“Are you ready?” the Battalion Chief asks me as I lurch towards the smoke-filled room. I’m dressed in firefighter’s gear, the helmet strapped on my head, the oxygen tank’s harness pinching my shoulders, the air mask covering my face. I must look like somebody’s fifth grader on “Take your Child to your Dangerous Job” day – my boots are three sizes too big, the helmet slides back and forth, and I’ve resisted the urge to ask for a pair of pants with cuffs so I won’t trip on the bottoms. I don’t know if I’m sweating from nerves or from the 95 degree heat, aided by the twenty pounds of gear I’m wearing. Firefighter outfits don’t necessarily “breathe.”
We’re in downtown Concord just off Main Street, outside one of the Sanel Block buildings, slated for demolition in the coming days. The owner’s given the Concord Fire Department permission to use the buildings for training until they’re torn down. With no money in the budget for a new training facility, the Fire Department takes every opportunity it finds to practice its skills, and tonight it’s Engine 4 and its five firefighters’ turn.
Jim Freitas, Engine 4’s knob guy (he controls the flow of water from the truck), gives me advice as I wait my turn. “Remember – it’s all about the couplings,” Jim tells me. Jim’s been with the Department for a little more than five years. He found me my gear when I arrived, showed me the fire station’s layout and was the assistant chef who served dinner a few hours ago. That dinner’s about to make a special, one-time only reverse appearance if I’m not careful, so I listen to Jim explain. “It’s all about the male and female couplings. The female end will always lead you back to the truck – the male end heads towards the fire,” Jim explains as he shows me the difference in the male and female hose ends. “Feel for those metal bumps and then the hose, and you’ve found it.”
“Bumps to the pump,” Chief Ken Folsom reminds me, “Once you find the hose, don’t let go of it. Follow it like a clothes line until you get out.” I try to say something funny like, “Hey, ‘Female Coupling’ would be a great name for an all-woman heavy metal band,” but Ken and Jim are focused on the tasks at hand, and I probably should be too – besides, with the air mask covering my face and the nascent signs of heat stroke gnawing at my brain, it would’ve sounded like, “Tell my wife to remember me fondly.”
This drill’s designed to test firefighters’ ability to evacuate a smoke-filled, pitch-black burning room while flames rage nearby – the key is to find the female coupling and follow the right hose to safety. I have an advantage over Engine 4 – I watched the first few go through the drill earlier, standing in the corner with a thermal imaging camera, seeing them fumble in the rubble-strewn darkness for the exit. The room was completely dark, any chance for the twilight to make it through the one window erased by the smoke pouring from the machine on the floor. Taking my eyes off the camera meant instant midnight, so I kept my eyes fixed on the ghostly image on the tiny screen.
“Your air is on,” Chief Folsom tells me as he hits a button on the side of my mask, the cool air bathing my sweaty face. He leads me to the room, and I begin. I’m seconds into the exercise, and any appreciation I’d had for the work firefighters do has increased tenfold. I can’t see a thing, my gear is heavy, and I’m crawling on my hands and knees searching for the metal sections of the hose. Add a screaming citizen and actual fire into the mix, and I’d be the last person you’d want to see coming to your rescue.
Lieutenant Alan Robidas, and firefighter Dan Bickers, from Central, are running the exercise and coach me as I go. “So what are you looking for?” “What will you do once you find it?” “Where’s the wall? Have you found it yet?” I find the couplings underneath broken ceiling tiles, heed the Chief’s advice and grasp onto the hose, following it to the end.
Outside, the Chief and the men from Central debrief Engine 4, reminding them not to be fooled by the overlapping hoses. Moments later, I’m in the fire engine, Jim sitting next to me as we drive back to the station. Chief Ken treats us all to ice cream for a training exercise well done. It may be the first time in my life I actually earned a bowl of ice cream. It was delicious.
I’d arrived at the station hours earlier, right at the start of the thirteen-hour night shift. Lieutenant Merle DeWitt greeted me at the door and introduced me to Paul Sirois. Paul’s been a firefighter in Concord for almost eight years and will be riding in the ambulance tonight. This team of five firefighters works four days in a row with four days off – two day shifts of eleven hours and two night shifts of thirteen. Scott Marcotte, a third-generation Concord firefighter, on the job since 1987, provides a primer in the city’s firefighting footprint. “We have three stations plus the ladder truck on duty all the time. Each station has five firefighters, an engine and an ambulance, and Central has the ladder truck. One of the five firefighters in each fire house is also a paramedic, so we’re usually pretty busy.”
Merle then explains the bell system. “One’s for a medical call, two’s for a box alarm, and three bells probably means a building’s on fire.” I’m dizzy with anticipation, and as we sit down for supper, I wonder how fast these guys will bolt from the table at the first sound of bells. Dinner passes with no bells but with a lovely chicken dish and a Swiss chard salad from the station’s garden. “It’s been unusually slow - very quiet this summer so far,” Scott mentions to me after dinner. “Don’t be surprised if we don’t get many calls.” Scott’s an expert as a member of Engine 4, the busiest by far in the city, outpacing the other stations by hundreds of calls each year.
A firefighter waiting for a call is a lot like an ice fisherman waiting for a fish – you sit, you wait, you eat, you chat, and you clean your gear until a fish arrives or the bell rings, and then it’s time to move. About five hours into the shift, as we sit watching TV, Paul and Jim share stories of things they’ve seen on the job and how “Murphy’s Law prevails at a fire.” Paul emphasizes that trust is the key to a firefighter’s success. “We have to have each other’s back – always,” he says to me. It’s a calm scene until a bell rings, and Paul is out of his recliner like he’s been shot out of a water cannon.
Before I realize what’s happening, Scott asks me if I want to join Paul on the “bus,” (what they call the ambulance). I agree and Scott runs down the hallway to catch them. I follow him and make it before the ambulance pulls out, grabbing a seat in the back. Paul’s driving the bus tonight and Keith Richardson, the fifth of tonight’s crew, the team’s paramedic and lead chef, scans his laptop in the front to see where we’re going.
We arrive at a high-rise just off Main Street, and Alan and Dan from Central greet us at the door, their ladder truck parked in the lot next to the building. We move to the elevator, Paul pushing the stretcher and Keith lugging the portable EKG machine. Moments later we’re in a woman’s apartment - she’d called 911, complaining of chest pains, and Keith jumps into action, asking about her ailments and checking her vital signs. Minutes later we’re in the hallway with the woman on the stretcher. Dan asks her if she wants us to shut off her TV, still blaring in her bedroom. “Leave it on for my cat,” she instructs, and we head downstairs. She’s lucid and talks with Keith, who’s a combination of professional, precise and very friendly, asking her, “On a scale of one to ten, where’s your pain now? What did you have to eat tonight? Have you been taking your medication?”
We arrive at the hospital, Paul and Keith wheel the woman inside, and after a brief exchange with the nurse on duty, and we leave and drive to the station. “Calls like that are about seventy percent of what we do,” Paul tells me as he readies the stretcher for the next call. Not quite a scene from ER, but lack of drama at a time like this is a good thing.
