A Runner's High by Dean Karnazes

Author:Dean Karnazes [Karnazes, Dean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperOne
Published: 2021-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

12

Just Did It

When you get to where you’re going, keep going.

It was doubtful that my pancreas and spleen were actually being cleansed, but the instructor proclaimed these—along with a myriad of other health benefits—would be ours if we could just continue twisting our sweat-drenched limbs into a constrictive human knot and hold it there for a tad longer. Inside the studio it was stifling, the room heated well north of a hundred degrees, the pungent aromas of perspiring humans suffusing in the dense and dormant air. Her coaching came in loquacious gushes of encouragement. “You can do this! Hold that position! Little sips of air . . . breeeathe.”

Tied into a human figure eight, I thought I could be losing conciseness. But she paraded about the studio, quick to point out noncompliant yogis, her headset amplifying the admonishments. “Don’t fall out of posture! Tighten the core. Use your arm strength. Breeeatheee.” My extremities were turning purple but I wouldn’t dare untangle myself, the communal peer pressure being far too intense, mirrors on every wall for ready scrutiny. And that’s what I like about yoga: it’s so nonjudgmental.

Soon we would be able to release the pose, but her countdown from ten was periodically interrupted with more garrulous declarations. “Nine . . . eight . . . you are the light of the universe, feel the glow inside.” A silver stud pierced her tongue, and her belly was tattooed with what appeared to be a lotus flower blossoming out of an exploding cassava melon. I tried not to stare. Find your center, Karno, I told myself. “Seven . . . six . . . inhale the future, exhale the past.” Her hair was orange. “Five . . . four . . . letting go is the hardest asana, do not cling.” Beads of perspiration dripped from the tip of my nose. “Three . . . two . . . become your inner peace . . .” The countdown was the only time she talked slowly, ten seconds dragging into infinity, the heat amplifying and suffocating more entirely with each passing millisecond.

Finally she resumed, “One and three quarters . . . one and a half . . . one and one quarter . . . releeeasse . . .” I struggled to untie myself, fearing permanent neuromuscular damage.

And to think, I paid to be here.

It was a week before Western States, and hot yoga was good preparation. After ninety minutes of this ungodly contortion our session finally concluded. Some people lay idle on their mats, palms facing skyward, grateful for their success. Or dead. It was hard to tell.

Personally, I don’t like hanging out in a room where a mass of humanity has just spent a good deal of time excreting every manner of bodily toxin. The instructor promised these things were being released, but better not to stick around to test the theory. Nope, I couldn’t get to the exit quickly enough.

“Namaste,” she said while bowing to me on my way out. “Namaste,” I said, bowing back in gratitude.

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