If the name Bikram means anything to you then it probably means either yoga or Netflix or both. Birkam was and is a famous yoga teacher who developed a form of yoga that uses a hot studio to help with practices. Vikram is also an infamous yoga teacher who may have abused his position and power to attack and denigrate woman and others. The Netflix documentary ‘Bikram: Yogi, Guru, Predator’ covers all the accusations.

For me, he reminds me of one thing and one thing only. Dirty underpants. 

I went to one of his hot yoga studios in Manchester. Everyone there had a designated spot to practice in the studio with each mat carefully set out to get as many people as possible into the room. As the room is set to forty degrees, condensation drips off the wall and, for men, most are just wearing a pair of shorts. Except one man. The man in front of me. He just had a pair of off-white y-fronts. For 90 minutes every time he would bend or stretch I could see his buttocks through the translucent sweaty pants. 

And what was worse, there was no escape. The teacher had locked the door. 

“So no one thinks of leaving.” He said, “if you’re too hot, just have a drink of water. Don’t leave. Leaving is cheating!”

Which was of no help to me as the posterior in front of me crested into my vision again. 

I would have said that was my worse experience of hot yoga but this at least was in a proper studio. When hot yoga started in Glasgow it was started by a man who ran it in his flat. He placed towels around the doors and windows. Cranked up some gas fires and turned his living room into the Sahara desert. Though after 90 minutes of sweating, perhaps the Amazon river would be a better description as the sweat pooled and flowed through a first floor tenement flat. 

It was unofficial. Unregulated. And completely bonkers as the man who ran it would often stop the class and say:

“Does anyone fancy a Greggs sausage roll? Or is that just me?”

We’d be standing on one leg, breathing in out and stretching arms out wide, he’d be thinking of his tea.

And, all the while, we were creating the biggest fire risk since the Human Torch decided to visit a firework factory. 

Anyway, today I went to a sauna in the Westend and thought about how the studio is no longer there. Or, I should say, the flat is still there, but the studio has long gone. It moved into a dedicated studio in the Westend of Glasgow, just off Byres Road. Sadly, it shut down, a victim of lockdown, I think. I passed it today and smiled as it’s now next to a Greggs The Bakers. And before it shut, I hoped the teacher had the opportunity to pop in for a chicken lattice during classes.

At what point does a race become a Ryanair Race? A race that calls itself one thing but actually takes place somewhere else? Like the Edinburgh Marathon, where most of the miles are in Musselborough. Or this year’s Kirkintilloch 12k which starts at the end of Kirkintilloch and takes a detour through Moodiesburn?

Not that it should have been in Moodiesburn. This year, due to building work on the route, the course had to be altered to avoid a closed section of road. This wasn’t a surprise to me as I’d run the race route a few weeks before and had thought then that the race might even be cancelled. Instead, the route was changed so that the race could go ahead.

While it was disappointing not to run the same route and compare my time against previous attempts, it did mean that whatever time I ran was a new personal best. Result.

The change of route also meant that the two steepest climbs were omitted. The race is known for being a hilly race, with 7 climbs in 12 KM. But although the organisers promised the new route would match the climbs, the new section was much flatter and easier.

As always the race was well organised and there was a good selection of treats at the finishing line. And, unlike Ryanair, the treats were free.

I cannot play any of these songs. Or any part of any of these songs.

But I did try this, and it worked. 

In my two previous January challenges – 31 days of fitness and 31 days of stretching - by the time I got to this point I was starting together into a routine… and into a rut. Not another run! Not another yoga pose!

But, at this point, it doesn’t feel like a chore to play the piano. It remains fun. It’s something I look forward to doing when I get home. And it still doesn’t feel like homework, even if the musical theory is now looking at more than just what the black blobs on a music sheet are called.

It turns out I like banging away at chords. I’m now spending more time just randomly playing patterns of chords than following the app itself. I’m not sure if this is a good or a bad thing.

I think it’s good to practice myself and see what I can learn by trying different rhythms, different keys and hearing the difference it makes (usually awful). But am I getting into bad patterns that will hamper me later?

For the moment, I’m going with it’s good to noodle. Elton John didn’t have an app. Lang Lang doesn’t take an iPad out when he wants to practice. So why should I?

(Obvious answer – because they have years of experience and I have only a couple of weeks).

I’m going to be number one!

But first I need to learn how play chords. So far I’ve been playing with my right hand and learning the essentials of how to read sheet music. Today, I have to chose. I can continue with essential skills or I can change course on Simply Piano to learn about pop chords.

The choice is easy – I’m going to be number 1 and all I need is “three chords and the truth”!

However as three chords and the truth is considered to be the basis for all country songs, I might also need a stetson, a heartbreak, a truck, a Bud, a hometown gal and the Good Lord above. None of which are offered in the app.

My number one might be a long time off yet.