Back at the station, it’s well past midnight and the place is quiet. Keith does his paperwork and Paul restocks the ambulance. The others are resting, waiting for those bells to ring. I find a comfortable spot and drift off to sleep, content in the conviction that Concord’s in good hands with people like this down the hallway, ready at a moment’s notice to set things right.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Six Reasons to Love the World Cup! (or at least watch a few games)
I was once like you - sick of people telling me to love soccer. I grew weary of pundits extolling the virtues of “the beautiful game,” how we Americans must embrace it like the rest of the world. Scoldings about soccer were like dental hygienists begging us to floss or our mothers reminding us to eat our kale. For many years, I was a man who swore that a prescription for a joyous sporting life was one part baseball, one part football, one part Indy 500 and no parts soccer. Until I started watching.
When you first start watching soccer, it’s like peering through a keyhole of the door to an alternate universe. Fans sing lusty fight songs, blow plastic horns and set off smoke bombs. Commentators say things in refined English accents like, “His opportunistic venture into the mouth of the stalwart defense yields a stroke of brilliance!” When national pride is at stake, like it is with this month’s World Cup, everything gets kicked up a notch. The game are more intense, the fans more rabid and the rewards greater. And for the next thirty days, we can feast upon the dozens of games at our fingertips. If there was ever a time to contract a rare, month-long, non-debilitating yet highly contagious tropical disease, it would be now. Excused absences and World Cup soccer are ideal bedfellows.
So, from one former non-soccer fan to you, the ardent American sports lover who’d rather watch adults play poker in a windowless room or think watching left turns on an oval track constitutes excitement (are we really rooting for tires?), I’m here to tell you what’s to love about the World Cup. Give it some thought and drop me a line if you want to watch a few games together. I’ll be at home, in front of my TV for the next month, flossing the kale out of my teeth.
Reason #1: The US is Good (No, really, I’m serious)
We probably won’t win it all and may not make it very far, but we’re no Faroe Islands, that’s for sure. It wasn’t long ago that the rest of the world told jokes about the US team like, “An armadillo, a three-legged goat and eleven Americans walk onto a soccer field.” I don’t know how the rest of the joke goes, but the punch line is, “And the goat uses the armadillo as a crutch to score a hat trick to beat the US!” Uncle Sam’s Army is highly ranked, is led by a handful of players who excel in the best leagues in the world, and has a legitimate chance to advance well past the first round. Then again, we were considered a contender four years ago and were embarrassed worse than that time your buddy “pantsed” you at the bus stop in eighth grade, the lesson being, “Don’t believe the hype and always wear a belt.” But seriously, we’re pretty good.
Reason #2: North Korea – Santa’s Little Helpers
Rooting against North Korea’s soccer team is like rooting against Santa’s elves, if Santa referred to himself as “Dear Leader,” wore crazy person sunglasses and was the worst boss ever! The team had to hire Chinese cheerleaders because no one has enough money for bus fare, much less for a plane ticket to South Africa. Kim Jong-Il, nuttier than an outhouse rat, refuses to televise the games, fearing a loss would shame the nation (as opposed to abject poverty and chronic malnutrition). Its government made this statement after a loss in the qualifying rounds: “The game has turned into a theater of plot-breeding and swindling.” Just imagine if they win! We’d hear things like, “The heroes of the Fatherland have quenched their thirst with the blood of the foe, mocking the spiteful conspiracy to rob our sons of their birthright.” To top it off, there’s a distant, remote, improbable chance that North Korea would face South Korea, two nations technically still at war. The mind races with the plot-breeding possibilities.
Reason #3: USA versus England
If you watch just one game, watch this one. The last time the US beat England was in 1950, and we haven’t come close since. England’s team is loaded with some of the best players in the world, including Wayne Rooney, a temperamental goal-scorer with a face like a pork chop and the quickness of a pit viper. England takes credit for inventing soccer, and it hasn’t won the World Cup since 1966. Many expect them to go all the way, but they have to tussle with us first. And don’t think we’ve forgotten what they did to the White House in the War of 1812.
Reason #4: What’s in a Name?
Every team has a nickname, with African teams sporting the best - “Super Eagles,” “Indomitable Lions,” “Bafana Bafana.” The worst? Australia’s “Socceroos” – sounds like a lukewarm yogurt and Vegemite nutrition shake. Slovenia’s a close second with its “Little Dragons.” Nothing instills fear like a miniature version of a pretend creature. Was the name “Bitty Unicorns” already claimed by the team from Narnia?
Reason #5: Saving the Drama for your Mama
Would you rather watch reruns of Ryan’s Hope than see a minute of soccer? If so, have I got the story lines for you! Consider Argentina’s coach, Diego Maradona, who many consider the greatest player of all time. After a brilliant career, a slide into drugs and a chance for redemption, Maradona’s vowed to run naked through the streets of Buenos Aires if his team wins. He’s like Roger Clemens, Britney Spears and Frank the Tank rolled into one person. Or how about England’s John Terry? He’s won countless league titles and awards and was expected to lead England to World Cup victory as its captain. Until he slept with a teammate’s wife. That player left the national team and Terry’s no longer the captain. Whoops. And then there’s France. With moments remaining in its do-or-die qualifying match against Ireland, down by a goal, France was desperate, needing a tie to advance to the World Cup. Enter its most famous player – Thierry Henry – who palmed the ball, not once but twice, and handed it (literally) to his teammate who scored the equalizer. No justice, no peace, writes the man of Irish heritage.
Reason #6: No 7th Inning Stretch Necessary
At some point, even the most jaded baseball fan has to admit that another 9-4 Red Sox victory over Kansas City on a muggy June night is just plain boring. The seventh inning stretch? Seriously? Do you really need to stop the action to remind baseball fans there’s a game going on? Soccer doesn’t need a Slim Goodbody exercise routine to a Wayne Newton tune to reenergize its fans – the game provides all the energy and excitement you could ever need, and then some.
You Gotta Watch These Games!
USA vs England – Saturday, June 12@ 2:30 PM on ABC (“Give me liberty or a two-goal victory!”)
Brazil vs North Korea – Tuesday, June 15 @ 2:30 PM on ESPN (Samba music and bikini-clad fans or paranoid recluses with god complexes? You choose!)
France vs Mexico – Thursday, June 17 @ 2:30 PM on ESPN2 (France is lucky to be here, and Mexico hasn’t forgiven Napoleon III for his misguided dreams of conquest)
Greece vs Argentina – Tuesday, June 22 @2:30 PM on ESPN (Ninety spirited minutes of soccer followed by symposium titled, “Learning from our Mistakes - Debt, Currency Devaluation and Civil Unrest”)
Portugal vs Brazil – Friday, June 25 @ 10 AM on ESPN (Colonist and Colonizer meet on the last day of pool play – only Portuguese spoken here)
When you first start watching soccer, it’s like peering through a keyhole of the door to an alternate universe. Fans sing lusty fight songs, blow plastic horns and set off smoke bombs. Commentators say things in refined English accents like, “His opportunistic venture into the mouth of the stalwart defense yields a stroke of brilliance!” When national pride is at stake, like it is with this month’s World Cup, everything gets kicked up a notch. The game are more intense, the fans more rabid and the rewards greater. And for the next thirty days, we can feast upon the dozens of games at our fingertips. If there was ever a time to contract a rare, month-long, non-debilitating yet highly contagious tropical disease, it would be now. Excused absences and World Cup soccer are ideal bedfellows.
