Chris continues his jouney of self discovery and wrestling enlightenment in the Ukraine. You can find part one here, in case you missed it the first time around.

Overnight the snow had come down. At least eight inches worth. In England this would have halted everything. People would have phoned work saying they couldn't come in, transport would have stopped. Not here. People trudged through the mounds of white stuff, buses kept moving, the electric trams that seemed on the verge of breakdown all the time still moved.

Today would be our first training session. All day we chilled out imagining what the sessions would be like. “Three hours non stop,” one said. “All World, Olympic or European champions,” was another. That inspired a lot of confidence.

Our guide appeared at our door. I had a picture of a bull-necked, scarred wrestler that would denigrate out heritages on the spot once he'd seen us. Instead I was pleasantly surprised by the appearance of the gorgeous Olena. Far from the bull necked wrestler I'd envisioned, she was simply a vision (yeah, I got a way with words when it comes to the ladies). She walked us across the city to the sports centre where the Spartak wrestling club trained with me practically attached to her hip, exuding my charm.

Now I use the term sports centre loosely. Imagine where you train. The nice sports centre where you have a weights room, swimming pool, sauna, a nice receptionist who gives you a knowing smile as you sign in leaving you thinking you have a chance with her. The changing rooms, the piped in music. Hell, even lights would be great. We walked through a large iron gate into a field of snow with spindly trees poking out of it. Next to us was an all abandoned speedway that must have once held car sporting events but now was rusted, unused and covered in graffiti.

Getting through the rusted door into the centre there were no lights, only a small booth where a sad eyed old man stared at us suspiciously. Up we went the dark stairs, where the only source of illumination was the light coming in from outside.

We walked through an unadorned brown wooden door leading into what would be our training room for the next two weeks. Six red and yellow wrestling mats lay before us. These would be the mats we'd sweat on with our Ukrainian compatriots. Apart from these mats, a sauna, two shower stalls, a small changing room and a Spartan weights area, that was it. Remember when you're in your comfortable sports centre with all its bells and whistles that there's people out there training with less. When you complain there's not enough towels or some trivial bullshit like that, remember that there's people in countries like this that would give their right arm for what you have.

We all got changed into our wrestling gear. No, not singlets, but wrestling shoes, shorts, a rash guard in my case and a t-shirt over it due to the low temperatures. We met our coaches (forgive me if I spell the names wrong) Orest, who was built like a tank and Yuly, the smaller one who was seemed full of energy all the time.

Due to the language barrier we copied what the locals did during the warm up, which consisted of jogging, sprints where you caught up with the person in front, forward rolls, backward rolls, backward rolls into handstands and a lot more. This was followed by some light stretching then onto the wrestling.

Over there they are big into mimicking a match. Situational stuff like working on turnovers from par terre (to any non-wrestlers this is the scoring position on the hands and knees), and working on turnovers from flat, which means lying on your belly while someone tries to turn you on your back.

Next it would be zone control. This meant trying to push each other out of the circle to score a point. This was something I believed I had a chance at as before I went to the Ukraine I had hit the conditioning hard. Dropping the heavy weights for strength circuits, keeping the reps between 3 and 5 and using compound movements for a series of five to six exercises. In the wrestling room I was doing two minutes rounds with everyone there and finally, being a nut job, I was pushing cars in the place my dad worked as a security guard up and down the car park, either for reps or time -- usually on a Saturday night when everyone else was out drinking and partying. I was doing this. Sad or dedicated comes to mind.

The first person I wrestled was Orest, the coach, due to no one else at the time being my size but him. Not worrying about getting taken down I assumed my size and strength would carry me through. That was not to be. Orest would somehow move his centre of balance or switch his footing so that I'd go falling out of the circle, thus giving him the point.

I got up, said “not again, mate” and went back to work. Being more cautious this time, I switched my footing, keeping a wider base, then attacked. Orest was pushed back. I could see the black line that signified the edge of the circle right behind his foot. Another inch and I'd have the point. Increasing the pressure and using everything I had, I was gonna get this point. Orest the cheeky bastard grinned at me, it wasn't malicious nor contained any hint of a piss take. It was one of 'nice one mate, now it's my turn'. He twisted, overhooked my arm, jammed his foot in against mine and threw me clean out the circle.

I landed on my back looking up at the pale white ceiling, contemplating faking an injury or saying I was ill or something to get this to stop. That's just not in me. When I train I train to win right till the end. Yes, if I have an existing injury that stops me from doing something I'll do something else instead. If my leg is hurt and I can't wrestle, I'll work my boxing instead. Got a bad shoulder? I'd practice punching with the other arm.

