Yogic Revelations

Yoga. I’m hooked. Perhaps I’ll forgo travelling to new countries to run in extreme settings. Maybe I’ll turn my compass toward yoga retreats in India and Bali. I’ll swap gooey energy gels for purifying green teas. Pneumatic heartbeats for a sense of calm. Shin splints for…mat burn? Forest Gump (the only good film I can think of with running scenes) for Eat, Pray, Love?

Perhaps that’s a bit extreme. After all, running reinforces who I am. I can state “I’m a runner” and back it up with impressive race times. (Although meeting an ultra runner at a house party recently and hearing about his achievements did knock me down a peg or two.) My mileage in July was a reasonable 42.62 despite the heatwave and the tail-end of a virulent bout of gastroenteritis, not conducive for a sense of calm. I’ll run until my body won’t allow it. Yoga may prove a fleeting joy, edging its way into my daily regime, but running’s here to stay.

Yet running was being a harsh wife, while yoga was becoming a soothing, rejuvenating mistress. I’d gone sprawling during a run last week, slicing up the outer side of my forearm. Three hours later I was driving with Catherine though rush-hour traffic Cambridge-style (suicidal cyclists, ignorant drivers). Once inside Lee Hall, time seemed to putter down to a comfortable speed as the sunlight fell on the gardens and reflected on the hardwood floor.

A creditable downward facing dog still eludes me. But I was more comfortable in the other poses, some from the previous class, others introduced during class number two. Warrior pose is my pièce de résistance. Catherine and I remain unenlightened as to how to turn the flesh of our upper arms away from the front of our bodies, and it baffles me how we are supposed to “enjoy” some of the poses. But the releasing of stiffness from my hips, hamstrings and calf muscles was heavenly, the athletic equivalent of a ice-cold beer late in a summer afternoon. Tension in my hips, as rigid as something locked in a vice, dripped away. It may be discordant with all my other athletic pursuits, but for ninety minutes I was twisting, bending, easing my body into a number of new positions that only a child could think of when they twist a toy into torturous shapes.

And with hands pressed together at chest height and a softly-spoken “Namaste” the class was finished. Yoga mats were rolled up. Blocks stacked in their piles. Mobile phones removed from the bottom of handbags and rucksacks as we reconnected with the impatient waiting world. Yet mine and Catherine’s thoughts lingered on the revelatory hour-and-a-half. The feeling of surging energy and heady contentedness, a curious juxtaposition, stayed with us as we walked through the University grounds talking about our improvements and the possibility of the elusive handstand. To reach that perfectly still headstand I’d have to wave goodbye to Valencia of Bilbao marathons and focus on yoga full-time. I’ll stick to the long, lonely miles and settle for more than thirty seconds in down facing dog.