It started almost 15 years ago, when a friend dragged me upstairs thorough a strip mall-like building. He led me to a room filled with sweaty bodies, where it was over 100 F. I laid my mat down on the carpet and thought, eww, this carpet is gross, and why does it have to be so hot? It was my first go at Bikram Yoga.
Every time I walk in, I think…I have made a terrible mistake. I need to leave. But I never do, and often that is the last coherent thought I have, as I move through the postures with the other sweating, grunting individuals. I have met really strange characters through Bikram Yoga, met some ancient hippies teaching out of a tangy basement room, met more interesting folks than I could write a page about: everyone who walks in the door is there for a reason. They have something to prove to themselves, or a few inches to lose, or a backache to cure. But there is a something that compels you to push yourself beyond your limits, when you feel like your lungs are bursting and you might collapse. I’ve witnessed people crying (it’s actually a great place to cry, you are sweating so much no one will ever know) people puking (once, but very memorable) and one person who didn’t hydrate herself enough and went into a full body cramp. Why do people do it?
Benjamin Lorr tries to explain it in his book “Hell Bent”. The book relays his total and utter devotion to the practice. I picked it up (on a book recommendation, thank you J) and didn’t speak to anyone for the next few days. Lorr went through some amazing mental and physical transformations, like one does with a religious experience: this is what this yoga is for many. You walk in the door seeking one thing, and come out with something entirely different. If I was a single hermit, much like I see the author, I might do this yoga everyday. I don’t know that I would meet others in a remote location to “backbend,” pushing my body to such limits that some people induce partial paralysis or convulsions…that seems completely bonkers. But there is something that happens to you when you go into a room stoked by Hades, wearing very little, exposing yourself to, well, yourself. You are never as naked and alone as you are here, in my experience. I try not to think about Bikram himself, or his franchise millions: what I have read and heard about him is nothing short of scandalous. When I go to class, I mostly think about not dying; it does give you a renewed appreciation for air. And there is at least one move where I almost suffocate myself with my own boobs. That’s one drawback, surely, that was never mentioned in the book.
If you get through the first class, and maybe even to a second or third, you will start to understand why people do it. I can still recall one instructor standing on my back to prove a point: I was doing a particular posture correctly. I had to go three to four times a week for almost a year to get there, and I was thrilled that I could finally do it. Now, I barely go. I make excuses about not having enough time, not having enough energy. But maybe I just can’t handle that much truth anymore. Bikram Yoga is a conduit for change, for self-exploration, for delving into the deeps of one’s psyche, ego, and physical limits. It’s a beautiful thing, this yoga, but go and expect something to happen. At the very least, you’ll become more limber. At the very best, you’ll realize more about yourself than you thought possible. Yeah, it’s expensive, but in the long run cheaper than therapy.
Just avoid the guy in the ball sling (there’s always one)…nobody wants to see that.