So, from one former non-soccer fan to you, the ardent American sports lover who’d rather watch adults play poker in a windowless room or think watching left turns on an oval track constitutes excitement (are we really rooting for tires?), I’m here to tell you what’s to love about the World Cup. Give it some thought and drop me a line if you want to watch a few games together. I’ll be at home, in front of my TV for the next month, flossing the kale out of my teeth.
Reason #1: The US is Good (No, really, I’m serious)
We probably won’t win it all and may not make it very far, but we’re no Faroe Islands, that’s for sure. It wasn’t long ago that the rest of the world told jokes about the US team like, “An armadillo, a three-legged goat and eleven Americans walk onto a soccer field.” I don’t know how the rest of the joke goes, but the punch line is, “And the goat uses the armadillo as a crutch to score a hat trick to beat the US!” Uncle Sam’s Army is highly ranked, is led by a handful of players who excel in the best leagues in the world, and has a legitimate chance to advance well past the first round. Then again, we were considered a contender four years ago and were embarrassed worse than that time your buddy “pantsed” you at the bus stop in eighth grade, the lesson being, “Don’t believe the hype and always wear a belt.” But seriously, we’re pretty good.
Reason #2: North Korea – Santa’s Little Helpers
Rooting against North Korea’s soccer team is like rooting against Santa’s elves, if Santa referred to himself as “Dear Leader,” wore crazy person sunglasses and was the worst boss ever! The team had to hire Chinese cheerleaders because no one has enough money for bus fare, much less for a plane ticket to South Africa. Kim Jong-Il, nuttier than an outhouse rat, refuses to televise the games, fearing a loss would shame the nation (as opposed to abject poverty and chronic malnutrition). Its government made this statement after a loss in the qualifying rounds: “The game has turned into a theater of plot-breeding and swindling.” Just imagine if they win! We’d hear things like, “The heroes of the Fatherland have quenched their thirst with the blood of the foe, mocking the spiteful conspiracy to rob our sons of their birthright.” To top it off, there’s a distant, remote, improbable chance that North Korea would face South Korea, two nations technically still at war. The mind races with the plot-breeding possibilities.
Reason #3: USA versus England
If you watch just one game, watch this one. The last time the US beat England was in 1950, and we haven’t come close since. England’s team is loaded with some of the best players in the world, including Wayne Rooney, a temperamental goal-scorer with a face like a pork chop and the quickness of a pit viper. England takes credit for inventing soccer, and it hasn’t won the World Cup since 1966. Many expect them to go all the way, but they have to tussle with us first. And don’t think we’ve forgotten what they did to the White House in the War of 1812.
Reason #4: What’s in a Name?
Every team has a nickname, with African teams sporting the best - “Super Eagles,” “Indomitable Lions,” “Bafana Bafana.” The worst? Australia’s “Socceroos” – sounds like a lukewarm yogurt and Vegemite nutrition shake. Slovenia’s a close second with its “Little Dragons.” Nothing instills fear like a miniature version of a pretend creature. Was the name “Bitty Unicorns” already claimed by the team from Narnia?
Reason #5: Saving the Drama for your Mama
Would you rather watch reruns of Ryan’s Hope than see a minute of soccer? If so, have I got the story lines for you! Consider Argentina’s coach, Diego Maradona, who many consider the greatest player of all time. After a brilliant career, a slide into drugs and a chance for redemption, Maradona’s vowed to run naked through the streets of Buenos Aires if his team wins. He’s like Roger Clemens, Britney Spears and Frank the Tank rolled into one person. Or how about England’s John Terry? He’s won countless league titles and awards and was expected to lead England to World Cup victory as its captain. Until he slept with a teammate’s wife. That player left the national team and Terry’s no longer the captain. Whoops. And then there’s France. With moments remaining in its do-or-die qualifying match against Ireland, down by a goal, France was desperate, needing a tie to advance to the World Cup. Enter its most famous player – Thierry Henry – who palmed the ball, not once but twice, and handed it (literally) to his teammate who scored the equalizer. No justice, no peace, writes the man of Irish heritage.
Reason #6: No 7th Inning Stretch Necessary
At some point, even the most jaded baseball fan has to admit that another 9-4 Red Sox victory over Kansas City on a muggy June night is just plain boring. The seventh inning stretch? Seriously? Do you really need to stop the action to remind baseball fans there’s a game going on? Soccer doesn’t need a Slim Goodbody exercise routine to a Wayne Newton tune to reenergize its fans – the game provides all the energy and excitement you could ever need, and then some.
You Gotta Watch These Games!
USA vs England – Saturday, June 12@ 2:30 PM on ABC (“Give me liberty or a two-goal victory!”)
Brazil vs North Korea – Tuesday, June 15 @ 2:30 PM on ESPN (Samba music and bikini-clad fans or paranoid recluses with god complexes? You choose!)
France vs Mexico – Thursday, June 17 @ 2:30 PM on ESPN2 (France is lucky to be here, and Mexico hasn’t forgiven Napoleon III for his misguided dreams of conquest)
Greece vs Argentina – Tuesday, June 22 @2:30 PM on ESPN (Ninety spirited minutes of soccer followed by symposium titled, “Learning from our Mistakes - Debt, Currency Devaluation and Civil Unrest”)
Portugal vs Brazil – Friday, June 25 @ 10 AM on ESPN (Colonist and Colonizer meet on the last day of pool play – only Portuguese spoken here)
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Free to be Wii
If I ever needed proof I’m no athlete, I think I’ve found it. My shoulders ache, my neck feels like it’s wrapped in cement, and there’s a tingling burn stretching from my elbow to the tips of my fingers. My ailments come not from half-nelsons, dodgeball or co-ed karate – they come from a video game. I’ve discovered Wii Tennis, and I don’t care how sore it makes me.
You can stick with your weekly racquetball dates, your psychotic gym workouts and your kickboxing escapades. Leave me to my darkened bedroom, my flatscreen TV and that imaginary grass centre court stadium filled with armless, legless fans, and I’ll have all the athletic competition I’ll ever need.
It’s a struggle to brush my teeth. My shoulders and back are stiff and knotted, and my forearm’s soreness makes it tough to sleep. But when I do sleep, I dream of Sarah and Elisa, Tatsuaki and Victor, even that jerk Saburo, and his wily partner Theo. Wii Tennis is a doubles game. You swing your controller like a tennis racquet, and although a simple flick of the wrist is all you need, I swing like Jimmy Connors in a butterfly zoo, a full sweep of the arm forward and back, up and down, all in a quest to beat my opponents and earn points. Each match pits you against others with the same or higher rankings, amassing points based on the ruthlessness of your victory. Earn 1000 points and you attain “pro” status.
