Yoga: Being the Pretzel

Has anyone else purchased a pretzel only to wonder what being a pretzel is all about?

Neither have I.

However, I did grow up in a world that was bent on ensuring that I never spent anytime around those long haired, hipster, Fair Trade Coffee sipping, granola crunchy yoga people.

Those people.

Since my adventures began in the world of trail running I have transitioned to growing my hair out to embrace what is left of my youth, and to look like those cool guys that wink at the camera while running up 9000 feet along a mountainside surely spelling (spilling?) out their inevitable doom. I’ve adjusted my diet significantly, and I enjoy wearing my trucker hats on any given day. Factor in the reality that my wife causes me to drowned in a world of fair trade coffee (aka: Starbucks as an employer), and one of our runners owns their own coffee shop, it is merely fate that aligned itself in this post-apocalyptic time that caused me to mumble under my breath in this early week of fall…


The truth is after The Hawk 50 was completed I had already made a few plans/goals of what I wanted to do with my life, if indeed it still existed after that race; I wanted to increase strength training, run a little less, and increase flexibility. Meaning, I was curious about this whole yoga thing that my childhood church tried to convince of its origins being of the devil (along with Pokemon cards for some reason) was all about.

Inevitably, through a few clicks on my phone, and a quick drive downtown I found TRAIL TIP 30myself in front of the place that already causes so much ‘good pain’ in my life; Phys. Ed. KC. As it turns out, not only can they push you to the level of dry-heaves, but during their downtime they can also craft you into the newest pieces of modern art through their yoga classes.

Feeling extremely insecure about myself I signed up for the “yoga for athletes” class. I felt guilty doing so due to the reality of not considering myself an athlete, but every other class offered was for those with some experience, and it would be a sin against the mighty yoga people if I had signed up for one of those.

Tuesday evening, after wrangling 100 pubescent students (and getting paid for it) for the day, I walked into the yoga studio; of which from now until the end of this piece I will refer solely to as “the tomb”.

The tomb was a white room; walls, ceiling, floor, stage…stage? Everything was white. The smell was of something you would truly only find in a yoga studio; sage? Sandalwood? Tuberose? Frankincense? It smelled like a Yankee Candle store had burned down inside the tomb…in the best way possible! The scent of the room was enough to calm the mind, prior to the stretching experiments.

Naturally, like any good thing that may be associated with ancient medicines of Asia (I completely made that up), one must remove their shoes and socks upon entering the tomb. Sit crosslegged along your yoga mat (Subway sandwich), take a few deep breaths, and eventually we were led into our first pose: rest.


I kid you not; I found myself on my stomach, resting my head on my hands, closing my eyes, and listening to the latest sounds of Enya. The instructor informed us that she would be coming around and adjusting us. Meaning, like what a cat does to your favorite blanket, she is going to kneed you into comfort. For 90% of the world out there, that is completely fine. For the 10% of us it is a dying fear. Not because of touch (massage win!), but because of the fear of knowing that the instructor is pushing on your organs, you’re on your stomach, you ate a fast snack prior to coming in, and bless her soul she is uncomfortably close to your export port…

I have been in tornados, floods, and hurricanes…I have never prayed as hard I did in that one moment…

Please. Don’t let me fart.

After the most fearful/relaxing process was done. It was time to get busy in the world of yoga. I was ready for the crane, the praying mantis, the salutation of the sun, but the instructor…in such sweet sounding tones…simply said…

Alright. Let’s go into plank position.

Sweet mother of all that is good and evil. I paid to be stretched, and instead I’m getting a previous of the same class that already kills me on a weekly basis. However, I managed to get into plank. From plank we moved one foot close to our face (haha!), and slowly moved up the body. Eventually I was sitting in a chair, focusing on breathing, listening to one voice, not talking to myself unlike when I am in the woods, and noticing the profuse amount of sweat I was already losing.

I did yoga, and I needed Tailwind as a recovery. This is my life.

After moving from rest, to plank, to cobra, to foot by face, to chair, to praise hands, to…I can’t remember all of them; I was feeling alright. I was hot, sweaty, experiencing my own world of ‘hot yoga, and feeling ok with my choices.

Until I heard…

Now, we’re going to go through that three more times.

WARNING: THERE ARE REPS IN YOGA! I REPEAT, REPS IN YOGA! It’s a lie, it is all a lie. It isn’t granola crunchy’s running the show, it’s real athletes and they will kill you!

Through the screaming in my head the minutes continued to tick by. I became a Sphynx at one moment, another I was a table, this thing was like a mashup of charades and what happened to the castle people from the curse in Beauty and the Beast.

Yet, even through the shaking of the planks, the cramping during the table, and the excitement of the sun salutation; there came one consistent theme: peace.

Burial grounds…

Even through the humor of the entire experience, the truth is that for a change of pace, I was extremely calm. My mind was clear, I was not bouncing off the walls, I was in a moment where life finally caught up to me and it was refreshing.

Granted, this moment came towards the end, while us puppets were laying on our backs, eyes closed in the tomb, and the music had mixed in to the sounds you hear at the funeral home when your great aunt Agnus finally died in that town of 500 people. Truly, in the strangest metaphor possible, I felt as if I had been buried. Between being in the tomb, the tones of peace (and grief), and the smell of things I’m certain were also used to bury Jesus; I too felt lifeless.

Like all fungood…unique experience though; this session to came to an end. I did get to say the signature word “Namaste” at the end. I bent over to roll up my mat, and without even thinking twice I noticed something:

I could bend over and grab the mat. In fact, even though I was somewhat sore from the planks, my body felt so incredibly loose. It felt so loose that a day later I was able to make appropriate lunges during the weekly strength class I attend.

I have come to appreciate my strength classes while trying to become a stronger runner. However, there is a different place of appreciation in my heart for that yoga session. I have a super, super hard time paying attention, focusing, and sleeping at night. Those are three things that I personally struggle with on a daily basis (so much so that once at strength class the ‘step up box’ got taken away because I was not paying attention). I can confess that after a session in the tomb, my focus was better, I paid attention to other people, and most incredibly…I slept remarkably well that night.

To no surprise, as I continue to try new things inside and around the world of trail running, the more I am learning about myself and my body. Perhaps there is a deeper meaning to gliding through the woods in search of mileage…perhaps I am search of something more…

Not really, I am looking for an excuse to eat buffalo wings, but yoga is fun too!

Namaste, indeed.


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