Part Reptile: UFC, MMA and Me

by Dan Hardy

  My third and final ayahuasca ceremony of that trip was the toughest. Such was the feeling of pain and fear, I actually crawled to the door midway through to escape. As soon as I got outside I felt better and made my way to the sleeping quarters to lie down and forget about that one. But the night watchman saw my pupils dilated to the size of dinner plates and sent me back to the maloka for safety reasons. Immediately the feeling of dread and physical pain returned and I just sat down and waited for the candle to be lit. Just before that happened, the shaman gave permission to an Irish fella called Niall to play a few songs on his guitar. He did some Dylan, some Marley and a Beatles track and some people were singing along and I guess it was quite nice. But I was still feeling terrible until he began his fourth and final number. As soon as he strummed the first chord it was like a massive weight had been lifted off of me and a surge of relief coursed through my body. It was as if I could breathe unrestricted and was immediately myself again. I knew the song well and as soon as I woke up the next day I began scrolling through the tens of thousands of songs on my iPod in search of this track. I knew I had it somewhere but although it felt more familiar to me than the classics by Dylan, Marley and the Beatles, I just couldn’t identify what artist had written it. I went looking for Niall and asked him what it was. ‘It’s called “Stillness”,’ he told me. ‘I only wrote it last week in Argentina and that’s the first time I’ve played it in public.’ I couldn’t deny that it was impossible I had heard it before, but I knew that song. He made me a copy and I still listen to it today. I also have a tattoo of the main lyric, ‘stillness is how you breathe’, around my wrist.

  • • •

  As always with psychedelic experiences, it is difficult to articulate the impact the ayahuasca ceremonies had on my life. I guess what they did was to help me take a step back from certain issues and look at everything more clearly and from a fresh perspective. It then became easier both to identify the relevant pieces of a puzzle and be able to fit them together. Sometimes I think of life as being a computer game in which you need to keep completing levels to move forward. A bit like forcing your own evolution along. The ceremonies helped me remove a good chunk of my ego and be more honest with myself and this in turn helped me raise my level of consciousness. No one knows me better than I do, so as long as I’m being honest with myself, I have all the answers in front of me. I always say that ayahuasca, or any natural substance that induces a psychedelic state, doesn’t necessarily change you, but it will help you know who you are so you can change yourself.

  My trip to Peru proved to be a watershed moment in my life, a two-week period within which I was able to let go of a lot of baggage and find some answers to questions that had been eating away at me for years. My problems used to leer at me in front of my face at every turn like the corks on an Australian hat, and now it was as if I could simply remove the hat. For want of a more original turn of phrase, I found myself. I was able to connect to all these different parts of my personality and, even more importantly, understand what each part needed. I had a moment of realisation about how to live within my means and not encroach upon nature or other people, a more conscious approach to living. And I can now read other people and their emotions much better than before. It is all about enjoying each day as it comes and finding a peace and balance within myself, a balance I never had before when fighting was dominating everything. At times I still feel aggressive and want to fight, but I can now hear the conversation going on between different competing forces in my mind. My reptilian brain, who I now feed and nurture and control better than before, will be screaming, Hit him! He deserves it. My higher consciousness will then counter with, He probably does deserve it but if you hit him then you become the arsehole in the room. The key for me is balancing the needs of my higher consciousness with the animal or ego inside me. And sometimes I believe that physical aggression, or rather the threat of it, is still necessary and justified. As a strong, fighting man, I see my role within the community as one of maintaining order and discipline. So when I see a guy pissing in the street where I live, or a jackass hitting his girlfriend in a car on Vegas Boulevard, or a drunken idiot bothering my wife and a UFC ring girl in the lobby of a Swedish hotel, I need to act. To this end I’ve developed my seven-out-of-ten theory, with one representing total passivity and ten meaning someone is going to hospital for a very long time. My trick is to appear to be at seven, when in reality I’m probably only at three or four out of ten. The appearance of seven is invariably a sufficient stance to defuse most situations or, at worst, compel the aggressor to make a first move which I, in my calm internal state, can comfortably deal with without the need to call the emergency services afterwards.