My Wii character, known as a “Mii,” is named Tim. He has a boyish look, freckles, thick brown hair and is right-handed. He’s a pretty good bowler and may soon turn pro in golf, but it’s tennis he loves most.
After turning pro a while back, I’ve realized those hapless cupcakes I dispatched with ease in my amateur days are gone, replaced by veterans like Takumi and his pallid partner Victor, who looks comatose but who plays like a jackrabbit on Skittles.
Soon after reaching the pro level, I had an epiphany. I’d just crushed Takumi and Victor, both of whom had much higher rankings, and saw my point total surge ahead. At this moment, as Victor hung his head in defeat, I glimpsed my future. “I can reach 2000 points. With commitment and focus, I can be the best Wii tennis player ever.” I thought back to my years of shame – the lopsided losses in Pong, the inability to grasp the logic of Missile Command, the tone-deaf struggles with Guitar Hero and the absolute ineptitude at Call of Duty. I can right those wrongs and become a champion – and Wii Tennis will take me there.
This is not welcome news in my family. My wife fears she’s married an adult gamer, a guy who devotes most non-sleeping hours to the playing of multi-player video games, eschewing personal grooming and lawn care for the sake of the game. But comparing a Wii Tennis aficionado to an adult gamer is like comparing a 10-year old with a Fruit Stripe gum wrapper tattoo on her arm to a prison lifer with a spider web tattoo across her face. I’m no adult gamer.
I play any chance I get, winning match after match, watching my rankings rise. I leap 200 points in a day, beating the likes of Kiko and Yuki (hard faces but soft volleys), and Michael and Helen, (lousy service returners). “You’re not as good as you think,” my daughter reminds me from the doorway.
Night after night I play against opponents like Hayley and Steph, who I crush without mercy, or Tatsuaki and Marla, breaking their serve to sweep to a 3-0 win. My quest to the elusive 2000 remains slow and steady. I’m having quite a run until Theo and Saburo arrive, both ranked at 1700. I’m perched on the cusp of victory, serving for the win, when Saburo goes into berserker mode, smashing everything he sees, and I lose.
The next day I unleash a string of victories that would make Bud Collins weep with joy, defeating Theo and Daisuke in three straight, and I’m close to 1500. Just before dinner I win an epic five-game feud, fending off three match points while down 2-0 in games. Just one more game – one more victory and I’m done. My kids yell to me that the Chinese food’s arrived, but stopping now would be crazy. My opponents are the highest ranking players yet – Elisa and Sarah, both with 2000 points! I must continue, even as the smell of sesame chicken clouds my mind.
I struggle, Sarah’s net game a combination of poise, grace and lethal accuracy. I swing my arm as hard as I can, whipping the controller back and forth, determined to show these women I belong among their ranks. I hang on to win a tough match and earn enough points to push me above 1600.
I run downstairs to tell everyone the good news, bragging about my speed serves and awesome overheads. “These fried dumplings are delicious,” is the only response I get. My ascent to the upper echelon of the pro ranks is taking a toll on my family. “You’ve got a problem,” my daughter reminds me, my wife’s made it clear she won’t listen to my vivid verbal replays of my on-court success, and my son shakes his head in dismay. It’s just me and Wii, unfortunately.
I don’t care. I’ve given myself the weekend to reach 2000. With only 400 to go, I know I can do it. I begin with a massive victory over Elisa and Sarah for another 67points. With a sweatband on my wrist and the shades drawn, I lose a few but win more, putting Sarah on notice that I won’t fall for her chicanery any longer. I’m now at 1714, taking stabbing, angry swings inches from the TV screen.
Then things go wrong. I lose game after game as Sarah and her partner run me ragged. My arm starts to throb, and I’m winded. I continue losing, my ranking falling enough that I’m reintroduced to chumps like Helen and Michael. I barely win on a net cord shot, earning a lousy three points.
It’s been over two hours, and my rankings have plummeted. The names of my opponents don’t matter, and I’m lost in the haze of competition, my arm and fingers numb with every wild swing of the controller. Theo’s back with Saburo, and I win to climb back above 1700. Then, in horror, I lose three games in a flurry of frustration, my ranking dropping below 1600. I’m too sore to continue. My shoulders kill and my forearm stings. I’ve given my all but failed. The dream is over. I’m just a washed up former superstar with strained relationships and nagging injuries.
But later on that night, as everyone else settles down, I’m alone again with my Wii. I tell myself I’ll play for just one more hour. I mute the TV’s volume and find redemption, chasing Sarah and Elisa across the court, enough to get back above 1700 where I stop. I’ve spent over four hours today playing this game, raising my rankings by only 75 points, a sad showing for what was to be my victory parade. “You’re gonna be really sore tomorrow,” my daughter says to me.
Yes, my child, I’ll be sore tomorrow, and the day after that, but I’ll keep playing. True champions play through the pain, knowing greatness, like tempered steel, is forged in the heat of battle. Besides, Sarah and I have some unfinished business to tend to, and I’m taking a sick day.
You can stick with your weekly racquetball dates, your psychotic gym workouts and your kickboxing escapades. Leave me to my darkened bedroom, my flatscreen TV and that imaginary grass centre court stadium filled with armless, legless fans, and I’ll have all the athletic competition I’ll ever need.
It’s a struggle to brush my teeth. My shoulders and back are stiff and knotted, and my forearm’s soreness makes it tough to sleep. But when I do sleep, I dream of Sarah and Elisa, Tatsuaki and Victor, even that jerk Saburo, and his wily partner Theo. Wii Tennis is a doubles game. You swing your controller like a tennis racquet, and although a simple flick of the wrist is all you need, I swing like Jimmy Connors in a butterfly zoo, a full sweep of the arm forward and back, up and down, all in a quest to beat my opponents and earn points. Each match pits you against others with the same or higher rankings, amassing points based on the ruthlessness of your victory. Earn 1000 points and you attain “pro” status.
My Wii character, known as a “Mii,” is named Tim. He has a boyish look, freckles, thick brown hair and is right-handed. He’s a pretty good bowler and may soon turn pro in golf, but it’s tennis he loves most.
After turning pro a while back, I’ve realized those hapless cupcakes I dispatched with ease in my amateur days are gone, replaced by veterans like Takumi and his pallid partner Victor, who looks comatose but who plays like a jackrabbit on Skittles.
Soon after reaching the pro level, I had an epiphany. I’d just crushed Takumi and Victor, both of whom had much higher rankings, and saw my point total surge ahead. At this moment, as Victor hung his head in defeat, I glimpsed my future. “I can reach 2000 points. With commitment and focus, I can be the best Wii tennis player ever.” I thought back to my years of shame – the lopsided losses in Pong, the inability to grasp the logic of Missile Command, the tone-deaf struggles with Guitar Hero and the absolute ineptitude at Call of Duty. I can right those wrongs and become a champion – and Wii Tennis will take me there.
This is not welcome news in my family. My wife fears she’s married an adult gamer, a guy who devotes most non-sleeping hours to the playing of multi-player video games, eschewing personal grooming and lawn care for the sake of the game. But comparing a Wii Tennis aficionado to an adult gamer is like comparing a 10-year old with a Fruit Stripe gum wrapper tattoo on her arm to a prison lifer with a spider web tattoo across her face. I’m no adult gamer.
