Some dear friends had been talking up Bikram Yoga, also known as “hot yoga” and it’s miraculous results to me for months, I just never took the time to get to a class.
I was resolved to end this gluttonous, food-filled Thanksgiving weekend by doing something healthy for myself, and I have fallen out of my running regimen so I needed a little fitness pick-me-up. My husband, who had heard stories of how grueling it was, smirked, “Have fun with that!” as I left the house early this morning, shaking his head that I’d purposely spend ninety minutes of my life in a 105-degree room at 40% humidity for a yoga workout.
My skeptical, exercise-shunning hubs had a point. But I had to see what all the buzz was about. After all, just the story behind Bikram’s birth of the enormous yoga phenomenon is fascinating: At 14, Swami Shivananda declared Bikram Choudhury “Yogi Raj” (King of the Yogis). At age 20, a weightlifting accident crippled Bikram. Although he was told he would never be able to walk again, with the help of Ghosh, he claims to have fully recovered within 6 months. He even told Madonna upon request that she have private instruction that she would have to leave her ego behind and attend his classes with the other students.* Go Bikram!
Walking into the west-end facility I was greeted by an adorable, ridiculously-fit young woman who warmly welcomed me and, after having me sign my waiver, encouraged me to stay in the room for the entire class. I’d heard stories about people having to leave the room to throw up from the intense heat and subsequent effect on the body, and she said that although I may not feel well to try and stick it out.
The sign on the door alerted me that the yoga room was to remain quiet, so I’d have no one to whisper to if I was confused with a position. It had been several years since I had done any type of yoga but I was resigned to figure it out, sweat it out, stick it out throughout the class. I’d read up on the benefits of Bikram Yoga and was ready for that funky-fresh-feeling of detoxification that my body surely begged for after a frolicking four-day weekend.
Our perky, adorable instructor walked in, welcomed me as the only newbie in the room (AWKWARD), encouraged me to take it easy, and we began the first of the two-sets of twenty-six postures to follow in the room that would quickly become a sauna.
This isn’t so bad, I thought as I watched my classmates and tried to replicate their beautiful, swan-like poses with my own, ugly-duckling-like cheap imitations.
Standing on our yoga mats we began to gain control over our bodies, to draw in our stomachs until our rib cages were visible per our instructions and to pour enough sweat out of our bodies to fill a child’s swimming pool (seriously, my shins were sweating). As the postures became more difficult so did my breathing and ability to focus.
This is a fabulous example of the Salabhasana, which I did not even come close to doing correclty.
I’d never been a super-athlete but after running a few 10K’s and pushing myself beyond what I felt were my natural limits this should be no problem, right?
Riiiiiiiiiiight.
When we moved to the mats for the next round of postures I started to unravel. At approximately one hour, ten minutes or so the room began spinning, I had developed sweat glands in spots I didn’t even knew existed and after fighting nausea by focusing on a pattern in the carpet for what seemed like an eternity, I stood up.
My instructor asked if I was alright and when I told her I was nauseous, she kindly walked with me to the ladies’ room to ensure I didn’t pass out, a gesture for which I was extremely grateful as it was an imminent reality.
The Cobra pose, aka when Kate Hall started getting the spins.
Lying on the wooden bench in the ladies’ room, feeling like a cop-out, waiting for the ceiling to stop dancing in Grateful-Dead like patterns, I heard the doors open and my classmates emerge. Vomiting in the nearest toilet is how they found me and quickly came to my aid, sharing stories about their first time in class.
“And you kept coming back after feeling like this?” I asked in disbelief.
Each one of them responded in a sentiment with a similar meaning: It’s worth it. Come back. Your body and mind will love you for it. It was the cult-like love for this seemingly-grueling exercise that perplexed me as I sat, red-faced and spent.
After my body stopped shaking, the drive home and a mind-blowing shower my body did somehow feel stronger. Call it the oxytocin, the sheer triumph of achieving over sixty minutes in the heat or the utter relief of it all being over, I feel like a yoga fitness diva-in-training.
Whether I’m a glutton for punishment or an adrenaline-junkie, I’m going back. Because no heat, posture, or situation is going to beat me. Sure, Bikram, you won the battle today but I’m going to win the war.
For the first time in eons today my typically fireworks-laden, easily-distracted-for-shiny-objects mind’s only focus during the entire workout was the workout. And for that, Bikram Choudhury, you multi-millionaire mega-awesome no-nonsense Indian guru, I am thankful.
About Kate Hall
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