  John Kavanagh talks about the need to update our software without damaging our hardware, which is a thought-provoking phrase, in reference to intelligent training methods. Years before, Terrence McKenna had his own IT analogy for self-improvement. McKenna believes that humanity is working with an outdated operating system and that psychedelics are the key to advancement and finding peace within ourselves. Some have success with the likes of meditation, fasting and sensory deprivation tanks, but psychedelic plants provide the most powerful, spiritual and potentially rewarding experience. I truly believe that the world would be a better place if everyone, when they are ready for it, took part in an ayahuasca or psilocybin mushroom ceremony. But at the same time, I acknowledge that I can only speak from my own personal positive experiences with the medicine and for that reason I never advise others to experiment.

  • • •

  I flew back to the US and within a week the UFC announced my next fight, a late-September date with Amir Sadollah in my own home town. It was an awesome feeling to be the guy who brought the UFC to Nottingham. It was also totally unexpected as, with a capacity of just over 7,000, the city’s main venue was a little shy of what the UFC usually expects to host a show. Birmingham and Manchester are more obvious options for that part of the UK, so it was a tremendous personal honour that the organisation had decided to visit my city. I was thrilled for my family, friends and everyone who had followed my career as well. I had only fought twice in the UK in the previous three and a half years so it was great they’d be able to walk to the arena rather than fly half way across the world.

  I couldn’t wait to get back into training with Giff, Ricky, Shawn and Frank, but I also had a new weapon up my sleeve. Another thing I left Peru with was a belief that I needed to introduce yoga into my routine. I couldn’t explain why exactly, but all of a sudden I was overcome by the feeling it was vital for me. My previous yoga experiences had involved sitting around with a bunch of old ladies doing breathing exercises and watching them trying in vain to touch their toes, so I was keen this time to find a more challenging form of the ancient Indian discipline. Hot yoga, ninety minutes of postures in forty-degree heat, fit that bill and I soon integrated twice-weekly sessions into my training camp. It helped add more balance to my training regime. Even during supposed downtime in previous camps, my mind was always focused on the fight and I felt under pressure to be continually doing something directly connected with the battle ahead. Hot yoga became another escape of sorts, albeit one that was entirely relevant and very beneficial in terms of affording time for injuries to heal, improving my flexibility, and keeping my weight in check. It also surprised me by providing another avenue to explore in terms of accessing those inner reaches of my subconscious that lie dormant and untouched throughout the monotony of daily life. It was during a deep spinal stretch that I worked a particular muscle which released an emotion from my taekwondo class when I was six years old. The instructor Paul, the half of Eagle & Hawk that could be gratuitously mean, often forced us past our pain thresholds while stretching in a misplaced attempt at having us push beyond our limits. For twenty-five years I had locked that memory away without thought, totally unaware that my hatred of stretching probably stems from that evening in the village hall. It was an inc
redible revelation, all the more so because the physical act of manipulating a muscle in a meditative state a quarter of a century later was the trigger for me to figure it all out. I was used to psychedelics helping me to delve into the past but now I had another key to unlock some of the doors within my mind.

  Camp went perfectly for the Sadollah fight. I felt calmer than ever and, partly thanks to the hot yoga sessions, I only needed to shed 6lbs during fight week. I was so excited to be fighting in Nottingham, but the home-field advantage brought its own unique pressures. On the morning of the fight I woke up and looked out my living room window to the arena. It suddenly dawned on me that if I lost in there, I’d never be able to live it down. It isn’t like losing in Canton, Ohio and walking away safe in the knowledge I’d never return to the scene of the disappointment. This is my town, my home, my family’s home. We all go regularly to watch the ice hockey in the Nottingham Arena. It’s a happy place for us and I was now risking tainting all of that with a potentially very unhappy memory.