I play any chance I get, winning match after match, watching my rankings rise. I leap 200 points in a day, beating the likes of Kiko and Yuki (hard faces but soft volleys), and Michael and Helen, (lousy service returners). “You’re not as good as you think,” my daughter reminds me from the doorway.
Night after night I play against opponents like Hayley and Steph, who I crush without mercy, or Tatsuaki and Marla, breaking their serve to sweep to a 3-0 win. My quest to the elusive 2000 remains slow and steady. I’m having quite a run until Theo and Saburo arrive, both ranked at 1700. I’m perched on the cusp of victory, serving for the win, when Saburo goes into berserker mode, smashing everything he sees, and I lose.
The next day I unleash a string of victories that would make Bud Collins weep with joy, defeating Theo and Daisuke in three straight, and I’m close to 1500. Just before dinner I win an epic five-game feud, fending off three match points while down 2-0 in games. Just one more game – one more victory and I’m done. My kids yell to me that the Chinese food’s arrived, but stopping now would be crazy. My opponents are the highest ranking players yet – Elisa and Sarah, both with 2000 points! I must continue, even as the smell of sesame chicken clouds my mind.
I struggle, Sarah’s net game a combination of poise, grace and lethal accuracy. I swing my arm as hard as I can, whipping the controller back and forth, determined to show these women I belong among their ranks. I hang on to win a tough match and earn enough points to push me above 1600.
I run downstairs to tell everyone the good news, bragging about my speed serves and awesome overheads. “These fried dumplings are delicious,” is the only response I get. My ascent to the upper echelon of the pro ranks is taking a toll on my family. “You’ve got a problem,” my daughter reminds me, my wife’s made it clear she won’t listen to my vivid verbal replays of my on-court success, and my son shakes his head in dismay. It’s just me and Wii, unfortunately.
I don’t care. I’ve given myself the weekend to reach 2000. With only 400 to go, I know I can do it. I begin with a massive victory over Elisa and Sarah for another 67points. With a sweatband on my wrist and the shades drawn, I lose a few but win more, putting Sarah on notice that I won’t fall for her chicanery any longer. I’m now at 1714, taking stabbing, angry swings inches from the TV screen.
Then things go wrong. I lose game after game as Sarah and her partner run me ragged. My arm starts to throb, and I’m winded. I continue losing, my ranking falling enough that I’m reintroduced to chumps like Helen and Michael. I barely win on a net cord shot, earning a lousy three points.
It’s been over two hours, and my rankings have plummeted. The names of my opponents don’t matter, and I’m lost in the haze of competition, my arm and fingers numb with every wild swing of the controller. Theo’s back with Saburo, and I win to climb back above 1700. Then, in horror, I lose three games in a flurry of frustration, my ranking dropping below 1600. I’m too sore to continue. My shoulders kill and my forearm stings. I’ve given my all but failed. The dream is over. I’m just a washed up former superstar with strained relationships and nagging injuries.
But later on that night, as everyone else settles down, I’m alone again with my Wii. I tell myself I’ll play for just one more hour. I mute the TV’s volume and find redemption, chasing Sarah and Elisa across the court, enough to get back above 1700 where I stop. I’ve spent over four hours today playing this game, raising my rankings by only 75 points, a sad showing for what was to be my victory parade. “You’re gonna be really sore tomorrow,” my daughter says to me.
Yes, my child, I’ll be sore tomorrow, and the day after that, but I’ll keep playing. True champions play through the pain, knowing greatness, like tempered steel, is forged in the heat of battle. Besides, Sarah and I have some unfinished business to tend to, and I’m taking a sick day.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Tolling for Dollars
Among the handful of constants in this life – death, taxes, overcooked asparagus – one such constant bears investigating. I speak of tolls, that unavoidable fact drivers in America face day after day after day. But what’s inside that booth? Who’s collecting our money, and why do we thank them for taking our cash? These and many more questions await me as I spend a day in Hooksett as a toll operator.
I ring the buzzer on the little brick building, and Beth Walker, my boss for the day, meets me at the door. Beth’s worked for the New Hampshire tolls for 25 years, and this is her tenth year as the Hooksett site supervisor. “I’m treating you like I’d treat any new person on his first day. You’ll be in South 2,” Beth says as she hands me an orange and yellow reflective vest.
I’ll work a full shift - 2 PM to 10 PM – with two half-hour breaks. Beth goes on, “You’ll get about 400 cars per hour. The customer’s always right so don’t pick any fights out there. All mistakes are your fault.” She ends with, “Just keep in mind that you’re an ambassador for the state. If you smile, they smile. Remember that.”
Beth pairs me with Lorry Petit, a 21-year veteran of the toll system. “Lorry will be with you the entire time – she won’t leave your side.” Lorry’s instantly likeable – a warm smile, short white hair and lots of experience. Lorry grabs her things and leads me out to South 2, my home for the day.
From the moment we set foot in the booth, Lorry’s a bundle of 5’2” energy. She logs into the computer touch screen, organizes her cash and begins. Lorry’s movements are concise, her effort efficient. She leans out the window and smiles as drivers approach, hitting the buttons on the screen with one hand and collecting money with the other. As they pull away, Lorry adds the dollar to the stack, massaging the bills, sorting them with the care of a pearl diver examining her haul of oysters.
Lorry takes the condition of her money seriously. “I put the really dirty ones, the slippery and thin bills here – I give them away first. If it’s new, I put it over here.” She constantly scans her stack - $1s, $5s, $10s and $20s, looking for crisp bills. She has a system to her stacks, but I can’t figure it out.
Lorry explains the vehicle classification process - the basis for the entire toll system. “It’s all about axles,” she says. The touch screen in front of us has a set of digits from 1 to 12. Lorry hits the “1” as a car approaches. “You start with two – every vehicle has at least two axles – so a ‘1’ means two axles – and cars, depending on what they’re towing, can have up to five axles.” I fail to mention I’m not sure what she means by “axle,” not being what one would call “a good driver,” a “fan of NASCAR,” or even, “someone who knows how to use a stick shift.”
I think axles translate into sets of wheels, so when the pickup truck towing a trailer with landscaping equipment arrives, I count four sets of wheels, which means four axles, which translates into hitting “3” on the screen. Lorry reinforces this, saying, “Because you start at ‘1’ with two. So that was a ‘3.’ Get it?” Not really.
There’s more to this job than sticking a hand out to collect change. I’d imagined today’s toll takers as loners, wistfully watching those EZ Pass drivers with their sunglasses, earnest bumper stickers and pricey coffee drinks rocket through the tolls while a few ragtag Chevy Nova-driving chumps try passing off their Skeeball tokens as Millard Fillmore dollar coins, the booth dwellers yearning for eye contact to stave off the crushing loneliness. This is not the case. I’m too busy to be lonely.
“You’re doing exceptionally well,” Lorry tells me, not hassling me about the dollar I let slip away in the breeze or the fifty five cents I fumbled. There’s a lull, and Lorry yells over to South 1. Her sister Doris is working there today, and Lorry introduces me. “You’re keeping up, Skip!” Doris says. I’ve always thought of myself as a “Chico” or “Kevin,” but never a Skip. There’s no time to correct her – the cars and trucks pick up again.
