There was a time when I was obsessed with minutes. Getting my half-marathon time down to 1:30, just because that seemed cool. Now I’m obsessed with centimetres – specifically, ten of them, which is the current distance between my heel and the mat while I’m doing a downward-facing dog. Yes, this is another column about an old man discovering yoga.
These are the reasons, in no particular order, why I have resisted doing what everybody (friends, ex-wife, trainers, doctors, physical therapists, probably even a few strangers) advised me to do, and pick up yoga: it’s boring and easy, and boring because it’s easy. It’s for girls. It’s all about woo-woo and inner peace and spirituality, and I don’t go for that. And, I just don’t bend that way. As any…