  The pressure to create a happy memory built throughout the day and right into the first round. It was hard to keep my emotions in check when almost 8,000 people were chanting my name over and over again. My grandma was there as well, a little old lady who looks like the Queen, sitting in the front row offering everyone boiled sweets from her handbag. The first round passed in a bit of a slow-motion blur as we felt each other out and when I sat down I remember apologising to my corner, saying I just needed to get that five minutes out of the way. Giff’s mother in Boston was sick and so he couldn’t be there, but I had Ricky and Shawn and I invited my old teammate Dean Amasinger to come along and help out too, so I was in very good hands. I then went out and dominated the last ten minutes. In truth, I never really felt threatened by Sadollah. He made his name winning season seven of The Ultimate Fighter and he was a busy, fast-paced, Muay Thai specialist, but I knew plenty of guys who had held their own with him in sparring so I wasn’t particularly concerned about what he would bring. I actually viewed him as an opportunity to practise some moves and improve ahead of future, juicier match-ups. I looked to try out some takedowns I had been working on in the gym, shooting from a clinch or against the fence or by level changing under one of his punches and exploiting his forward momentum. Just as Ricky and I had drilled, I also wanted to show my ground-and-pound game too, something I felt I had neglected since I signed with the UFC as my advantage was normally on the feet. I was basically experimenting when I possibly should have been concentrating on knocking him out. But the Condit fight was still fresh in my mind as well and I was adamant I wasn’t going to get swept up in the British atmosphere again and get caught by a stupid shot. It was in many ways a very mature showing in which I displayed more facets to my game than usual and won by unanimous decision at a relative canter. I was pleased with the performance, not so much in itself, but for what it promised was coming. Afterwards I remember telling journalists about how good I felt about my career, how I was focused upon dedicating the next eighteen months of my life towards getting everything I could out of fighting in the Octagon. I saw how I was still evolving as a mixed martial artist and I was convinced that my best was still to come.

  8

  WOLF HEART

  I was matched with Matt Brown for 20 April 2013 in San Jose, California, and I couldn’t wait to get back in the Octagon. Brown was on a roll, racing along in the midst of a seven-fight win streak that included plenty of bonuses, and I knew his striking style would guarantee a fun and explosive night. Matt was also the perfect opponent against whom I could showcase my continuing evolution as a mixed martial artist and beating him would be a major stride towards title contention again. Now fully settled into my new surroundings within Frank’s gym and training under the watchful eyes of Giff, Ricky and Shawn, camp was going great. Five weeks out from fight night, I was called to attend the usual UFC pre-bout medical check-up and I had never felt as fit, strong and ready for combat in my whole career. Few MMA commissions in the world require fighters to take an ECG test but California is one of them. So with this being my first outing in the Golden State, I was a little surprised but totally unconcerned when the doctor began attaching the electrodes to my chest. My only previous ECG test was the one conducted in that nightmare build-up to the Pat Healy fight in Florida back in 2004. The local doctor at that weigh-in believed he had picked up something irregular through his stethoscope and wanted a second opinion to cover his own back. I took the test and was cleared, anything irregular the first doc heard being put down to the fact my body was in a state of stress from making weight, and I had never given my heart a second thought since then. But sitting there in the medical centre in Las Vegas, I could see from the doctor’s face that something was up. ‘Unusual’ was the word he used as he watched the needle trace my heart’s activity onto the scroll of paper feeding out of the machine. Little more was said that day, but I was asked to return soon after to discuss the results. It was then the bombshell was dropped on me from a great height: I was diagnosed with Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome.

  The way it was described, an additional electrical pathway had formed somewhere in my heart, meaning I effectively had two heartbeats. The doc went on to explain that this extra group of cells generating their own electrical impulse produced a risk of a short circuit, or cardiac arrest, and death. So despite the fact that as a professional athlete I had been pushing my heart to the limit for over a decade without having any symptoms like chest pain, palpitations, shortness of breath, fainting or anxiety, the medics were concerned. Further investigation was required so I took a stress test, basically running for eighteen minutes as the speed and inclination was gradually increased and my heart activity was monitored. I then had a special ultrasound done which produced a three-dimensional model of my heart in order to look for the additional, unwanted cells or anything else enlarged or abnormal. The replica unearthed nothing sinister, but the stress test did produce something that surprised even the experts. The two beats were clear, the first maxing at 197 per minute and the second at 186, but what was odd was that the extra beat was consistent rather than sporadic, as is the norm with people living with WPW syndrome. It was as if I had been born with a back-up and it led me to later joke that the UFC wouldn’t let me fight because my two hearts gave me an unfair advantage in that you had to kill me twice. In jest of course, but I also mentioned that every change in a species’ evolutionary journey begins with an anomaly. If that anomaly or so-called abnormality proves to be advantageous to a living organism’s survival, then it gradually becomes the norm in the species. But despite my attempts to put a positive spin on things, the cardiology specialists had refused to pass me fit to fight without first undergoing some sort procedure.