Whenever there’s a break in the line, Lorry explains coding exempt vehicles (ambulances, school buses), No Funds and Canadian money. By the time she explains traveler’s checks, I can’t concentrate. I’m one 8-axle Class 11 truck paying in Canadian traveler’s checks away from an anxiety attack.
Every new driver is a potential adventure. Four motorcycle riders pull up and the leader of the pack, his white beard stretching to his belt buckle, announces, “I’m paying for all four of us.” Cycle Santa continues, “One time, a lady in this booth braided my beard for me!” I explain that I’d love to but it’s my first day. They laugh as they roar off into the late afternoon sunshine.
A man with a blonde Mohawk in a white pickup truck (dual wheel truck towing a trailer – Class 6!) hands me his money. I’ve misread what he owes me and try to hand him some back. “This ain’t my first rodeo,” he says, refusing the money. No one said anything about horses.
A woman pulls up and says, “Pay for the gorgeous hunk of a man behind me.” I tell the next driver. “I better catch up!” he shouts and does just that.
One concerned driver pulls up, hands me her dollar and tells me, “I think the guy behind me’s drinking a beer.” As the next vehicle arrives, the man in question raises an empty beer bottle and slurs something cheery. His designated driver pays me in nickels and dimes, shaking his head.
My confidence grows, and a young woman rolls down her window and says, “How much?”
“One dollar,” I respond. She fishes around in her flowered hemp shoulder bag for change. “Oh, OK, here’s seventy cents,” she says, handing it to me. “Sorry! I know I can find the rest somewhere.” Too bad she can’t pay in apologies because she’s flush with those. But the cars are lining up behind her, and she’s not having any luck. I remember we have an extra thirty cents from earlier so I use it. “Don’t worry about it –you’re all set,” I say as she thanks me and drives off.
“She manipulated you,” Lorry says immediately. “You should have told her to pull over and keep looking or give her a No Fund slip and tell her to mail it back. She probably does it all the time and knew you’d let her go.” But she was so pretty. Lorry’s unimpressed.
This moment of weakness is interrupted by the next car, driven by a dead ringer for Weird Al Yankovic. He hands me a damp dollar bill. There are few things creepier than slightly moist money.
One woman gives me a card announcing her new massage therapy business. “I’d like to offer you a free half-hour massage,” she says, giving me an oversized business card with the handwritten message, “Come on in and get a taste of my hands.”
This job makes me wonder about the lives others lead. In the time it takes to accept the money and say goodbye, I catch a quick glimpse, like the mom and toddler daughter with a backseat full of prom dresses and hairspray, the frowning priest in a Crown Victoria, or the happy soldier in his fatigues. Who made the college girl cry into her cell phone, and why didn’t the preppy mom with a car full of well-dressed kids have any money for the toll? Where’s the couple dressed to the nines going, and that confused driver sticking out a palmful of quarters, motioning for me to take what he owes – what’s his story? And what about the woman who confesses that she’s been through this toll three times in the past hour? “I’m kind of lost,” she shares.
Our shift ends just before 10 PM. Lorry’s been counting down the minutes, and we’re ready to call it a night. At 9:45, Lorry tells me to go on Standby, turning our lane light red. We walk out and place two cones in the lane, heading back to the brick building.
One shift an expert does not make, but I’ve learned a few things, like truck drivers like receipts, Vermonters love pennies, and the first person to invent a doggie seat belt will be rich. And I’ve also learned that it’s worth skipping the EZ Pass lane once in a while. You may get to meet Lorry or her sister Doris or one of the many toll booth operators, like Skip, Chico and Kevin. They’ll take your dollar and give you a nice smile in return. Now that’s a bargain.
I ring the buzzer on the little brick building, and Beth Walker, my boss for the day, meets me at the door. Beth’s worked for the New Hampshire tolls for 25 years, and this is her tenth year as the Hooksett site supervisor. “I’m treating you like I’d treat any new person on his first day. You’ll be in South 2,” Beth says as she hands me an orange and yellow reflective vest.
I’ll work a full shift - 2 PM to 10 PM – with two half-hour breaks. Beth goes on, “You’ll get about 400 cars per hour. The customer’s always right so don’t pick any fights out there. All mistakes are your fault.” She ends with, “Just keep in mind that you’re an ambassador for the state. If you smile, they smile. Remember that.”
Beth pairs me with Lorry Petit, a 21-year veteran of the toll system. “Lorry will be with you the entire time – she won’t leave your side.” Lorry’s instantly likeable – a warm smile, short white hair and lots of experience. Lorry grabs her things and leads me out to South 2, my home for the day.
From the moment we set foot in the booth, Lorry’s a bundle of 5’2” energy. She logs into the computer touch screen, organizes her cash and begins. Lorry’s movements are concise, her effort efficient. She leans out the window and smiles as drivers approach, hitting the buttons on the screen with one hand and collecting money with the other. As they pull away, Lorry adds the dollar to the stack, massaging the bills, sorting them with the care of a pearl diver examining her haul of oysters.
Lorry takes the condition of her money seriously. “I put the really dirty ones, the slippery and thin bills here – I give them away first. If it’s new, I put it over here.” She constantly scans her stack - $1s, $5s, $10s and $20s, looking for crisp bills. She has a system to her stacks, but I can’t figure it out.
Lorry explains the vehicle classification process - the basis for the entire toll system. “It’s all about axles,” she says. The touch screen in front of us has a set of digits from 1 to 12. Lorry hits the “1” as a car approaches. “You start with two – every vehicle has at least two axles – so a ‘1’ means two axles – and cars, depending on what they’re towing, can have up to five axles.” I fail to mention I’m not sure what she means by “axle,” not being what one would call “a good driver,” a “fan of NASCAR,” or even, “someone who knows how to use a stick shift.”
I think axles translate into sets of wheels, so when the pickup truck towing a trailer with landscaping equipment arrives, I count four sets of wheels, which means four axles, which translates into hitting “3” on the screen. Lorry reinforces this, saying, “Because you start at ‘1’ with two. So that was a ‘3.’ Get it?” Not really.
There’s more to this job than sticking a hand out to collect change. I’d imagined today’s toll takers as loners, wistfully watching those EZ Pass drivers with their sunglasses, earnest bumper stickers and pricey coffee drinks rocket through the tolls while a few ragtag Chevy Nova-driving chumps try passing off their Skeeball tokens as Millard Fillmore dollar coins, the booth dwellers yearning for eye contact to stave off the crushing loneliness. This is not the case. I’m too busy to be lonely.
“You’re doing exceptionally well,” Lorry tells me, not hassling me about the dollar I let slip away in the breeze or the fifty five cents I fumbled. There’s a lull, and Lorry yells over to South 1. Her sister Doris is working there today, and Lorry introduces me. “You’re keeping up, Skip!” Doris says. I’ve always thought of myself as a “Chico” or “Kevin,” but never a Skip. There’s no time to correct her – the cars and trucks pick up again.
