I came to yoga by accident—a collision on the basketball court that left my back too sore to play hoops. Until then, I had been a serious jock. I played basketball and softball, lifted weights, swam, biked and took 10-mile hikes on weekends.
My experience with yoga was limited to a single videotape; what I remembered most about it was the final relaxation pose, or as I called it, nap time. But the longer my back pain kept me from running and jumping, the grouchier I became. So I turned to yoga in hopes of accelerating my rehabilitation.
Two years later, I’m still a jock. After a few months, I was able to resume my pre-injury activities. But I remain a practicing yogi, because yoga has altered my life in ways I never imagined. When I started doing yoga, I thought I’d abandon it as soon as my coccyx felt better. Instead, I’ve turned my back on other types of exercise
Weightlifting was first to go. For years, I believed strength was measured in pounds; I fixated on how many I could bench press. Yoga convinced me to reconsider the definition of strength, and not just in a metaphysical sense. My practice has literally strengthened every muscle in my body. I have no idea how much I can bench press these days, but wrists that were once too weak to sustain chaturanga (a yoga push-up) now support my entire body weight in handstand and crow. Toes that once balked at being turned under now do the heavy lifting in up-dog.
Basketball was another casualty. I never loved the game, but I played hoops because running up and down the court was terrific exercise. Unfortunately, the price of this great cardio workout was sore feet, sprained fingers, rampant cheating and incessant arguments over who fouled whom. To get my heart racing, I had to tolerate a lot of chest pounding.
In yoga, however, there was no need to suffer fools gladly. My practice required nobody else’s participation, except maybe an instructor to show me the asanas. No ballhog ruined a good time for everyone else, no fights ever broke out, and nobody ever stopped class for 20 minutes to argue about whether somebody’s foot was on a line. I finally quit basketball because I didn’t like the kind of people who were attracted to the game.
Meanwhile, the people who were drawn to yoga were a revelation. Before I began practicing, I assumed a typical yogi was a chai-drinking, tie-dying, hemp-growing, caftan-wearing, nonsense-chanting vegetarian who was too slow and weak to engage in real exercise.
But I learned not to paint with such a broad brush. My yoga classes looked like a compilation of random people off the street. Young, old, men, women, gay, straight, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, X-ray thin, jelly-roll fat—every type of person was there… except obnoxious loudmouth. Perhaps there were more anorexic yogaholics sporting designer stretchpants and perfect toenail polish than in the larger population. But then again, my classes also contained an unusual proportion of 60-year-olds who could do headstands, unless there’s a Masters division of the X Games I don’t know about.
On the basketball court, in the weight room and on the softball field, you can get a pretty good read on people’s skill levels from their physical appearance. Not so in yoga. I was prepared to be shamed by tanned, trim, coiffed yoga addicts, but I didn’t anticipate being humbled by grandmothers. Even after two years of yoga, I still can’t touch my toes without bending my knees. But my practice has taught me not to compare myself to anybody other than my old self.
On that score, I’ve made great strides. My increased flexibility lets me reach a little farther for those elusive ground balls in my softball games. Balance poses like tree and eagle have taught me how to shift my weight, which comes in handy when hiking or biking up hills. When I took my first surfing lesson recently, I grasped the basic motion after I translated it to a) start in cobra, and b) jump to warrior II.
I’ve called on yoga in other situations. Up-dog has been a boon to my sex life. Keeping a straight back has turned chores like raking or washing dishes from drudgery into a therapeutic opportunity.
I even take a different view of standing around. I used to dread standing. I’d shout “down in front” at concerts and would shift from one foot to another whenever I had to be on my feet. Now I practice tadasana whenever I can. In airports, on buses or in bars, I’m the guy who gives up his seat to the weary. And at concerts, I’m the guy who’s standing, or even better, dancing.
I’ll always be a jock, simply because I’d rather be playing a game under sunny skies than exercising indoors under somebody else’s instruction. But I’m a converted yogi too. Because while yoga has done wonders for my body, its greatest impact has been on the most important body part: my head.
John Rosenthal practices yoga at several LA area studios, as well as in his home in Santa Monica. His writing has appeared in Self, Shape, The New York Times, The Washington Post and The Los Angeles Times.