Part 2: An Alternate Universe

There’s a reason why I think back on that vintage Converse commercial with Bird and Magic. You couldn’t have asked for two more outwardly different personalities to become rivals on the NBA’s marquee franchises, nor could you ask for those teams to play any differently from each other than they already did. You had Bird, the surly introvert vs. Magic, the smiling showman; you had the lunch pail Celtics vs. the Showtime Lakers.

You also had two players and two teams that worked their way towards the joy of playing basketball. We’re well aware of Magic’s ability to put on a show, and one of the great things about the Bird/Magic rivalry is that time and reflection has given us a much better appreciation of how much work Magic put into his game. Exhibit A is the “junior junior Sky Hook” he used to beat the Celts in Game 4 of the ’87 Finals. Exhibit B is the significantly more accurate outside set shot he developed by that same point in his career. He possessed neither of these weapons when he entered the NBA at 19—just a year older than LeBron when he made his debut.

Bird had an unparalleled work ethic, and yes, the most fun thing was winning, but Bird could put on a show, too. And he enjoyed it--enjoyed inventing shots or passes on the fly. In fact, his work ethic gave him the space to create something new, just as Magic’s time in the gym allowed him to do the same. Sort of like a guitarist who spends countless hours practicing scales, and then in concert whips off amazing solos that seem to come out of nowhere. Of the many things Bird and Magic had in common, one of the most prominent was the sense that on any given night, either of them might do something you’d never seen anyone do before—an off-balance shot from a crazy angle, or a flashy pass that was on its way to being an assist before a gap had even opened up to let it through. The most entertaining plays Bird and Magic made ultimately sprung from all the private work they undertook to become the best possible players.

Maybe Bird and Magic would have possessed very different attitudes if they had become pros in the last 15 years. Neither player made the cover of Sports Illustrated before he left high school. Neither player grew up in the AAU world, where talent is spotted and cultivated obscenely early. And can you imagine a modern college coach losing sight of Bird now, the way Bobby Knight lost sight of him at Indiana in 1974?

There’s no telling how either player would have developed, athletically or mentally, under those conditions. Run Magic and Bird through the AAU framework and imagine a career path that leads them to 2010 free agency. Would they, too, have wanted to join up instead of trying to beat each other? If they had signed with the same team, would they have pranced on a catwalk in front of adoring thousands in their new city? Would they have expected the regular season to be a party and the playoffs a coronation?

Tomorrow: How Many Cabs Will You Be Needing?

Part 1: Show Me Whatcha Got

I’m picturing Dwyane Wade on a beautifully built outdoor court. It’s a pleasant but slightly humid Miami night. All the lights are on. He’s wearing his Miami practice gear and swishing jumpers, one after another, from 18 feet.

A limousine pulls up. Some dust kicks across the sidewalk. Two very large men emerge from the back in slow motion, clad Miami Heat warm ups. One wears a shooting shirt bearing a number 1, the other a number 6. It’s Bosh and LeBron. They look fierce, determined.

LeBron speaks: “Hey, I heard they made new Nikes for last year’s Miami Heat.” Wade looks down at his sneakers, then glowers back at LeBron. “Yeah?”

Bosh says, “Well, Nike made some sneakers for this year’s Miami Heat.” Lebron and Bosh rip off their warm up pants to reveal fabulous new Nikes, in the Heat’s trademark black, red, and white colors.

Wade’s glower switches to a beaming smile as he exclaims, “Nice kicks! I gotta get me some of those.” At which point, Bosh grins, hands him a box and says, “We brought you a pair.”

Cut to: Wade, Bosh, and LeBron, wearing their flashy new sneakers and Heat uniforms, throwing alley oops to each other, burying jumpers, smiling and high fiving. Good times! They look absolutely ecstatic. And unbeatable.

 

Tomorrow: An Alternate Universe

Tale of the Tape/Thank you

The tale of the tape of the 30 Days of Hot:

• 30 classes, 30 consecutive days, no doubles
• 45 hours of class time in the hot room
• 10 hours of pre- and post-class time in the hot room (20 minutes per class)
• Cumulative 2.3 days spent in the hot room
• 150 liters of water consumed—go to your local grocery store, hit the water aisle, and count the gallon jugs until you reach 40. That should paint the picture quite nicely. This is a conservative estimate, by the way. And I needed very drop of it.
• 90 towels used—60 from the studio, 30 from home
• 30,000 calories burned (1,000 per day)
• 10 pounds of calories burned (3,000 per pound)
• Estimated 30 miles of walking to get to the studio (1.5 miles per weekday; the weekends were the van or the T or a combination of the two)
• Roughly 1,400 reps of poses—each rep generally being one iteration of the pose, or two iterations if it needs to be done for each side of the body
• 13 different teachers
• 3 teachers I’d never had before
• 24 classes at Back Bay (15 in the big room upstairs, 9 in the small room); 4 classes at Harvard Square; 2 classes at Lincoln Street
• “Lock the knee” spoken by teachers an estimated 1,800 times (60 per class)
• Beginning weight: 176.5
• End weight: 170.5
• Blog posts: 35
• Estimated word count: 9,500

The numbers aren’t the whole story, but they say a lot.