Whenever there’s a break in the line, Lorry explains coding exempt vehicles (ambulances, school buses), No Funds and Canadian money. By the time she explains traveler’s checks, I can’t concentrate. I’m one 8-axle Class 11 truck paying in Canadian traveler’s checks away from an anxiety attack.
Every new driver is a potential adventure. Four motorcycle riders pull up and the leader of the pack, his white beard stretching to his belt buckle, announces, “I’m paying for all four of us.” Cycle Santa continues, “One time, a lady in this booth braided my beard for me!” I explain that I’d love to but it’s my first day. They laugh as they roar off into the late afternoon sunshine.
A man with a blonde Mohawk in a white pickup truck (dual wheel truck towing a trailer – Class 6!) hands me his money. I’ve misread what he owes me and try to hand him some back. “This ain’t my first rodeo,” he says, refusing the money. No one said anything about horses.
A woman pulls up and says, “Pay for the gorgeous hunk of a man behind me.” I tell the next driver. “I better catch up!” he shouts and does just that.
One concerned driver pulls up, hands me her dollar and tells me, “I think the guy behind me’s drinking a beer.” As the next vehicle arrives, the man in question raises an empty beer bottle and slurs something cheery. His designated driver pays me in nickels and dimes, shaking his head.
My confidence grows, and a young woman rolls down her window and says, “How much?”
“One dollar,” I respond. She fishes around in her flowered hemp shoulder bag for change. “Oh, OK, here’s seventy cents,” she says, handing it to me. “Sorry! I know I can find the rest somewhere.” Too bad she can’t pay in apologies because she’s flush with those. But the cars are lining up behind her, and she’s not having any luck. I remember we have an extra thirty cents from earlier so I use it. “Don’t worry about it –you’re all set,” I say as she thanks me and drives off.
“She manipulated you,” Lorry says immediately. “You should have told her to pull over and keep looking or give her a No Fund slip and tell her to mail it back. She probably does it all the time and knew you’d let her go.” But she was so pretty. Lorry’s unimpressed.
This moment of weakness is interrupted by the next car, driven by a dead ringer for Weird Al Yankovic. He hands me a damp dollar bill. There are few things creepier than slightly moist money.
One woman gives me a card announcing her new massage therapy business. “I’d like to offer you a free half-hour massage,” she says, giving me an oversized business card with the handwritten message, “Come on in and get a taste of my hands.”
This job makes me wonder about the lives others lead. In the time it takes to accept the money and say goodbye, I catch a quick glimpse, like the mom and toddler daughter with a backseat full of prom dresses and hairspray, the frowning priest in a Crown Victoria, or the happy soldier in his fatigues. Who made the college girl cry into her cell phone, and why didn’t the preppy mom with a car full of well-dressed kids have any money for the toll? Where’s the couple dressed to the nines going, and that confused driver sticking out a palmful of quarters, motioning for me to take what he owes – what’s his story? And what about the woman who confesses that she’s been through this toll three times in the past hour? “I’m kind of lost,” she shares.
Our shift ends just before 10 PM. Lorry’s been counting down the minutes, and we’re ready to call it a night. At 9:45, Lorry tells me to go on Standby, turning our lane light red. We walk out and place two cones in the lane, heading back to the brick building.
One shift an expert does not make, but I’ve learned a few things, like truck drivers like receipts, Vermonters love pennies, and the first person to invent a doggie seat belt will be rich. And I’ve also learned that it’s worth skipping the EZ Pass lane once in a while. You may get to meet Lorry or her sister Doris or one of the many toll booth operators, like Skip, Chico and Kevin. They’ll take your dollar and give you a nice smile in return. Now that’s a bargain.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Hot Mess
I’ve always tried to ignore certain friendly notions, like, “Let’s go winter camping” and “You should wax your chest,” and until I tried it, I’d have added, “Hot yoga is something you must do!” to that set of suggestions. But after last week’s experience, I’m rethinking everything. Hot yoga, or “Bikram” yoga, is different than your standard yoga. It’s essentially volunteering to exercise inside a large terrarium, akin to spending ninety minutes doing slow-motion jumping jacks in Nana’s attic apartment in early August, except Nana’s wearing next to nothing and sweat’s flying off her like loose change off a Tilt-a-Whirl rider. I guess we’ve run out of fitness ideas because exercising like you’re doing yard work in the Gobi Desert seems crazy.
My journey starts at Bikram Yoga Concord, a studio just off of North Main Street, near the big brick smokestack. Heather DeAngelis, the studio’s owner and lead instructor, coaxes me in with the promise of, “It’ll be fun!” I sign up as an introductory student, entitled to unlimited classes over a ten-day period. I commit to three classes over five days.
I ask around and learn things like, “Bring lots of water, a huge towel and your own mat,” and “Stand in the back, watch and listen.” I also learn that Bikram yoga is not universally adored in the yoga community, and that there’s something of an anti-Bikram mood among yoga purists, some complaining Bikram’s too focused on competition. It’s sort of like the East Coast – West Coast rap wars from the ‘90s, except with more stretching and less ammo.
I arrive for my first class, finding a spot in the back. The heat’s oppressive - the temperature gauge shows 95 degrees. The class is filled to capacity. No one speaks. One guy stands on his head while others stretch or lie motionless. Another claims a spot up front, very proud he’s shirtless, which, from my vantage point, is a poor fashion choice. “Jog bra” is the phrase that comes to mind. My daughter had asked me days before, “So is the point of yoga to be more self-centered?” Based on the subtle preening I witness, I think she’s got that part right.
Heather enters, and we begin. We start with breathing – and as the group exhales, our hands clasped under our chins as we push our heads backward, the room lets out a collective sound – a cross between a moan and a shriek. We do this for five minutes, and my fingers are slippery with sweat. Wow it’s hot in here. Good thing it’s a dry heat – I may burst into flames instead of merely suffocating.
It’s minutes into the class, and I’m struggling. Between trying to stretch my torso to the floor, bend down on one leg and wrap the other leg around my calf while folding my hands in front of me as sweat pools at my feet, I may be in too deep. Heather paces near the front, her gentle voice directing us to, “Keep stretching, pull, pull, pull until it hurts and relax.”
Halfway through, we lie down. Heather calls it, “Savasana,” the first of many words I hear but don’t understand. We’re still for a few minutes, and after each set of exercises on the floor, we return to Savasana for a quick rest. I crave this, pushing myself through every pose so I can nap like a pre-schooler. My chest heaves up and down while I breathe through my nose. The rest of the session is a hazy blur, but I survive and feel good – in a, “I just hiked Mount Major with Gary Coleman in my rucksack” kind of way.
I return two days later, taking my same spot against the back wall. Allie, the instructor, barks out commands with words that sound foreign yet familiar. Did she say, “Jana Novatna,” as we lie on our bellies, grab hold of our ankles and pull upwards? Tennis player Jana Novatna is famous for choking during the finals at Wimbledon, crying during the awards ceremony when the Duchess of Kent gave her a hug. This makes sense - I’m choking, crying and need a hug while Allie counts down with precision, my body straining to pull skyward.
