Well, here's my attempt...

***

	            The One Hour Challenge


(Started 20:04, June 20th, 1997)

     With smooth, fluid motions, he reached forward, arms, hands
extending forward, hugging back, as he lifted up into a solid crane
stance.  Hold for a moment, then foot snapping out, arm also, double
palm strike and side thrust kick.  Instant solid power, than return to
flowing grace, lowering into a cat stance, stepping forward into an
angled front stance, arms moving circularly, rising into a reinforced
block.  Draw back, one arm reach out along the straight line, tiger-
claw grab, then step through, out into a horse stance, rapid power
once more, elbow smashing into open hand.  Flurry of hand motion:
palm block, backhand, palm block, punch, rising from horse with the
last strike.
     Relax.  Intensity fading from eyes, slight sheen of sweat
quickly evaporating.  Ranma smiled.  Finally.  He had the last form
down.
     "Why are you smiling, boy?" growled a voice behind him.
     Ranma frowned, the peace and slight euphoria that always
accompanied a good workout and new accomplishment
disappearing.  He slowly turned towards his father.
     "Go 'way, Pop."
     Genma walked into the room, eyes never leaving his son. 
"You lack respect, son."
     "Respect is earned, old man."
     "Are you insulting me, _boy_?"
     Ranma snorted.  "What do _you_ think?"  And then, under
his voice, but obviously loud enough to still be heard.  "Heh.  Like
the shitty old guy _can_ think."
     There was a brief silence.  Genma's face flushed an ugly
red.  "You _dare_ take that tone with your father, son?" he growled.
     "Oh, just go away, Pop.  I'm tryin' to learn here, 'kay?"
     His father stepped in closer, moving to the center of the
dojo.    He slowly circled his son with smooth, even steps that
belied his hefty bulk.  "Are you suggesting that you have nothing left
to learn from me, boy?"
     "Gee.  Ya finally figured it out!"  Ranma gave a short bark
of laughter.  "I learnt everything I needed from you years ago, old
man."
     "Is that so?"
     The pigtailed boy grinned.  Well, a relaxed technical
training was always nice, but he preferred sparring, anyway.  And
Pop was just _so_ easy to goad into a fight.  Not much of a
challenge, anymore - after successfully defeating the likes of Kumon
Ryu, Herb, and Saffron, an old man like his father would hardly
force Ranma to break a sweat in a fight - but always good for a
medium workout.  He belligerently turned his back to his father,
smirking, and spoke over his shoulder.  "Hell yes!"  He extended his
senses fully, awaiting the inevitable attack.
     It never came.  After a full thirty seconds of waiting, Ranma
turned, confusion written on his face.  Surprise took over once he
saw his father.
     Genma was simply standing, staring back at his son.  Tears
were running freely down his face.  And the expression on his face,
his countenance - Ranma simply could not decipher the strange, odd
look that his father was giving him.  He suddenly seemed older,
wearier than ever before, his weight heavier, the wrinkles more
pronounced - and yet, there was an undeniable, newfound peace
within those lined features, a relaxation settling in and softening a
face that had always been so hard and unforgiving when turned to
him.  The older Saotome simply held the gaze of his son for several
long moments and then, slowly, unexpectedly, smiled.  It was an
odd, somewhat sad, somewhat wry, smile.  "Perhaps you are right,
Son," he said, and bowed deeply.  "Perhaps you are right."  He
blinked once, and then turned away and walked out of the dojo.
     Ranma stared after him.  What - what just happened there, he
asked himself.  The way he had addressed him - Son - was. . .new. 
Sure, his father had called him that before, but never in this way, not
with such. . . respect.  There was no wheedling in his voice, no
insult, no mocking, simply. . . respect.  Pride.  And sadness.
     Why sadness?
     Ranma sank down to the dojo floor, feet curling up into his
lap.  Why would his useless, good-for-nothing father be sad? 
Genma was crying - but that was nothing new, he cried almost as
easily as Mr. Tendo, though usually over far more self-serving
things.  But this seemed a genuine sadness, or sense of loss - but
also an expression of proud accomplishment.  Why?
     The pigtailed boy thought it over.  All the time he had spent