Let’s end with some overdue thank yous:

First and foremost, extreme gratitude, thanks and love to my wife, Margo. She was hitting the hot room for two years before I tried it. She’s still the toughest cookie in the hot box. I aspire to her toughness and determination every day. Thanks, little missy.

Thanks to the excellent teachers at the Boston studios, encompassing Back Bay, Chinatown, and Harvard Square, in order of appearance: Dan, Meredith, Reba (from Tempe AZ), Danielle, Tomo, Courtney, Jackie, Michelle, Elizabeth, Rich, Brad, Jill and Derek. My job was to show up every day; their job was to push us beyond our limitations. They knew when to open a window, close a door, or lighten the mood with a quick quip. A more kind, knowledgeable and compassionate group you’d be hard pressed to find.

Thanks to my fellow practitioners, and especially my fellow 30 day challengers. Some days we rode the wave, some days the wave rode us. Thanks for your energy and your company in the face of extreme heat and borderline masochism.

Big thanks to the many people who urged me on, gave encouragement, or shook their heads in disbelief. It’s good to know that people were rooting for me. For those who shook your heads, trust me when I tell you: there were times when I questioned my own sanity.

Last but not least, many thanks to everyone who contributed to the Franciscan Food Bank as a result of my doing the challenge. I can only guess how much your generosity benefited the Food Bank. Because of your donations, my 30 days in the hot room had a greater purpose than achieving some vaguely defined notion of progress or accomplishment. For those who haven’t contributed but would like to, please do so and support the Friars’ fine work, particularly during a difficult economic time. I had the privilege of practicing with one of the Friars during many days of the challenge and getting to know him a little, so for me, the cause moved from an abstract act of charity to something a little more tangible by being in his company.

It was real, it was fun. It wasn’t always real fun, but I feel relieved, proud, and humbled by the experience. Namaste.

Day 30: Final Savasana

Courtesy Yoga Spy.

Last night a group of us were chatting in the Back Bay Bikram lobby after doing the 7:30 class. One fellow doing the 30 Day Challenge had just done a double--4:30 class, break for an hour or so, then the 7:30. He had to do a double tonight to finish with 30 classes in 30 days.

A lady friend of his said, "So you just have tomorrow? You did it!" She meant well, but no one on the verge of accomplishing something wants to hear that it's already done. Not until it's really, truly over.


A few moments later, I mentioned that I was also doing the 30 Days. And the lady said, again, "You did it!" And I replied, "Please don't say that. I haven't done it yet. I've got one more day."


It brought me back to day 1 of the challenge, a month ago. Same lobby, only this time before class. Dan, the teacher for that first class, was telling the young lady who just signed in, "Why don't you check off today before you go in? You know you're going to do it."


Sure, we know we're going to do it, just like last night I knew I would do tonight's class and finish the challenge. But I didn't want to check out mentally a day early; I didn't want to mark this one in the W column until the clock read 0:00. Not for any one class, and certainly not for the very last one. But at 7:30 tonight, the clock expired, the last knee locked, the last breath exhaled, and now I can say it: I did it.

What does that mean, exactly? I don't know. I can see the physical changes--hey, where's the beer gut? Did I actually have abdominal muscles hiding in there all this time?--and measure the obvious progress I made in many of the postures. I can applaud having the wherewithal to show up every day, including a five day stretch where I hovered between "not exactly sick" and "not exactly well," and consequently felt a little weird during much of those classes. But what will I end up carrying out of the hot room? I'll have to wait and see on that.

It’ll be nice to have my evenings back; even with two early departures each week to grab the 4:30 class, and a pair of days off in the middle, I felt like I was getting home late every night. Maybe the expenditure of effort created that feeling, or maybe the fact Daylight Savings kicked in and brought night down early; whether I was at home at 7 or at 9, I often didn’t feel like doing much. Maybe I felt I only had the energy to concentrate on one project at a time, and the 30 Day Challenge was it. I was rarely creative over the last month, and felt like a partial friend and husband. I’ll be happy returning to life as a fully committed, creative human being.

