I tried the ultimate “Rocky” workout to see if it could turn me into a champ

Punching meat. Running up steps. Bossing a mountain. Chasing, erm, chickens.

In the last 40 years, has anything inspired men to get off their arses and train harder more than the Rocky montage has? Honestly, who hasn’t whacked the Rocky soundtrack on to help push through those last few reps? But does the average man – the kind of woefully out of shape bloke who’s less likely to smash a punching bag than he is family size bag of Monster Munch (i.e. me) – have what it takes to train like the Italian Stallion? For reasons beyond me – other than the fact Rocky’s celebrating its 40th anniversary and I’ve always fancied punching a dead cow – I decided to put it to the test and recreate the ultimate Rocky workout.  

“Eye of the tiger, man… eye of the tiger”

For the boxing basics I head to ONE LDN, a new state of the art fitness studio in Chelsea & Fulham. It’s more like Ivan Drago’s hi-tech training facility than Mighty Mick’s spit and sawdust gymnasium. My coach is Muay Thay fighter David Tieu – my very own Mickey, if you like. I tell him I want the real Rocky workout. “Put me through the paces,” I say. Words I deeply regret roughly three minutes later. First up, skipping. It’s a classic boxing warm-up, David tells me – “Good for rhythm, coordination, and keeps your feet moving.”   I’m doing pretty well until he has combining with rounds of 10 press-ups. I can only usually manage 10 a week, never mind 10 every two minutes. Next, I’m on the agility ladder, stepping in and out of the squares as fast as I can.   In my head, I see Balboa and Apollo practicing their footwork in Rocky III, feet floating up and down, legs bouncing back and forth. Everyone else, unfortunately, sees some podgy bloke failing miserably at hopscotch.  

“Prediction for the fight… pain”

After 10 seriously knackering minutes, it’s time to throw some punches. David talks me through it – legs apart, left foot forward, straight arm for the left jab, step in for a powerful right cross, and finish with a devastating left hook. I hit the punch bag first, before David slips on the pads and body protector to go one-on-one. Mercifully, he doesn’t hit back.   “Yo, Adrian, I did it!” I think, certain that I’ve mastered it. But it quickly turns into the most physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting workout of my life (not saying much, admittedly). I punch at David over and over and over, more sluggish with every jab and swing. He calls out punch combos that my brain’s already too scrambled to process. The realisation of how unfit I am hits me like a knockout blow. Soon enough, I’m seeing spots and genuinely think I might pass out or throw up. I need the Rocky soundtrack to get through it, but I can’t catch my breath to ask anyone to put it on. By now my arms and legs are all over the place and I wonder if Mickey’s immortal training mantra of “eat lightning and crap thunder” is the same as shitting yourself. In one last punishing round of press-ups I fall flat on my face. Down for the count.  

“I didn’t hear no bell…”

The next day my arms and calf muscles are on fire. Like a true contender though, I fight on. East London butchers and cook shop Hill & Szrok invite me into their meat locker to wallop some actual carcasses. It’s bloody cold, and the meat’s rock hard. According to David, this could be a legitimate method for conditioning your fists, but there’s not a boxer in the world who’d do it without gloves or heavy taping in case of breaking their hand.   I go bare knuckle. I couldn’t punch hard enough to break a nail, let alone my hand. Clobbering the meat is satisfying, until I scratch my arm a tiny bit on a meat hook. My first boxing injury.  

“Get up ya son of a bitch!”

After attempting to drink raw eggs (quickly spat out again) I hit the streets for a proper day of montage training. In the absence of a chicken, I consider trying to catch a duck in the park, but some nearby geese look at me menacingly, so I leave it. No one wants to punch out a goose.   I try to lift some logs Rocky IV-style. A couple of dog walkers think I’ve lost my mind as I strain like a lunatic, risking a hernia and splitting the arse of my Rocky II replica shorts. To go full Rocky IV mode, I need a mountain to run up. I settle for Alexandra Palace in north London, the steepest hill I can can think of. “Running is perfect boxing training,” says David. “Great for weight loss, endurance, and preparing yourself mentally to go 12 rounds. And running uphill builds extra strength in your hamstrings and glutes, muscles you don’t work as hard on flat ground.”   That’s probably why after 50 yards I can barely lift my legs. I’m gasping for oxygen, the cold air stinging my lungs. Somehow I get to the top, powered by “Hearts on Fire” in my earphones, but I’m not sure I’ll ever walk or breathe properly again. If I had a towel, I’d throw it in.  

“Ain’t nothing over ‘til it’s over”

Of course, there’s only one way to finish a Rocky workout: run up some steps and pose like an absolute champ. Call it what you will – steely determination, fighting spirit, or the fact I have to walk past a load of steps on my way home – I find the courage to go the distance.   The real Rocky steps are the 72 leading up to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Instead, I’ve got the 63 steps leading up to the Westfield shopping centre in Stratford. Close enough. Unlike Rocky, I have to contend with dozens of shoppers, who I weave around on my way to glory. Charging up those steps, my legs feel ready to burst, but I can hear the Rocky trumpets, feel the adrenaline pumping through my body.   I jump around at the top like Balboa – a true underdog fighting through pain, sweat, and inevitable tears. Shoppers look at me like I’m an idiot. I might not be pro boxing material (not yet, anyway) but I’m definitely the training montage champion of the world. “Ain’t gonna be no rematch,” I hear the ghost of Apollo Creed whisper (though it could have been my mate holding the camera). “Good,” I reply. “Don’t want one.” Photos by Paul Heath