I
recall reading that prior to the ski-jumping event at the 1936 Winter Olympics
members of the Japanese team were seen intently studying everyone doing
practice jumps. As it turned out, they had never tried such a jump, but they
wanted to learn as much as they could before risking life and limb.
Whether
that story is true or not, that’s how I felt just before entering the room
where I would take my first Bikram Yoga class. Genne’, who invited me to go
with her, characterized it as “105 minutes at 105 degrees.” The Japanese
jumped, and so did I.
Let
me first summarize my prior experience with yoga.
·
I read a book about it. At the end of each
chapter there would be an exercise or position suggested. I told myself I would
go back and attempt them after I read the whole book, and I may do this some
day.
·
Kim and I took a yoga class where the teacher
was a show-off and made me feel inferior. I went twice.
·
From that class I learned one position that I
use. I think it’s called “the child pose.” You kneel down, sit back on your
heels, and then bend forward in a worshipful position with your arms extended.
I like the child pose because it’s easy, and it amuses me to realize that my
children never struck that pose when addressing me. I strike that pose
occasionally at the gym when I’m tired and need to rest, and I want people to
think I’m not really resting but doing yoga.
That’s about it.
In
preparation for the class I drank an extra cup of coffee as a form of
hydration, then a glass of water at Kim’s suggestion. I also ate a piece of
fried chicken about three hours before the 6:30 start of the class.
I
gave a lot of thought about what to wear. Because of the heat, my first thought
was shorts and a t-shirt. This was vetoed by Kim as she thought my vintage 1964
short shorts would reveal too much. My Levi’s were out, so my only option was
the workout clothes that Genne’ had gotten me for Christmas. This was fine,
except the pants were a lot like my waterproof pants worn when photographing in
early morning dew. If they keep the water out, then they keep the sweat in.
They did.
The
class started well, if you don’t count the part about entering the room where
it was very very warm. Or the part where the guy in the corner was doing a
handstand with his legs parallel to the ground and out to the side. The first
exercise was breathing, an activity at which I’d had much more experience than
anyone else in the class. With a little practice I mastered
in-through-the-nose, out-through-clenched-teeth while making a gasping sound
that reminded me of a hot-air balloon firing up. I though this would be useful
if I ever had to give birth.
The
breathing became more difficult when I looked in the mirror and saw that the
instructor and everyone else in the class was doing some flapping motion with
their elbows with their hands clenched under their chin, and the gasp was done
with the head cocked back far enough so you could see the ceiling tiles. I
caught onto this as the exercise was concluding.
I
was tempted to say “no sweat” to the room, but I thought better of it – there
was no pausing for self-congratulation.
The
exercises that followed were a bit of a blur, which might have been the result
of sweat in my eyes. At one point Genne’ looked over at me in alarm and encouraged
me to take a break. (She later told me that she did not want to feel
responsible for my death.) I shrugged it off and then decided on my own to take
a break because my heart was pounding like a jackhammer. I paused later for a
slow sip of water. Paused again when I felt a twinge in my hamstring.
Genne’,
concerned for my health, suggested that I take off my shirt. When I did, two of
the women in the class fainted. It must have been the heat.
The
instructor moved us smoothly (and rapidly) from one exercise to the next, but I
don’t mean to suggest that the class did not have any breaks. We had two of
them, each 50 seconds in length.
I
did not have much trouble with the complicated positions that involved twisting
your arms, grabbing the outside of the knee with one hand and your big toe with
the other while standing on one foot. These did not trouble me because I pretty
much did not do them, preferring my own versions. I remember looking around the
room and noticing that Genne’ and everyone else had their left arm back, not
the right, and their heels were together while my legs were sprawled apart. I
wrote this off as a totally acceptable Zen experience of going with the flow – my
flow. (Remember how, in the movie As Good
as it Gets, Jack Nicholson’s character is unfairly, in my opinion,
ridiculed for his saying he told “a version of the truth”? Well, I was doing a
version of yoga.)
One
person was struggling with balance. Several of the positions involve standing
on one foot while your arms and the free leg twist this way and that. I noted
that in the wall-sized mirror just across from me that this tall old guy with a
beard was very wobbly on one foot. His one-footedness would only last a few
seconds. That old guy learned not to commit his free leg fully to a pretzel
position because he would need it to avoid toppling into the pretty blonde next
to him.
The
class ended with more breathing, and this showed me that I had mastered Bikram
Yoga. I could lie on my back and breathe in and out while counting my breaths backwards,
while at the same time picturing the numbers I was counting. I was glad
I was lying near the door because cool air drifted in whenever anyone opened
it.
No
sweat.
A
few days after my hot yoga experience I spoke with Jaime, a Bikram Yoga devotee
who attends three or four sessions a week. She explained the benefits, among
them: sweating out toxins, improved organ function, flexibility, protection
from injury because muscles are warm, and an endorphin high following the
exercise. I could identify with the last one: it felt great when I stopped.
The
surviving Japanese ski-jumpers probably felt the same way.
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