The secret of Hot Yoga: 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration

Everything about the Hot Yoga studio is small and neat,  even the receptionist’s sales pitch, after which she asked: “Do you have any questions?”

“Just one — why is Hot Yoga always spelt with capital initial letters?”

“Oh. ”

M and I finally made it to a session last night, after a hesitant week or two. It was good to rope her in. The presence of another newbie added a small sprinking of reassurance to the experience.

What is Hot Yoga? Pretty much what the label says it is: yoga, practised in a room heated to 41 0r 42 degrees Celsius (105-108F). The idea of the heat is to loosen the muscles and encourage the cleansing qualities of profuse sweating.

It’s a close cousin of Bikram Yoga, a series of 26 poses devised by one Bikram Choudhury. Perhaps surprisingly for such a passive activity, Mr Choudhury has been aggressively protective of his carefully prescribed system of 26 poses, and has tried suing those who have replicated the routine. So Hot Yoga studios have appeared alongside Bikram practitioners, offering a similar, but not identical, programme in the same sauna-like conditions, but without ever breathing the litigation-friendly B word.

The nearest I’ve come to yoga in the past is Pilates, which I struggled through a few times in 2003/4. For someone with my inelegant body shape, and its house brick-like flexibility, these activities do not come naturally. Pretty painful, and even occasionally distressing. And yet… that irksome calf needs me to crank up core fitness and flexibility, and this is the way to do it.

By contrast, M is something of an old hand at the yoga game, though it’s years since she practised. Recently, she’s been complaining about her burgeoning hips (with some justification, though of course I keep this to myself), so didn’t need too much persuasion to join me.

Where did the summer go? The drive into Reading gave us a darkening autumnal evening, complete with swirling rain. A fitting backdrop to the sense of dread about the approaching terror.

The reality wasn’t quite as dreadful as the anticipation. The studio itself is a small, carpeted room with a floor-to-ceiling mirror the length of one wall. The opposite wall is floor-to-ceiling window, though only the very bottom and top are transparent, offering one a useful opportunity to observe current footwear trends in West Berkshire, without arousing suspicion.

We entered, and arranged our mats in the obvious place — as far back as possible. I was the only male in the class of about a dozen. Most of the attendees were much younger too, though I didn’t feel too incongruous. Yoga prides itself on its inclusive, non-competitive nature. To take a further edge of the discomfort, our Pilates teacher of 6 or 7 years ago, Lilli, turned out to be our new yoga teacher, one of 3 or 4 available here (Studio 42 in Reading).

Before the class began, we copied what everyone else seemed to be doing, and lay down to practise some deep breathing. As the hypnotic tabla tapped out the audio blueprint of distant, eastern travelling memories, I could feel  myself drifting off. This was all rather easier and more pleasant than expected.

It didn’t last. Suddenly, the instructor appeared and began bustling about, like a busy matron cutting a swathe through a school dormitory in the early morning. Groan. We had to get to our feet? Damn. Back on two legs, I quickly noticed that it had started to get rather warm in here. Ah yes, that was the point, wasn’t it? It was a lot hotter up there than it was down there.

With mats and towels in place, the dubious fun began. It started off gently enough, with some stretching. As the heat rose to 42 degrees, I noticed the first few splashes of sweat on the floor beneath me. From there, things started to get rather difficult. I doubt if I managed to execute a single pose absolutely correctly, but I tried them all, despite the tempatation to sit out the odd one, when the heat and effort became almostoverwhelming. This seems to be quite an acceptable option. I did the best I could. Each pose is done twice, the second usually a little shorter than the first. In between, we were allowed a shot of water. It tasted good.

Fatigue was rapid and painful. I was breathing heavily, and could feel my heart thumping. Just as I was considering unconsciousness, we arrived at the lying down exercises. Number 13 was my favourite of the whole evening. I was getting so tired towards the end that the last 20 minutes or so was a blur.

At last, it was over. Hardly a great performance from me, but I’m glad I experienced it. Apart from the very corners, my mat was completely dark with sweat. A nice sight. Or is it just me? The cleansing sensation of  sweat is something I love, along with the proof it provides that you’re making an effort. Back in the changing room, my singlet was literally wringing wet, as if I had just immersed it in a bucket of warm water. The hot shower felt good, though I continued to sweat for about 20 minutes after putting on fresh clothes, which was slightly annoying.

Verdict? I’d recommed it to thrill seekers, and particularly corpulent, inflexible ones. While there was never any intolerable embarrassment, I’d have preferred a few porkers to keep me company and share the discomfort. But an utterly new experience, and frankly quite unpleasant at times. I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced sweltering heat like that, even on the Indian plains. But going once is no good. We’ve signed up for the introductory offer (£30 for unlimited visits over 30 days), and have already arranged to return every other day this week, while M is on holiday. If all goes to plan, we’ll have managed 4 sessions: Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. That hoary old cliché of Friedrich Nietzsche comes to mind: “That which does not kill us makes us stronger”.

Yoga is essentially stretching, which can’t be a bad thing for a running enthusiast. Apart from the physical benefits, I’m hoping yoga might offer some spiritual nourishment, and answer some of those eternal questions.

Why is Hot Yoga capitalised?