All I could say is that these guys were on another level. To some it was their lives. From what I gathered they were at college during the day where they wrestled then came here on the night to work with these world class coaches.

Next up was more situational wrestling. Starting from a single leg. Starting from a double leg. Starting from two on one position. Starting from front headlock. The coaches would show a series of escapes, blocks and techniques to these positions then let you go off to practice. I stuck to the basics because thats what I knew. If I did anything fancy I thought I'd screw it up and look like a wanker in front of these lads, so fancy was no go.

When the session ended we hit the showers and dried ourselves off to start the long trudge back to the hostel. I'm 32 years old as of writing this article. I've been training for years and am glad to say I can still out hustle lads in their twenties, but this was a whole other game.

My legs ached, my back ached. We still had to walk the miles it would take to get back to my bed, which was somehow calling me to it. This had been our first session and there was more to come. Well, hell, let's get it on. Training with people like this would only be beneficial. No matter how many times I got knocked down or got my ass kicked I'd learn. Over the sessions my takedown defense got progressively better. If I could stop maybe two out of five then it was better than the five out five I'd been hit with when I first started.

The two main precepts I learned while I was there, and they carry over into life as well so here's some philosophy for you, were:

1) Don't stop moving.

If you got taken down you kept moving either to scramble to a more advantageous position or to keep the other person from turning you over. If they hit your legs you fought every step of the way until either you stuffed the takedown or made them pay for every inch you gave up till you hit the ground. Then when you hit the ground keep going until you got a reversal or scrambled out to right back at your opponent.

The practices I liked were the ones where we just wrestled. Forget about points or pins and just go for it. My opponent would take me down at will then, as I loosened up, I'd be able to start reading how they moved or set things up and be able to counter their technique, or at least hold them off longer.

It was the same if you were the aggressor. If you missed on a double leg you switched off to a single. Miss that, try going around the back. Miss that, take an ankle pick. Miss that one and you got back to your feet for a reshot. No matter what you kept moving.

2) Don't be afraid to make a mistake.

In the practice room, that's where you figured out works and what doesn't. Not necessarily the techniques, but what works for you. Some lads I wrestled there like one move like a sweeping outside single or a shoulder throw that they could pull off anywhere, any angle, anytime.

To figure this out you have to attempt them and fail. Fuck it up, find another way or another angle to set it up. Screw that up and you find out what was wrong. Were my hips in the wrong place or was it my footwork? You have to try to know what will work and what won't. As serious as these lads were they didn't have an aversion to fun, trying out funky moves that they'd never tried before. Techniques that would give their coaches fits if they tried them in a competitive environment. I've never prescribed to being orthodox. If I saw something that I liked, no matter how funky, I'd ask them to show me.

Being unafraid is what separates a lot of people. When you go in on a double leg shot you can't do it with a fear at the back of your mind, saying that it won't work because it won't. You'll go in half-arsed and get stuffed. You go in all the way, pure conviction behind it. You drive until you hit the legs then finish it. I always liked guys like the Brands brothers and the Schultzs who bullied their way in. If they missed the shot, they'd keep driving until they caught your legs and took you off your feet.

At the end of the days I spent there I knew I'd miss training with these people who had opened their club to us and hadn't charged us a penny to train with them. Even with the bad English I felt that we were all on the same wavelength. All of us were hassled for phone numbers (especially the one lady with us), facebook names and e-mails so that we could keep in contact with each other.

Going there not only made me a better wrestler, it made me a better person for appreciating the fact that they trained with very little and still got better each and every day. Whereas before I might complain that we didn't have a grappling dummy or enough matting, I remembered training over there which put it all in perspective for me.

If you ever have the chance to go to countries like this to train, take it. Not only for the awesome technique you'd receive but to understand other cultures better and step outside your comfort zone. I hope you enjoyed reading this and that you take something from it.

My thanks for this article go to:

The Hawthorn family - Jimmy, Tommy, Kate and Jack Longthorne (for the entertainment they provided)
Nick Peterken, Ed Peterken and Jack Peterken (great bunch of lads)
James Robinson (party animal)
Tommy Greaves (my partner in crime)
Elena Gregoriou (our lovely hostess at the hostel)
Orest, Yuly, Victor and Olena (the coaches and the gorgeous guide)
Andre, Oleg and Andre (it was awesome wrestling with these guys)
Macdonalds (yes, I'm thanking a fast food restaurant because it kept me sane)