I think of this time after the challenge as a sort of Savasana. I’ll take at least a couple of weeks away, absorb the benefits of what I just did, and figure out what else I may have gained, and what I could do better. But for a little while, I’m just going to lie back and be happy that I’ve finished. Day 30 and the challenge are in the books.

Connect to the purring, y’all.

Namaste,

Scott

Day 29: Blowing in Firm (Kapalbhati in Vajrasana)

The 30 Day Challenge is like taking a daily commute through your body and mind. You’re driving the same car; the route never changes; the trip is always the same length. From day to day the car may purr along or it may cough and heave. You may get stuck in traffic. Once in a while, a usually congested intersection is completely clear, and you blow right through it, wishing it could be that clear every day. The radio station in your mind, might be turned off, but some days all you can hear are the obnoxious windbags on talk radio, ranting about the socialist bent of the temperature or the reactionary bias of the humidity. Could we get a nice, moderate breeze in here?

But some days, you notice new details in familiar places. A repaired sidewalk. New awnings over the shops. More greenery. You suddenly sink deeper and more comfortably in your seat. You’re able to shift gears just a little more easily. You realize that these places you’re traveling through are being renovated, opened up, modernized. Everything needs more work, but you realize things are changing almost imperceptibly. But those small details are adding up.

Does the commute sometimes feeling like I’m living through Groundhog’s Day? Sure. There have been times where the trip has been a slog. The first week was interesting—lots of up and downs. The second week was like driving through a ghost town where the lights were green at every intersection. Week three, there was ongoing construction at every corner, and the traffic snarled for miles. At various times in the last ten days, it’s been all of that.

Every day, the same route. Every day, a different journey. At the end, will I take a vacation? Come straight back for more? I have no idea. I’m about to park the car. I’ve arrived, but at what destination I’m not sure.

Day 28: Spine-Twist (Ardha-Matsyendrasana)

The hot room has a knack for redefining things—your body, your attitudes, your sense of discipline—provided you go consistently. One unanticipated consequence of continuous practice: a revision of my definition of a three letter word.

There was hot before Bikram Yoga. A bad summer day in the city—low 90s, high humidity—that was hot. A third floor apartment with no AC during that same day—unbearably hot.

Hot after yoga: definitely not that sweltering day in July. And not that same day with no AC. “Shit, I’ve done yoga in way, way worse heat. This ain’t so bad.”

I’ve said it before: I hate being hot. Me and Bikram Yoga are as unlikely a couple as Flava Flav and Brigitte Nielsen. And I’m not going to sit here and tell you that I suddenly love the heat. But 18 months in and out of the hot room has recalibrated my sense of what’s brutally hot and what’s tolerably hot. Trust me, the ideal Bikram room is 105 degrees, but there are days where it’s 115. Suddenly, a humid 95 doesn’t seem like such a big deal.

Day 27: Stretching Pose (Paschimotthanasana)

It’s almost the end of class. I psych myself into this posture by believing I’m climbing the L’Alpe D'Huez in the Tour de France, one of the toughest climbs imaginable. Forget that I learned how to ride a bike at age 40. I’m winning this stage, the toughest of the entire Tour. My toes are the handlebars. I’m pulling like a maniac. As I pull, my torso curves aerodynamically. My hamstrings are screaming. I duck in further. I’m pulling a Jens Voigt. Shut up, legs! I pass Alberto Contador—I give him the finger. This one’s for Andy Schleck, cheater! I know somewhere Phil Leggett is telling a worldwide audience, “Bishop is really dishing out the suffering today! He’s left the peloton in his dust!” I hear the cries of pull, pull, last chance, pull! I see the yellow line in front of me.

Some days, I’m gassed, and I just need that bastard Kloden to drag me up the mountain. (Andreas Kloden, whose last name became a verb for me and my friends Mike and Sean in 2004, when he openly challenged his team leader, Jan Ullrich, for squad supremacy during the Tour de France. Actually, he became a verb and a noun, as in, “I can’t believe he Klodened you when he start chatting up that girl you were hitting on,” and “What a complete Kloden.” I think of Kloden because he actually did guide a teammate up the mountain—Lance Armstrong in 2009. So maybe we were a bit hard on him. He’s still in our dictionary, though.)

Day 26: Head to Knee (Janushirasana)

Bikram classes have the air of ritual. I find this comforting. It’s sort of like going to the hottest possible church. (Enter a hot room and you might think: Church of Lucifer.) The teacher is a sort of high priest, exhorting you to kill yourself in every pose. The words, even silly phrases like “Japanese Ham Sandwich,” have an air of incantation about them.

