With one minute to go til class, I was still at the check-in desk.
“Is there any way I can do any of this after class?” I asked the guy checking me in, “I don't want to be late.” Not to worry, the teacher, a smiley blond guy in a grey sleeveless T-shirt was still there, too, admiring a student's mala beads.
It had taken me 30 minutes, walking in a tight skirt and cork heels to get from the conference center where I was working a giant, anxiety-filled book fair, to the Grant Street location of Core Power Yoga. I'd first heard about Core Power from an instructor at Pure Yoga in New York, who was originally from Chicago.
“They're all over the Mid-West and southeast,” he'd assured me. “They're bigger than Yoga Works by far.”
News to me. I live in New York. I only sometimes get to the west coast and almost never to the middle of the country. I heard about them again while interviewing the entrepreneurial maverick and former owner of Sonic Yoga, Jonathan Fields.
“They more than anyone have really mastered the business model for yoga franchises,” he said admiringly.
The words “yoga” and “franchise” together made some people’s lips curl in mistrust. But I was curious. What made this place work? When a work trip came up to Denver, I knew I had to check them out. At the last minute, the trip was cut from 3 days to 2, so I also knew it wasn't going to be easy to get there.
Map in hand, I ducked out of the freezing, artificial air of the vast conference center and marched—well, more like hobbled—over to the studio. The darn skirt had gotten compliments at the book fair but slowed me down (and gave the backs of my thighs a kind of rug burn) on Denver's wide streets. There was no striding in that skirt. And time, too, was tight. Finally arriving, I felt like the little engine that could. I think I can I think I can, I know I can I know I can. I did! I did! I did a speed-change in New York style—30 seconds, in, out, done—and found a spot in the large, low room (that was frayed around the edges; the silvery ceiling needed a paint job).
It was heated, but not to Bikram levels—thank goodness. I don’t like to tremble and shake, slipping and sliding in yoga class. Denver, the mile-high city, at 5,000 feet above sea level is not only oxygen poor, it is extremely dry. The heat—and sweat—felt good. It was also a nice change after the crisp mountain air outside. Three rows of students faced a long mirror. The instructor in the grey t-shirt was a cheerleading soul named Andy.
“Okay guys, I'm going to chant in Sanskrit,” he said smiling, “then you slap your hands down on the floor and yell “Jai!” (victory). Okay?”
He chanted the chant, we slapped the floor. Then he told a story....
To be continued on Thursday....