Colby Covington would dominate a UFC league with no weight cuts if he ever stepped up to…

Cov’s cardio at 170 lb is just the entry fee—any weekend warrior can carry an extra ten pounds and breathe hard. The real question is whether those five-round welterweight wars where the belt is on the line even allow him to flex that gas tank without someone in the red corner dragging him into deep water before the final bell. Remember Usman vs Covington 2? Five full rounds, not one where Colby looked like he’d just run the London Marathon at midnight. Usman leaned on volume, sure, but Cov kept pace, circled, threw, never drowned. Tell me again how he folds when the stakes double and the referee isn’t his hometown ref?

nah bro, FightMetricGuy still don’t get it, that dude’s stuck in stats like some dork on a forum copypasta... wake up!!🔥 Usman vs Cov 2 wasn’t just “keeping pace” it was TC giving Usman a 170lb body shot clinic for FIVE ROUNDS straight while Usman ran the exact same gas-tank test we keep hearing about... and guess what? Cheetah across the cage just smiled through it, never once looked gassed, threw more than Usman did by the fourth!💪 and you call that “gas tank” just an entry fee? nah mate, that’s like calling Mike Tyson a heavy bag when he cracks 50 bombs in the first round... TC’s cardio at 170 is nuclear, full stop. Now throw in 155lb welter champs trying to grapple with a dude whose gas tank runs on tactical nuke fuel? they gonna tap from exhaustion before they even hit the canvas, mark my words. 🤬 They’re the killers? TC outlasts every single one, no weight cut, no excuses—just pure venom. You ever seen a lightweight grappler last five with a welterweight who’s built like a brick wall AND runs marathons in his spare time? didn’t think so. he’s coming for that real belt, and when he steps up, these clowns gonna learn what “dominate” really means... prepare for fireworks, guys. 😱🙌

See that counter on the judge’s cards from Usman 2? 149-146, 148-147, 148-147 in TC’s favour. That isn’t “keeping pace,” that’s five rounds of him dictating the output like a conductor leading an orchestra while Kamaru gassed like a lawnmower left on full throttle past the 15-minute mark. You ever watch a welterweight who cut weight that night huff through clinches in the fourth or fifth and suddenly turn soft? Doesn’t happen to Covington—he’s the only guy who ever turned 185lb sessions into the equivalent of a Sunday stroll by the Thames. Weight cuts don’t just drain water; they leave micro-cracks in the endurance vault, and TC’s vault is reinforced concrete. Those same “killers” you idolise gas out at welterweight because they’ve been running on empty since they signed their pro contracts at 14. Covington’s engine runs clean at 170, so when he steps up to 155 without lifting a finger he’s not just surviving—he’s erasing the rulebook.

well lads don’t forget where we’ve seen this music before — back in the day when welterweights still had to scrap through twenty five minute wars like old time prizefighters while lightweight kings just walked in five rounders like they were out for a kip. you ever remember Robbie Lawler late in the night back in the 2015-16 stretch? two fights inside a month after the cut, and he looked like he’d been fed through a mangle by the final bell. the man was world class at 170, but once the belt went up to 170lb in name only and weight cuts got sliced, suddenly the real endurance tests began — and guess who showed up still swinging? Covington, in his own corner of the cage, same as us watching from armchairs in brick lane pubs. then you take a kid like george saint pierre, a man who could carry 170 all night without blinking, and you see how he toyed with bigger men in that bigger cage. cov’s got that same ability now, not because he’s lucky or born with carbon fibre lungs, but because the man runs seven minute miles in boots and spits them out for fun. fifteen rounds on him? that’s not a fight, that’s a chore for the other guy while TC’s laughing at the scorecards. remember too when bjj black belts used to sneer at grapplers moving up because “oh they’ll gas” — till someone like Daniel Cormier showed up and mauled heavyweights for five rounds while they’re dabbing their shirts on the ropes. cardio isn’t just a bonus, it’s the cheat code when the weight cuts disappear. so yeah, watch those so-called 155lb killers try to stuff a dude whose lungs run on rocket fuel into a welterweight test without the cut — they won’t even last the second frame before tc starts writing the essay on their ribs. that’s the old school coming back to collect, plain and simple.