The hot room has certain rules. The heat and the humidity, of course. The black lines that run through the carpet, demarcating where to place your yoga mat (halfway, so you can line your toes on the line, the better for the teacher to see you). The sequence of postures and the reassurance brought by the routine it creates. The clothing—with a definite emphasis on less-is-more. There isn’t a rule against ogling, but only because you’ll be suffering to much to stare at anyone. The regimen is amazingly self-policing.

The front row is for the best students. They’re modeling for the rest of class. If you think you’ll need a break, the front row isn’t for you. The back row is for beginners. The back row is more likely to get cool air from a door or window, and if anyone needs it, it’s the beginning practitioner. The rows between cover the rest of the practicing spectrum. You get a water break 20 minutes into class, almost always with the cheer invocation of "Party time." You're welcome to take water anytime you need it after that--just don't do it while people are in a posture.

The poses don’t just build one on top of another, but often echo each other. You do Standing Head to Knee 20 minutes into class; with 15 minutes left to go, there you are, putting a head on your knee again, with a bit of Half-Moon’s sideways stretch. You twist your spine in each direction during Triangle; a half-hour later, you’ll be doing it even more drastically on the floor. The thing you did before, you’ll do again, only farther, deeper.

You would think the ritual would get boring. Boredom isn’t my enemy. Fatigue—mostly mental—is. The fatigue that comes from no days off, from every evening being occupied, from putting much my private life on hiatus. But within the room, the ritual, the repetition, carry me through. All I have to do is show up. The command comes to step into the middle of the mat. I do it. We all do it. We all do whatever’s next.

Day 25: Rabbit (Sasagasana)

Ah, silly wabbit. The only pose where you get to use a prop—the sweat-soaked towel you just spent the first three-quarters of class raining perspiration on. Good times!

That’s one of the two towels you keep on the mat. You bring in a third from home or rent one from the studio—you’ll probably want to shower, right? Well, not so fast. Since Margo and I often go to class together, I can tell you the ratio of women to men is probably two-to-one. Some nights it’s three-to-one. One night, it was me, another guy, and 30 women. Those numbers would certainly appeal to single straight men, but it translates into a long line for women waiting for the shower. Most nights, we just towel off, change back into our regular clothes, and take a real shower back home.

What that extra towel is good for is insulating your water. Like 90 degree water? Leave your towel in the locker room. Like reasonably cold water when you’re in a sweatbox? Thought so. (And yes, it only took me a year to realize I should do this.)

Usually I’d lean on one of three towels—some cheap ones Margo picked up somewhere along the way. But with the 30 Day Challenge, I need at least five, and I’m loathe to use our nice white towels from home, because that towel is going into a plastic bag with a nasty pair of shorts. Those other two towels I use? Spider-Man beach towels.

That’s right. I’m rocking the Web-slinger at yoga. At first, I felt sheepish about it. I love Spider-Man. Don’t get me wrong. He was my favorite superhero growing up. I still look back fondly on the John Romita Sr. era of the comic book, and the all-too brief run of Gil Kane that followed. (It wasn’t until I grew up that I started to like Steve Ditko.) Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends was must-see TV on my Saturday mornings, and as goofy and poorly done as it was, I always watched CBS’ Spider-Man live action show whenever it was on, which I’m surprised to discover now wasn’t often—just 11 one hour episodes bookended by a pair of two-hour broadcasts. Which isn’t surprising, because I can’t remember any actual super-villains, and Nicholas Hammond was an awful Peter Parker. You can imagine how bad it was if I hated it as a ten year old. But that didn’t stop me from watching it.

The thing that baffles me: how did we end up with two Spider-Man beach towels? I know we got the first one—Spidey swinging right into your kisser, in the style of Romita—in Savannah on vacation, because we planned to go to one of the beaches and hadn’t packed accordingly. But the second towel, which cops the image from the Spider-Man 3 poster? I have no idea when, where or why we bought it. We must have forgotten we were going to a beach that time too. I didn’t even bother seeing the third Spider-Man movie. My fanboy days are long behind me. But I still have a soft spot for the ol' web slinger.

Day 24: Camel (Ustrasana)

There’s a pet phrase of Bikram’s, which is that there’s always a deeper and farther in every posture. The wall you pushed back today will still be there tomorrow, only it’s a quarter inch further away when you get to it.

The phrase has a bit more resonance now, with a week to go, because—while I try to set aside expectations—I thought I’d be further along in certain respects now than I actually am. In effect, I thought this would get easier. It’s done the exact opposite. It’s gotten harder.