Allie moves from pose to pose with the detached command of a Sea World tour guide. “Turn around on your knees, kneel down and grab your ankles.” She talks at a rapid clip, her casual command of the routine comforting, but if my hamstring pops or a Nurse Shark chews my foot off, I’m not sure Allie will notice. Did she just say, “Prana Savannah,” or was that “Hannah Montana?” It’s really hot in here and everything seems harder today - nothing’s coming easy.
“These postures are not a destination but a tool,” she says. I’m struggling not to be a tool myself, but I get what she means. Allie ends with, “The twenty six postures never change – the same every time – like a prescription. Namaste.” And everyone but me responds, “Namaste.” I’m too tired to speak.
It’s day three, and I take a spot up front. Our instructor Mike enters. He’s fit – not an ounce of body fat – even the soul patch under his lip looks like it belongs there. We begin with breathing, and I instantly regret eating that bacon-cheeseburger and mound of fries a few hours ago.
Mike says things like, “It’s simple, not easy,” and “No one can tell you how you feel.” We’re on our feet, pulling one leg behind and up to the ceiling, and Mike commends someone for her “teardrop” shape, pointing out another who, “looks like a jackknife.” At this point, I resemble a butterscotch morsel, and I can taste the French fries percolating in my gullet as we move from position to position.
My legs are folded below me as I hold my ankles from the outside, in either the Camel or the Wounded Squirrel position. It’s been over an hour, and I’m verging on miserable. Mike tells us to bend over and touch our foreheads to our knees. As I pull up on my ankles and push my head down, my body shrinking like a Cold War duck and cover exercise, I can’t breathe, the taste of deep-fried potato strong in my throat. My shirt, soaked beyond explanation, covers my mouth and nose. It’s like I’ve got cling wrap stuck to my face. Now I know why guys go shirtless. But I keep going, doing everything I can to keep my lunch a private matter. A few more poses and we’re done.
My Bikram experience ends with Mike singing an a cappella stanza of John Lennon’s “Imagine” as I lie there breathing. I can’t say I’ll rush back here next week, but knowing what Bikram yoga has to offer, I may surprise myself. But I’m wearing a shirt – at least until I get my chest waxed.
My journey starts at Bikram Yoga Concord, a studio just off of North Main Street, near the big brick smokestack. Heather DeAngelis, the studio’s owner and lead instructor, coaxes me in with the promise of, “It’ll be fun!” I sign up as an introductory student, entitled to unlimited classes over a ten-day period. I commit to three classes over five days.
I ask around and learn things like, “Bring lots of water, a huge towel and your own mat,” and “Stand in the back, watch and listen.” I also learn that Bikram yoga is not universally adored in the yoga community, and that there’s something of an anti-Bikram mood among yoga purists, some complaining Bikram’s too focused on competition. It’s sort of like the East Coast – West Coast rap wars from the ‘90s, except with more stretching and less ammo.
I arrive for my first class, finding a spot in the back. The heat’s oppressive - the temperature gauge shows 95 degrees. The class is filled to capacity. No one speaks. One guy stands on his head while others stretch or lie motionless. Another claims a spot up front, very proud he’s shirtless, which, from my vantage point, is a poor fashion choice. “Jog bra” is the phrase that comes to mind. My daughter had asked me days before, “So is the point of yoga to be more self-centered?” Based on the subtle preening I witness, I think she’s got that part right.
Heather enters, and we begin. We start with breathing – and as the group exhales, our hands clasped under our chins as we push our heads backward, the room lets out a collective sound – a cross between a moan and a shriek. We do this for five minutes, and my fingers are slippery with sweat. Wow it’s hot in here. Good thing it’s a dry heat – I may burst into flames instead of merely suffocating.
It’s minutes into the class, and I’m struggling. Between trying to stretch my torso to the floor, bend down on one leg and wrap the other leg around my calf while folding my hands in front of me as sweat pools at my feet, I may be in too deep. Heather paces near the front, her gentle voice directing us to, “Keep stretching, pull, pull, pull until it hurts and relax.”
Halfway through, we lie down. Heather calls it, “Savasana,” the first of many words I hear but don’t understand. We’re still for a few minutes, and after each set of exercises on the floor, we return to Savasana for a quick rest. I crave this, pushing myself through every pose so I can nap like a pre-schooler. My chest heaves up and down while I breathe through my nose. The rest of the session is a hazy blur, but I survive and feel good – in a, “I just hiked Mount Major with Gary Coleman in my rucksack” kind of way.
I return two days later, taking my same spot against the back wall. Allie, the instructor, barks out commands with words that sound foreign yet familiar. Did she say, “Jana Novatna,” as we lie on our bellies, grab hold of our ankles and pull upwards? Tennis player Jana Novatna is famous for choking during the finals at Wimbledon, crying during the awards ceremony when the Duchess of Kent gave her a hug. This makes sense - I’m choking, crying and need a hug while Allie counts down with precision, my body straining to pull skyward.
Allie moves from pose to pose with the detached command of a Sea World tour guide. “Turn around on your knees, kneel down and grab your ankles.” She talks at a rapid clip, her casual command of the routine comforting, but if my hamstring pops or a Nurse Shark chews my foot off, I’m not sure Allie will notice. Did she just say, “Prana Savannah,” or was that “Hannah Montana?” It’s really hot in here and everything seems harder today - nothing’s coming easy.
“These postures are not a destination but a tool,” she says. I’m struggling not to be a tool myself, but I get what she means. Allie ends with, “The twenty six postures never change – the same every time – like a prescription. Namaste.” And everyone but me responds, “Namaste.” I’m too tired to speak.
It’s day three, and I take a spot up front. Our instructor Mike enters. He’s fit – not an ounce of body fat – even the soul patch under his lip looks like it belongs there. We begin with breathing, and I instantly regret eating that bacon-cheeseburger and mound of fries a few hours ago.
Mike says things like, “It’s simple, not easy,” and “No one can tell you how you feel.” We’re on our feet, pulling one leg behind and up to the ceiling, and Mike commends someone for her “teardrop” shape, pointing out another who, “looks like a jackknife.” At this point, I resemble a butterscotch morsel, and I can taste the French fries percolating in my gullet as we move from position to position.
My legs are folded below me as I hold my ankles from the outside, in either the Camel or the Wounded Squirrel position. It’s been over an hour, and I’m verging on miserable. Mike tells us to bend over and touch our foreheads to our knees. As I pull up on my ankles and push my head down, my body shrinking like a Cold War duck and cover exercise, I can’t breathe, the taste of deep-fried potato strong in my throat. My shirt, soaked beyond explanation, covers my mouth and nose. It’s like I’ve got cling wrap stuck to my face. Now I know why guys go shirtless. But I keep going, doing everything I can to keep my lunch a private matter. A few more poses and we’re done.
My Bikram experience ends with Mike singing an a cappella stanza of John Lennon’s “Imagine” as I lie there breathing. I can’t say I’ll rush back here next week, but knowing what Bikram yoga has to offer, I may surprise myself. But I’m wearing a shirt – at least until I get my chest waxed.
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