with his father.  Years, ten long years of traveling and wandering
and training, across most of Japan and a fair part of China.  They
had never been close.  Or had they?  What kind of relationship did
most sons have with their fathers, Ranma wondered.  How much
time did they spend together, or talking, or sharing?  I spent almost
ten years with Pop, thought Ranma, dis most other guys do the same? 
He'd have to ask his friends at school, maybe.
     Did I do any of that stuff with _my_ dad, Ranma asked
himself.  Well, we talked a lot while training.  He was constantly
correcting my stance, my technique, my applications and fighting
style - did that count for anything?  We _did_ spend a lot of time
together - almost ten years straight!  And sharing. . .
     Had they ever share anything?
     What good advice had his father ever given him?  When had
he ever provided a good solution to a personal dilemma?  How
many of Genma's suggestions had landed him into deeper problems
and worst dilemmas?  What had Genma ever shared with _him_ that
had ever done _any_ good whatsoever?
     And - and had given anything in return?  Insults, kicks,
punches, disrespect.  All earned, of course, but was that the full
extent of their sharing?
     Ranma opened his eyes.  His gaze traversed the dojo -
across [ARGH!  Why can't I have a simple uninterrupted hour? 
ARGH!] the beautiful, smooth wood floor, up across the carefully
tended walls, the ceiling and crafted edges, the sign. . .
     The sign.  The Art.
     And what else was there?  Ranma and his father had shared
the most important thing in each their lives - the wonders and the
mysteries of the Art.  Genma had started the training.  Ranma had
learned - and in learning, had trained his father as well.  They had
grown as martial artists - as people and as men as as family -
together.  The had talked and shared and bonded through the art -
each kick an expression of something within, each block an
exchange of feelings.  And now - without that teacher-student bond,
without the Art, what was there left between father and son.  Once
the teacher had fulfilled his duty, what was left?
     And thus the reason for his father's sadness, Ranma realized. 
As much of an idiot the Old Man might be, he knew he loved him;
and Ranma knew he loved his father as well.  But if he had nothing
else to learn, and no other way to associate with him - what
possible interaction could they have?  Did ten years of training just
end - like this?
     Ranma sprang to his feet.  No.  It wouldn't.  He ran out the
dojo after his father. . .
     And ever warning sense and instinctive danger reflex went
off far, far too late, as Genma, carefully and patiently waiting on the
other side of the door, swiftly and expertly side-kicked his son as he
exited from the training hall.  Ranma traced a beautiful arc through
the air, cursing all the way, before slamming into the Tendo Pond.
     Grinning and laughing, Genma swaggered over to the pool
and stared down at his son-turned-daughter.  "BWAHAHA!  Well,
_boy_ guess you still have a few things to learn from the Old Man
after all, eh?"  Still chuckling, he turned away and walked back to
the house.  "Still have it, Genma!  You still have it!"
     And, sitting up to his waist in dirty pond water, the ever-
annoyed koi angrily swimming in tight little circles by his feet, the
training gi hanging heavily against his feminine breast, Ranma let his
anger at his back-stabbing father fade. . . and smiled.  Maybe, after
all, he still had something to learn from the old man.

     -Mike Noakes
     (Completed 20:54, June 20th, 1997)

***

	Well.  That was kinda fun.  I decided to just write what came to 
mind - tried avoiding thinking about it at all before actually sitting 
down.  So as soon as I came back from my Kung Fu class (hence the little 
opening description, which is, in fact, a section of one of the Northern 
Shaolin I'm still learning), I sat down and wrote... this.  Haven't even 
read it myself, actually.  Hope it's ok...
	Heh.  It almost turned into a sicko lemon between Genma and 
Ranma, too... <shudder>  Or Genma showing Ranma that he _did_ still have 
some stuff to teach - technical aspects of forms and stuff.  But... well, 
this is what came out...
	And next time I'm unplugging my phone...

	Later!
	-Mike
	(And, hey, C&C is still always appreciated!)