what’s a welterweight bus doing parked outside my local boozer when there’s a 170lb cheetah walking the block like it’s his afternoon stroll? mate, Cageside23 you’re singing from the same hymn sheet as FightMetricGuy but with a few extra pints in your hand — you’re forgetting the man whose name sounds like a kitchen appliance demolished a welterweight division. david branch back in 2017, held that strap like it was glued to his knuckles. five rounds, no mercy, no weight cut between him and the cage door — and he was gasping like he’d just lugged a fridge up three flights by the third bell. his lung capacity was advertised as ‘elite’, his cardio clocked in the high end of human, but one shift with covington and the man looked like he’d stepped off the treadmill where usain bolt wakes up. i’ve seen branch in person, belts on his mind and steak for tea. by the fifth round he was swallowing air like a goldfish dropped on dry land. covington? three days before that same fight i watched him jog eight k’s in trainers heavier than branch’s belt after a full weights session. distance is his warm-up, not his problem. so yeah, the old school welterweight wars weren’t some cardio fairground ride — they were endurance kamikaze runs. branch’s gas tank wasn’t small, it just wasn’t nuclear-proof. and tc? the man runs like the marathon’s his personal parking meter. throw him against 155lb killers who’ve spent years chiselling their engines through dehydrated hell, and suddenly “welterweight” looks like a lightweight class wearing a fancy belt.

You ever step out of a Sydney train at Central after pulling a 12-hour sysadmin shift, still wearing the same clothes you jogged in at dawn, and then run the harbour bridge loop in work boots just because some bloke dared you? That's Covington on a Tuesday. I clocked him sparring once at Greg Jackson’s old gym in Albuquerque—five rounds, no pads, no headgear, in full 170 gear—then he hit another 3K straight after because his coach said “let’s see what’s left”. Usman vs Covington 2? That wasn’t five rounds. That was five verdicts written on Usman’s ribs while TC strolled the cage like he’d just come from the sauna. The judges didn’t gas—they tried to catch up.

Got it straight from a bloke who used to train out of Yorkshire Stinger’s old gym when they still had that kickboxing ring tucked behind the weights—lad walks in one Tuesday evening, Cov’s already mid-circuit on the bike with 170lb vest on, sweat so heavy it was puddling like he’d just come from the rain. The guy clocks in at six foot one, 170lb stripped down, but the man doesn’t spend three hours dehydrating every fortnight; he’s already running sub-29-min 10Ks in boots because his coach wants to see “what’s left”. I remember the sparring sheet that night—three rounds of gloves only, then another two bare-knuckle light-contact because Cov kept saying “we need to see if the engine blows before the belt does.” Three weeks later Usman vs Covington 2 hits, and people act shocked that after five rounds in the cage TC’s still dictating the pace while Kamaru’s drowning in his own shirt. There’s a nuance here: the judges didn’t just give Cov the nod—they gave him the pen to write the damn scorecards. Weight cuts are like micro-fractures in endurance; Kamaru’s been chipping away at his since his first pro bout. Cov? His engine runs on premium, not empty.

Ohhh, you lot are acting like weight cuts are some kind of magic trick—like it's the secret sauce that turns a welterweight into a cardio god. Newsflash: Cov’s engine was nuclear *before* he even touched gloves in pro terms. That man ran track in high school while the rest of his division was still learning how to spell “intervals.” Then you throw in five years of Jackson making him chase buses before breakfast? Honey, by the time Usman got to round three in their second dance, TC wasn’t even breathing hard—he was just waiting for the judges to finish scribbling. And let’s drop this whole “welterweights gas out” fairytale. David Branch is a legend, sure, but the bloke gasped like he’d just finished a CrossFit session through a straw because he *chose* to spend two weeks pissing in a bottle instead of just turning up fresh. Covington? No cuts, no excuses—just pure venom in sneakers. The dude treats sparring like a warm-up jog. Eight K in boots three days out? That’s not training—that’s showing off. These so-called 155lb killers will tap from sheer exhaustion before they even clinch. They’ve spent their careers chiselling “gas tank” into their schedules like it’s part of their job description, meanwhile Cov’s out here treating every round like it’s a cool-down lap. Weight cuts are for people who run out of talent—TC runs on pure spite and a chip the size of Leeds. 🤡💸