It makes sense when I think about it. I expected a progression like this: at a certain point, I wouldn’t crack and need to take a rest. I’d reach a certain point of fitness and discipline, and as a result I’d do every posture, every day. What’s actually happened is that I’ve gotten better at the first three postures—even my nemesis, Half-Moon—and start tiring out around Standing Bow, a third of the way through class.

Which reminds me of what my man Bob Mould once said: “Expectations mean you really think you know what’s coming next, and you don’t.” And as I find myself going deeper and farther in the first 20 minutes of class, the wall I thought I was pushing back—the one I often ran into halfway through class—is getting closer. That’s not a complaint, just an observation—I’ll take progress where I can get it. I think the progression in this one area more than outweighs the regression in another. It just goes to show what happens when you expect a particular outcome. You often get a completely different one, and you’re left going, “Huh.”

Day 23: Half-Tortoise

True story. One Saturday morning six months ago, Margo and I take a Bikram class at the Harvard studio. It’s being taught by one of the studio’s co-owners, Brad.

We kill ourselves for the first two-thirds of class, then hit the floor for our two minute break, aka Savasana, aka the very appropriately named Dead Body Pose. Everyone’s head is pointing towards the small dais where Brad and all the instructors operate.

Someone has dropped in from Manchester, NH. She’s doing a 60 day challenge. 60 days! Great Caesar’s Ghost! Our friend Caroline later did a 60 day challenge, and I joked, “Hey, I’ve done a three day challenge.” Anything in double digits, much less encompassing a whole month, was unthinkable.

Brad starts chatting during Savasana. “So, you’re here from New Hampshire. Nice work, doing the 60 day challenge. I remember when I lived in Keene, New Hampshire. I had to drive two hours to take a Bikram class.”

Wait wait wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute. Keene? You’re kidding me, right?

I shift my head to look up at Brad. Keep in mind: I’m covered in sweat, red-faced, and wearing only running shorts. (I know, I know: not while I’m eating dinner. I’m just trying to paint the picture.) And while I’m a noted loud-mouth, I almost never say anything during class. It's a cardinal rule of the room, that you take a vow of silence the moment the teacher starts talking. In eighteen months, I might have spoken the equivalent of an average-sized paragraph. So it takes a lot to get me to speak up in the hot room.

I manage to haltingly spit out, “Brad… that’s… my hometown.” And Brad replies, “I knew there was a reason I liked you, Scott.”

It turns out he moved from Michigan to Keene in the 70s. His folks still live there, only a few miles from where my mom has lived for almost 40 years. I’m guessing he graduated sometime between when my brother Dale went to Keene High (class of 1980) and when I attended (class of 1987). He took copious grief when he landed in Keene for being what the locals called “a goddamn flatlandah.” In fact, we now greet each other in cod-New Hampshire accents, saying “Jesum Crow” and “Were you born in a bahn?” Seriously—of all the hot rooms in all the towns in the entire U.S., and I end up in the one being run by someone I probably walked by once in a blue moon in my little hometown 30 years ago? Unbelievable.

Day 22: Fixed Firm (Supta-Vajrasana)

Courtesy Oh My Bikram. Originally from the now defunct Bikram Yoga on the Hill in Boulder, Colorado.

He's not Yogi Berra, but Bikram Choudhury definitely has a few interesting turns of phrase. Try slipping one of these Bikramisms into your conversation today.

“No room for light or air… you’re a 1) Japanese ham sandwich… 2) a Foreman Grill… 3) a Panini Press… 4) a fruit roll-up… 5) a grilled cheese sandwich.” In fact, just tell people you’re having a Japanese ham sandwich for lunch and see what happens.

“Pulling is the object of stretching.”

“Slowly, gently, push the knees back as hard as you can.” (Um, okay.)

“Lock the knee! Lock the knee! Lock the knee!” (Most effective when spoken three times in row. In fact, I had an odd experience on the Orange Line last week when the train operator intoned, “Watch the doors! Watch the doors! Watch the doors!” I thought my class was starting. On the train. Yes, I need this to be over soon.)

“Stomach stomach stomach!” (Apparently it’s not just celebrity deaths that come in threes.)

“If the knee isn’t locked, the posture hasn’t started yet.”

“Identify right from left. Don’t get them mixed up.”

“Kick up kick up kick up! The harder you kick, you can balance forever.”

“T as in Tom, not a broken umbrella!”

“English Bulldog determination. Bengal Tiger strength.”

And just because it’s the year 2010, Bikramisms has its own Twitter account. No, really.

And since I mentioned Yogi at the start, I'll leave you with my favorite Yogi quote: "When you come to a fork in the road, take it."