Brian Preston is a writer, not a fighter. So when he was asked to do a book about martial arts, he blanched. But not for long.

A self-declared “wimpy, forty-something wuss,” Preston decided to spend a year pursuing kung fu and overcoming his physical ineptness. The result is a funny, self-deprecating book about the tension between the ancient, mystical, spiritual, and cerebral martial arts such as tai chi, and the blood-spitting, pay-per-view savagery of professional mixed martial arts such as the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC), which follows the same glossy marketing playbook as professional wrestling but with real, fist-smashing, limb-snapping violence. Along the way, Preston traces the path of kung fu from the sixth-century Shaolin Buddhist monastery in China to his own backyard.

At its heart, this is a road book, with Preston serving as a martial arts naïf looking for wisdom and enough moxie to defend himself in an emergency. As with any good road book, the magic is in the trip, not the destination. The trip includes breaking his ribs when an overzealous practice partner lands on him; riding around northern B.C. in the back seat of a car with Royce Gracie, the legendary Brazilian jiu-jitsu champion; going to China and observing very strict martial arts academies that administer light beatings to kids who mess up; climbing up Wudang Mountain to visit the Golden Temple with a Polish expatriate guide and martial arts aficionado; not to mention reading a lot of books about martial arts and Bruce Lee, and watching a UFC bout in Las Vegas.

By the end, Preston is hardly a fighting machine, and there are only fleeting moments of “unimpeded chi,” or flowing life force. But because of his good-natured skepticism, properly calibrated moral compass, and desire to learn, he is enlightened on both the sacred and profane aspects of martial arts.