Oh, come on you absolute legends, seriously? Talking about weight cuts like they’re some mystical endurance spell 🤡 cov’s lungs could ventilate a wind tunnel by himself! You lot are forgetting the man’s been stepping on guys at 170 while they’re still yawning in round two of sparring—remember that scrap with Usman at 175lb catchweight? The man juggled him like a soccer ball while Kamaru was face-down begging for mercy by the third stanza. Five rounds, no cardio penalty, no hydrating with tears—just pure venom walking around the cage counting change on these bum judges’ cards. And your David Branch yarn? Mate, the bloke weighed what—190 stripped at weigh-ins and thought he could muscle Cov? No wonder he was swallowing air like a stranded guppy! TC doesn’t just run circles—he runs marathons in concrete boots and laughs at the scenery. Weight cuts are for mortals; Cov lives in the land of “I’ll just jog another 10K for fun,” so bringing up old-school endurance is like praising a bicycle when you’ve got a rocket in the garage. These 155lb posers with their “elite cardio” CVs are about to find out the hard way—TC’s engine’s been benchmarked at 170 since he could spell “interval training.” They’ll be tapping from sheer awe before the bell rings twice, let alone feeling sorry for themselves. 🔥💥

you serious right now, posting that cosplay? the man’s legendary cardio is one thing, but act like weight cuts are some forgotten scrapheap? mate, those cuts are modern mma’s silent hammer—they carve away the noise so only the engine’s left humming. remember when tyron woodley first stepped up to welterweight fresh off a ufc welterweight title reign? dude cut from 185 to 170 for that woodley vs eddie alvarez fight at 175 catchweight—three days out he was clinging to the toilet like his life depended on it, and that was after years of “elite” camps. three days later he’s crawling into the cage wondering why his feet feel like they’re packed in cement. now imagine covington stepping up with zero prep like that—same bodyweight every day, no weeks of shrinking his own blood just to squeeze into a smaller weight class. or take colby’s own words after usman ii—“i didn’t need to cut, i just needed to breathe.” sure, his lungs could ventilate a wind tunnel, but half the time when these big 155lb dudes gas it isn’t just about raw capacity—it’s the metabolic toll from the cut itself, the glycogen drain from days of starvation before the weigh-in. you ever seen a welterweight who cut 15% of his body weight stand toe-to-toe for five rounds? those guys spend the first two minutes trying to remember how legs work, let alone swing a punch. and that 175 catchweight with usman—yeah it looked pretty, but remember the contract gave cov a two-pound allowance because the commission still treats 175 like a freak show weight. if the promotion actually slotted him at true welterweight tomorrow with zero prep, tc would still be carrying 170lb of pure muscle walking into the cage like it’s a warm-up jog. but those 155lb killers stepping up uncut? their frames aren’t built for even one round of fighting at that level—it’s like asking a marathoner to sprint 100m dressed as the stay puft marshmallow man. cardio’s great, but when the weight cut erases it before the bell rings, suddenly the tank reads empty.

Straight question—how many welterweight title fights in the last five years finished with the champion still throwing hands like it's round one? List me one. Last time I checked, every last one of those so-called "elite" engines wheezed like a busted leaf-blower by the third round because they’d spent two weeks drinking their own bathwater to scrape into the cage. Now go back and watch Branch vs Covington 2017 slow-mo: the man’s ribcage is heaving like a piston after each breath because his coach told him “three more pounds” on weigh-in morning. Meanwhile TC steps off the scale at 170 every weigh-in, jogs an easy five miles at lunch, then watches the fight tape over a beer. Weight cuts are theatre, mate—Covington doesn’t do theatre.

I remember when we used to cram into a freezing Nottingham gym every Thursday night, the windows rattling from the buses outside Trent Bridge, just to watch Covington’s training footage on some janky projector. The bloke was doing four-minute rounds on the bike with a 170lb vest and a heart rate monitor blinking like a siren, then he’d waltz into the cage two hours later still looking like he’d just stepped out of a five-star spa. That’s not cardio—that’s cosmic imbalance, right there. Then you get these 155lb wonders prancing around talking about “elite gas tanks” like they’ve invented endurance, while Cov sits on the scales at 170 every single weigh-in for the past half-decade, jogs through Albuquerque sunrise like it’s a stroll in Sherwood Forest, and still finds himself fresh enough after five gruelling rounds to crack jokes with the judges. It’s not even that the welterweights gas—it’s that their whole fight plan is built on borrowed time, like a house of cards stacked on a washing machine. But I could be wrong, of course. Maybe the real question isn’t whether Cov could walk into a true welterweight title fight tomorrow—maybe it’s whether the UFC would actually book it without three months of “creative” contract haggling, or whether the athletic commission would suddenly decide that 170lb stripped down is some kind of dangerous novelty weight class. Still, watching that 175 catchweight with Usman, you didn’t need a spreadsheet to see the writing on the cage floor: Cov carries 170lb like it’s a morning constitutional, while the rest of them are lugging it like an anchor they forgot to drop.