GETTING THE BENT FOR BENDING

by Bob Schwartz

"You're going to a yogurt class?" my 4-year-old daughter asked me as our babysitter arrived.

She had the "class" part right, but the subject was more pop culture than bacterial, though this craze for yoga is no passing fad. Its popularity has lasted just a wee bit longer than mood rings, given that it's been around for about 5,000 years. It thus carries a little more historical significance than, say, cabbage patch dolls or the art of flagpole sitting.

I advised my daughter that I was actually going to my first yoga class. My goal, many classes down the path to enlightenment, was to gain the ability to sit cross-legged without needing a one-arm prop and the assistance of a hoist to arise from the floor.

I did, though, have one initial yoga fear. I envisioned my wife having to roll me to the car-like a giant twisted human pretzel-after I'd wedged my stiff, multi-mile-laden body into a pose where I then became stuck. Nonetheless, I'd recently read of the benefits that yoga could provide to runners and was intrigued enough to give it a go. My many years of running had left me with the flexibility of frozen concrete; perhaps yoga would enable me to develop the remarkable talent to actually touch my heel to my derriere. Hey, we've all got our definition of achievement!

When I first called the local yoga studio, I inquired if there were perhaps a pre-beginner class for those whose last 15 second pose was for their fifth grade school picture. A pleasant woman assured me I'd be fine if, in attempting the different poses, I remembered to "honor my body" and not try something that was too discomforting.

I had to stifle a laugh. She had obviously not had many conversations with obsessed runners whose philosophy hovers closer to "abuse my body." I've been known to undertake such brilliant endeavors as trying to run through a painful case of plantar fasciitis for more than 9 months (not an astute idea) or refueling on Flamin' Hot Cheetos. I have never actually been the poster child for common sense.

My initial crisis upon arriving at the yoga club was finding out the class was 85 minutes long! Since I have the attention span of a sleep-deprived gnat, I figured that after 15 minutes I'd be counting the tiles on the ceiling and focusing on important issues like did the Troggs have another hit record after "Wild Thing." However, I was pleasantly surprised that I ultimately set a concentration PR by paying attention for the duration of the entire class.

As I entered the studio, I was intimidated by the poses on the studio walls of people who seemed to be direct descendants of rubber bands. One woman had her feet wrapped behind her head and underneath it was the English equivalent to the word yoga, namely "to yoke." I always thought that meant separating your egg whites but I soon learned it means to join together and that the goal of yoga is for individuals to find their way to union or peace. My goal was simply to survive class in one piece, as I attempted the various easier said than done arrangements of my appendages.

The instructor first advised us on how to concentrate on posture, rhythmic breathing and limb placement. I often have difficulty doing just one thing at a time, so as long as I remembered to keep breathing then I figured things were going well.

After an initial relaxation exercise, we did a Seated Forward Bend. It's otherwise known as the Intense Stretch of the West, which I thought occurred when I lay on the floor after stuffing myself at Thanksgiving dinner and tried to reach the TV remote. The instructor assured us that it didn't matter if we could grab our toes or only our shins in this pose. Toes? Heck, I was struggling just to sit on the floor without falling over.

We did other poses, such as Bharadvaja's Twist (nothing like Chubby Checker's dance) and while the rest of the class was able to do the Half Lord of the Fishes Pose, I could only tremble at the thought of what the Full Lord required.

Near the end of the class the instructor passed out blankets and pillows for the last relaxation pose. She politely ignored me when I asked if she had any of those little bags of peanuts as well.

I thoroughly enjoyed my first class and was hooked. No need even to disentangle my body parts from an overenthusiastic attempt at a difficult pose.

And I was confident I'd eventually reach those toes in the Pachismottanasana position. Or at least learn to correctly pronounce the latter - either of which would be a remarkable yoga achievement for me.

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Bob Schwartz is a FN regular and a member of the RRCA's Motor City Striders, MI. For more of Bob's humorous stories on running, read his book, "I Run, Therefore I Am-Nuts."