Teacher Xiao was hitting me, trying to get beyond my intercepting forearm, while I was attempting to let the force of his strikes turn my waist and so power my return punches. Tai ying le, he kept repeating; song, song! “Too stiff; relax, relax!” Not easy under the circumstances. Then he was through, grabbing my arm and rolling backwards whilst simultaneously twisting his waist; I was pulled forward and hit by the recoil of his arms, which knocked me sideways and onto the ground.

The Chinese are proud of their culture, and when they see a foreigner is serious about studying an aspect of it, they go out of their way to inform. My interest is in taiji. Don’t let anyone tell you taiji is simply a pleasant exercise for pensioners. It can be, but it’s also a martial art whose flowing moves form a linked series of kicks, blocks, and strikes; the slowness of practice builds up great stability, co-ordination, and – in real combat – speed.

I’ve studied taiji for ten years, and during many trips to China have taken the opportunity to train with anyone who would let me. I met teacher Xiao in a city park at dawn, amongst surreal crowds letting off steam by practicing martial arts, ballroom dancing, boot-scooting, or just by shouting. I’ve practiced with monks on Wudang Shan, the mountain where taiji is said to have originated; and been lucky enough to meet the spry eighty-year-old Mr Han Huiming, a famous fighter in his day, at the ancestral home of the founder of my taiji style. Others have demonstrated their strength by breaking bricks on their heads (or their students’ bodies) for me; or have pared the art down to just a few movements, which somehow contain immense power. All were talented people who did their best to help me understand their approach to taiji.

There are drawbacks in orbiting between teachers. Taiji is very factional, and the different styles are all convinced of their own superiority. Taiji also allows for a degree of personal interpretation, so while some instructors emphasise grappling or punching, others prefer yielding or attacking. Having invested decades in developing their own techniques, teachers can become dogmatic about their training methods. It’s impossible to try to please everyone: in the end you’ll either renounce taiji completely, or – as I eventually did – try to find some common principles underlying the different styles.

The most important taiji principle is song. Song translates literally as “relax”, but in martial terms indicates a state in which the body is not uselessly limp but minimally tense. Song also means “pine tree”, whose solid trunk and loose, flexible branches perfectly illustrate the desired martial state. Song is not easy to achieve – it can take years – but once you have it, your stance becomes very firm, and you begin to subconsciously “feel” your opponent, reacting to an attack without thinking. This is because there are no obstructively tense muscles to first relax before using the ones you actually need. With song also comes an ability to generate power from your waist, and allowing this force to travel unobstructed to the attacking portion of your body – in effect, putting your whole body strength into the attacking portion (be it fist, foot, or head), rather than relying solely on local muscles.

Another place where most types of taiji find common ground is in the division of solo and two-person forms. The solo forms are those slow-moving, lengthy routines which typify taiji and are, confusingly given the name, often practiced en masse. Without an opponent to interrupt, they represent an idealised version of taiji, and (though containing martial movements) are used primarily to develop internal energy or qi, a strong flow of which the Chinese believe is essential for good health.

In contrast, two-person exercises take the martial principles of the solo form and show how to apply them. The most common two-person exercise is tuishou or “push hands”, which – amongst other things – teaches you how to absorb and redirect an opponent’s force; more complex sanshou routines use long sequences of moves from the solo form to create realistic fight choreography.

But perhaps the most important unifying feature of taiji styles are the secret words for success revealed to me by teacher Xiao as he helped me up off the ground. Lianxi, lianxi: “Practice, practice”.

David Leffman is co-author of The Rough Guide to China.