. I respected the threat, but was intent on using his biggest weapon against him. I knew he’d keep looking for it because fighters always tend to revert to what has worked for them in the past. I made similar errors, trying to land my left hook too often at times. It all becomes too predictable and an opponent can anticipate and exploit it if they have a sharp eye and are paying attention. So I thought if I could draw this punch out of Ludwig on my terms, I’d be able to sneak my counter left around the corner and onto his exposed mandible. It didn’t take long, in fact he caught me with it almost straight away in our first real meaningful trade. It really rang my bell and for a few seconds I felt unstable on my legs, so I grabbed hold, turned him and ran us both into the fence.

  This was the point when my mushroom ceremonies connected with the fight. I had just spent nine months talking to the blackness of my eyes, connecting with my inner reptile, and I fully appreciated the potential value of engaging that element of my consciousness. It is about deactivating the sections of the brain that are over-thinking things like, shit, if I hit that rock and fall there I could knock myself unconscious and never be found, and trust the part telling you, that piece of ground is solid, hit it with certainty at full pelt and continue down the trail. I knew I would benefit from being in that space during a physical conflict, but the challenge was how to get there when a psilocybin ceremony backstage clearly wasn’t an option. I had enjoyed some success with prolonged fasting and meditation because I knew the feeling I was looking for and could allow myself to pass into that state, but food deprivation isn’t viable before a fight and it is tough to meditate in a fight environment when surrounded by other stimuli pulling your consciousness in different directions. I required another key to open the door.

  There exists an old cliché that some fighters need to be hit with a clean shot before they start fighting, and that is effectively what happened to me against Ludwig when he landed his right. I was happy about that because it gave him confidence to use it again and again and I only needed to be waiting once to punish him. But it was a good shot and I was buzzed. It felt like I was under water. It is a sensation of floating and then sinking as your hearing grows muffled and distorted. The body’s temporarily disturbed equilibrium then provides the sensation of being dragged by a current in various directions. That’s how I felt pressed against Ludwig and the fence for a few seconds, but then I started having an internal conversation with myself. I’m in a fight, I said. He’s moving and I’m reacting to what he’s doing. But I’m not even thinking about it, this is all automated now. It dawned on me that the punch had switched my reptilian brain on and, having gone through so many repetitions in the gym that I now trusted that part of my subconscious to make the optimum move in any given combat situation, I decided just to let it take over. From that point on it was as if I was a passenger. I was still conscious of a thought process computing data and reacting accordingly, but it was independent of what my body was physically doing in the fight. I was still mulling over the thought of getting caught with that first clean shot and thinking I probably shouldn’t let it happen again, and all the while my body was reacting to his movement and stifling his efforts to get off the fence. I was present, but as a spectator at my own fight. Then the second time I clinched him up against the fence, I remember very calmly and rationally thinking, Okay, maybe I should try and draw that right hand from him now so I can land my left. So, I need to feint a jab and see that right hand come away from the chin to try and counter me. Just a few centimetres of movement is all I need, so I know that he’s committing to it. Okay, good, he took the bait . . . now I’m gonna pump a jab to draw his counter a second time, and throw my left hook at the tip of his chin where his right hand should have been and clean his clock. It was totally surreal, but that was t
he conversation with myself taking place in my head as I was fighting. I was full-reptile.

  Now that I have a better understanding of myself, I look back at recordings of old fights and I can see in my eyes the moments when I was full-reptile. I can see it in other fighters too. Wanderlei ‘The Axe Murderer’ Silva and Robbie ‘Ruthless’ Lawler are two good examples. They get into that reptilian space and it is beautiful to watch them fight. I’ve seen it in other sports with the likes of the legendary Thai boxer Ramon Dekkers, who Ludwig actually fought, or Mike Tyson in his prime. Theirs is more of an internal, instinctual rage that needs an outlet, but I can identify with that feeling too. I’ve seen it with my dad on occasion and in myself when I used to drink and the alcohol had the undesirable effect of turning the volume up on my reptilian brain. The problem with alcohol is that it introduces raw emotions into the decision-making process. In full-reptile you are only interested in number one in the purest sense. Once in a nightclub I looked across the dance floor and saw three guys targeting a friend of mine. Logic would have told me to ignore it, that there’s three of them and I should probably fetch help. But raw emotions originating in the limbic system and fuelled by the vodka I had consumed overrode those safety mechanisms and I piled in. My sense of brotherhood with those close to me and the innate desire to protect them when danger arose meant that full-reptile took over, which isn't always helpful. The alcoholic rage then ensured I still had one enemy by the hair, smashing his head against the floor when I was pulled off him. That’s why combat sports are so important to provide an outlet to guys who would otherwise be menaces to society and to themselves. The dominant reptile inside them will manifest itself in some way, so we are all much better off if that happens in a ring or an Octagon. You can see it in plenty of other walks of life too. Wall Street and American politics are riddled with characters operating in full-reptile most of the time. Guys like Kissinger or Cheney or even Trump and Hillary Clinton today. They would walk over you and everyone else to secure more power. It is a very dangerous state of being when left uncontrolled.