Death By Yoga Challenge
As the last gasps of 2024 faded into the frosty embrace of the new year I surveyed the physiological wreckage inflicted by a year’s worth of running—over 1200 spine-mangling miles hammered into the pavement, not accounting for the additional miles clocked with canine companions and hiking up the rugged mountains of San Diego County. My lower back had become a showcase of agony, not immediately during the runs, but in a slow, insidious onslaught of pain that crescendoed as the year bowed out. Each day’s aftermath felt as if steroid-era Barry Bonds had taken a Louisville Slugger to my entire lumbar region, turning it into a paragon of trauma. Popping three Ibuprofen on the morning of December 31, my resolution for the New Year was clear: dial down the running, turn up the yoga.
My local yoga studio, an oasis of twisted limbs and serene faces, had issued another monthly challenge: commit to 20, 25, or the Herculean 30 classes in the gray heart of January, guided by a minimum of ten different teachers. Those who succeed are tossed into a raffle for a bounty of yoga-related goodies, not to mention the lofty strata of public recognition. Paralyzed by indecision and a healthy dose of fear, I dragged my metaphysical feet until a full week of January had evaporated before I finally scribbled my name against the modest figure of 20.
This endeavor has been less a gentle flow and more a brutal confrontation with my own limitations. The once crippling, shotgun blasts to my back have subsided to a dull murmur, and the profanity-laced ordeal of rising from a chair has transformed into a near poetic ascent. Even the nightly ritual of carrying twenty-five pound Abby up the stairs has ceased to be a Sisyphean feat.
But as the sands of January slip through the hourglass with mocking speed, my grim tally stands at a mere 12 sessions. The arithmetic of time and obligation conspires against me, leaving my quest for 20 a pitiful wreck on the shores of impossibility. Two jobs, a home, recovery meetings, and the ever-blaring siren call of the running path devour my days, leaving scant room for the pursuit of inner peace.
As the deadline looms like a guillotine, no raffle awaits, nor the warm glow of success. My fellow aspirants, the pious and the limber, will ascend to the vaunted halls of treasure and glory, while I languish in the purgatory of the also-rans. It's a cruel joke, a cosmic prank played by the fates who must surely cackle at my self-inflicted plight from their lofty perches.
And yet, despite the sting of unmet goals and the gnawing jaws of competitive fire eating at my belly, there is a silver lining – a back that bends with grace rather than groaning in torment. This, at least, is a victory, albeit a quiet one, unnoticed by any but me.
Still, the specter of what might have been haunts my quieter moments. Had I not dallied, had I embraced the gauntlet thrown at my feet from the first toll of the New Year, perhaps I would now be perched atop the leaderboard, a serene smile playing across my lips as I surveyed my conquered domain.
But no. Here I am, marooned in the purgatory of the unfulfilled, nursing a mug of black coffee as dark as my mood, waiting for the next challenge, the next chance to hurl myself into the fray. The lessons of the mat are harsh, reflecting the battles waged within. This journey—my savage journey to the heart of the yoga challenge—has left scars, taught lessons, and whispered the cruel truth that in the quest for enlightenment, timing is indeed everything.