can feel extremely different while offering similar therapeutic benefits. For instance, the decision to recycle warm air or pump in fresh (oxygen-rich) air from the outside will have a large impact on the practitioners’ comfort but almost no difference on the degree to which their blood vessels expand. Chad’s insistence on building studios that pipe in fresh air is one reason I hear of practitioners detouring to his studios.
But when I ask him to explain how the heat is actually delivered in most studios, there is little complexity in his response. “Most of the yoga studios I work for, they just want the room as hot as possible—period. Half of them get to me in the first place because they’ve destroyed their system by pushing it past capacity or by trying to circumvent an automatic shutoff.
“Everyone will say they use the heat for therapy,” he says. “Which, of course, is true to an extent. But I know the engineering and I know the personalities. You don’t need it to be 110 degrees for blood vessels to expand or to get a cardiac benefit.” Vasodilation is a reflex reaction, not a progressive effect that continues the hotter it gets. Similarly the analgesic effect occurs with ambient temperatures well below the debilitating. “Heat makes things hard. Point-blank. Studio owners want to use the heat to push people.”
Referring to one of Bikram’s most senior teachers, he says, “Jim Kallet wants his regulars on their knees. That’s a direct quote. … It’s a special type of madness. But of course, once you get sucked into that world, it’s all madness.”
That world?
“The world near Bikram … Once he discovered me, Bikram wanted me to do everything. I was his ‘superintendent’ at his Los Angeles studios. I drove him around like a personal valet. I used to carry this crazy wallet for him that was stuffed with cash. I would come out and do personal repairs at his house.”
Chad flashes me his goofy grin and slams the rest of his beer. “Let me promise you one thing. You have never been in a place with more mirrors.You absolutely have to see it to believe it. His house is a satire. Red leather sofas, white leather sofas, these huge dripping chandeliers in every fucking room. …”
I ask him what type of work he did there, but Chad stays put for a moment.
“I mean can you imagine the mind that lives there? Gold. Fake gold. Platinum. Giant stone tables. Insane thrones scattered around. And everywhere, everywhere mirrors.”
Lost in the Present Moment
I arrive for the first day of Backbending a little after midnight.
Driving up to David’s house, I say a silent prayer for my phone’s GPS. David lives in one of those vaguely jingoistic, embarrassingly American gated communities—literally just off Rifle Range Road, down the block from Boston Grill Road—complete with a series of identical dark green lagoons, endless cul-de-sacs, and motion sensor lights that tick on, house after house, if you are one of the few who walks rather than drives past them. It is a neighborhood for the newly but truly rich. You can actually smell the homeowner restrictions in the form of the bagged grass clippings tied up neatly on the front right corner of everyone’s identical white cement driveway.
It’s obvious when I roll up to David’s address. His eight-car garage is wide open and overflowing with cars, yellow light spilling on the street.
The rest of the house looks quiet, however. I decide it’s too late to ring the doorbell politely. I didn’t call, and at this hour, David may or may not be expecting me. Instead I knock meekly a few times. I curse my small bladder. I curse my many rest stops. I knock again; I jiggle the handle. I Google a hotel on my phone. I jiggle the handle again.
And with a classic horror-movie groan, it swings open.
Peering in, backpack on my shoulder, I find every light on, but nobody around. The floor is littered with Whole Foods bags and bedding materials.In the
But when I ask him to explain how the heat is actually delivered in most studios, there is little complexity in his response. “Most of the yoga studios I work for, they just want the room as hot as possible—period. Half of them get to me in the first place because they’ve destroyed their system by pushing it past capacity or by trying to circumvent an automatic shutoff.
“Everyone will say they use the heat for therapy,” he says. “Which, of course, is true to an extent. But I know the engineering and I know the personalities. You don’t need it to be 110 degrees for blood vessels to expand or to get a cardiac benefit.” Vasodilation is a reflex reaction, not a progressive effect that continues the hotter it gets. Similarly the analgesic effect occurs with ambient temperatures well below the debilitating. “Heat makes things hard. Point-blank. Studio owners want to use the heat to push people.”
Referring to one of Bikram’s most senior teachers, he says, “Jim Kallet wants his regulars on their knees. That’s a direct quote. … It’s a special type of madness. But of course, once you get sucked into that world, it’s all madness.”
That world?
“The world near Bikram … Once he discovered me, Bikram wanted me to do everything. I was his ‘superintendent’ at his Los Angeles studios. I drove him around like a personal valet. I used to carry this crazy wallet for him that was stuffed with cash. I would come out and do personal repairs at his house.”
Chad flashes me his goofy grin and slams the rest of his beer. “Let me promise you one thing. You have never been in a place with more mirrors.You absolutely have to see it to believe it. His house is a satire. Red leather sofas, white leather sofas, these huge dripping chandeliers in every fucking room. …”
I ask him what type of work he did there, but Chad stays put for a moment.
“I mean can you imagine the mind that lives there? Gold. Fake gold. Platinum. Giant stone tables. Insane thrones scattered around. And everywhere, everywhere mirrors.”
Lost in the Present Moment
I arrive for the first day of Backbending a little after midnight.
Driving up to David’s house, I say a silent prayer for my phone’s GPS. David lives in one of those vaguely jingoistic, embarrassingly American gated communities—literally just off Rifle Range Road, down the block from Boston Grill Road—complete with a series of identical dark green lagoons, endless cul-de-sacs, and motion sensor lights that tick on, house after house, if you are one of the few who walks rather than drives past them. It is a neighborhood for the newly but truly rich. You can actually smell the homeowner restrictions in the form of the bagged grass clippings tied up neatly on the front right corner of everyone’s identical white cement driveway.
It’s obvious when I roll up to David’s address. His eight-car garage is wide open and overflowing with cars, yellow light spilling on the street.
The rest of the house looks quiet, however. I decide it’s too late to ring the doorbell politely. I didn’t call, and at this hour, David may or may not be expecting me. Instead I knock meekly a few times. I curse my small bladder. I curse my many rest stops. I knock again; I jiggle the handle. I Google a hotel on my phone. I jiggle the handle again.
And with a classic horror-movie groan, it swings open.
Peering in, backpack on my shoulder, I find every light on, but nobody around. The floor is littered with Whole Foods bags and bedding materials.In the
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