  The proposed solution was exploratory heart surgery to ascertain exactly what was going on in there. That meant cutting open the carotid artery in my neck and the femoral artery in my leg in order to feed microscopic cameras through my body and into my heart. If a secondary group of cells could be found, and if they were in a safe place, a surgeon could then try to burn them away via a technique known as ablation. There was no guarantee of success, and the risk of permanent damage and needing a pacemaker for the rest of my life was ever-present. Incredibly, the doctor also said I’d be able to fight in just three weeks’ time if the operation went smoothly: a declaration I found very hard to believe.

  I had several other issues with what I was hearing. There were just too many ifs in the equation for my liking and not enough certainty. I was never told anything definitive. Never, this is the problem and this is what needs to be done and this is how we’re going to do it. We weren’t talking about an ingrowing toenail here so I wasn’t comfortable with so much guesswork surrounding poking about in my most vital organ. If I am honest, I simply didn’t trust the American doctors’ judgement on this one. I always had a fear that, within the dynamic of the extortionate health care system in the US, some of them had one eye on
the next payment due on a luxury yacht docked out the back of a beach house somewhere in southern California. My heart had always been strong, it had never let me down, and I was presenting no symptoms to suggest I was in any danger. If it ain’t broke, then don’t fix it, right? I pushed back, reluctant to let anyone rummage about in my heart on a reconnaissance mission.

  I had my mum speak to our GP back in Nottingham, who knew our family medical history intimately. My grandad had had a metal heart valve fitted in his fifties, a knock-on effect from his own father contracting rheumatic fever when he arrived back in England at the end of the Great War. The intervention helped Grandad regulate his heartbeat, although it also ensured he was dependent on medication to manage the thickness of his blood and ensure the valve was never blocked. Getting the balance of the medication right was an ongoing battle and the cause of several ambulance rides to the hospital like the one before my Lee Doski rematch. Grandma always said that in the silence of the dead of night you could hear it ticking quietly in his chest, and now if you tilt the box that holds his ashes you can hear the tiny metal device rattling about inside. I was wary of such risks, of opening a Pandora’s Box and embarking on a lifetime of meds, and my family doctor agreed. He couldn’t see any sense whatsoever in operating on the heart of a patient who was presenting zero troubling symptoms. This was the key consideration for me. When my condition became common knowledge, plenty of people were getting in touch via social media urging me to get it done and assuring me there was absolutely nothing to worry about. But they missed the point because they had all experienced symptoms and there was therefore more of a requirement to undergo the procedure. The son of a gym mate was the same. This kid would be sitting on the sofa and his heart rate would suddenly shoot up from 60 to 140 for no reason whatsoever. There is an inherent and obvious health risk there and so, of course, he went in for surgery. I also read that some professions demand that action is taken upon diagnosis. Air Force pilots in charge of multi-million-dollar aircraft and flying with multi-million-dollar weaponry and missiles attached, for example. That makes sense to me, but the absolute worst-case scenario if Dan Hardy drops down dead at work is people being sad for a while. I did more investigation and discovered that WPW syndrome is not at all rare, with as high as three in every one thousand people affected according to the NHS. Without symptoms or a random ECG test, the vast majority never even know and live full and healthy lives before perishing of natural causes. On the other hand, those that do discover the condition and have the catheter ablation procedure often need to return again and again for the same intrusive surgery because the extra cells either reproduce or appear elsewhere in the heart.