Adrian does yoga

I can’t remember when I didn't do yoga. My mother was really into it and so I think I was able to do a lotus position before I could even crawl. But I’ve rarely done classes – mainly because it’s so damn tough to find a really good teacher.

I’ve usually given up after one or two attempts. One teacher was so off with the fairies that she had to ask the class which asana we were in, halfway through. Another (Iyengar-style) pushed me so over-enthusiastically that I ended up with a frozen shoulder.

No such worries with Paul Cartwright. When my pal Trish asked if I wanted to join a group of runners for a private yoga class, I jumped at the chance. Paul is a simply fabulous teacher – he’s studied a whole range of types of yoga and incorporates elements from several styles into his classes. But the teaching is very pure – no fancy gimmicks. I’d never been able to get to his standard classes so this was fate giving me a helpful nudge again.

Last week we were blessed with a perfect sunny day. We met up on the cricket ground and laid out our mats on the grass; saluted the sun which shone on our upturned faces. It was pure total heaven.

Today it was overcast and gloomy so we were squashed (ho ho) into one of the squash courts. But, as a friend pointed out, you can be anywhere you choose in your mind. So I closed my eyes and visualised the warm soft grass under my back and the gentle sunlight on my face – and I was off. Except for the fact that someone was huffing and puffing next to me like an asthmatic train. Adrian had decided he would come along.

Now Adrian has never done yoga. He runs and cycles and is very fit in a typically blokeish way but he sure as hell ain’t stretchy. He refuses to breathe through his nose and has zero tolerance for anything remotely holistic or spiritual (‘I’m an atheist; I don’t hold with weird stuff’). Sooo....

‘What do I wear?’ he asked. Crikey, I thought only women asked that question. I suggested tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt – he pitched up in shorts and several sweatshirts. And trainers.

‘You won’t need those. You do yoga with bare feet.’
‘What?’ He looked horrified. ‘I can’t do it then.’
WTF? Transpired he was worried about the state of his toenails (or lack thereof).
‘Don’t be a numpty. Nobody will look at your toenails. You keep your eyes closed most of the time anyway.’
A look of total unabridged terror passed over his face.

I confess that, halfway through I was getting a tad worried. I can go into pretty deep meditation doing yoga but his gasps and sighs and crashes were so loud I had to open the odd eye to make sure he hadn’t died mid-stretch.
‘Are you alright?’ I hissed, as we paused in Crocodile. He just shook his head, wild-eyed, limbs shaking.

I honestly thought he’d get up and walk out but no. Aftewards as we pulled on our shoes outside, I turned to him. ‘You hated it, didn’t you? You won’t be coming back.’
But he shook his head. ‘Nah. It was really tough but really good. I think I need it.’

Well, stone the crows. And, as he cooked lunch (for him); breakfast (for me) he was high as a kite. ‘This energy thing? Is that normal with yoga?’
I nodded, smiling. ‘Sure is.’

‘I can’t get the mind stuff though.’

‘It’ll come. It’s hard when you don’t know the asanas. But, once you do, your breathing will take you into the mind stuff. Or rather the non-mind stuff.’

I thought he’d sniff and pooh-pooh it but no. Bloody hell, whatever next?

‘That bit at the end? Was that a prayer?’ he said suspiciously.
‘No, dear. Just a nice stretch for the upper arms.’
Namaste. ;)