If there’s a case for cannabis as a performance-enhancing drug, yoga would be near the top of the list next to competitive eating. Having tried both, my main use for weed would be as an antiemetic, as I could have tossed my “Girl Scout Cookies” both times.
In practice, there’s a divide on what to roll up before rolling out your mat. Do you use a sedative indica that allows you to quiet your mind and settle into your body? Do you use a racy sativa to help you power through a daunting session? Do you take three dabs and get into “child’s pose” for an hour?
Sitting in the courtyard before a Marijuasana class with several yogis, I pack a bowl of Panama Punch, a fruity sativa that’s one of The Clinic’s signature strains. Passing around the bowl (and the rest of the bag), people pick up on those big berry notes, the distinctive pear underneath, and the black pepper spice. What’s lacking is anything that would connect it to Neville’s Haze, one of the supposed parents, to the point where I’d call Maury Povich.
Panama Punch by the numbers: $33 an eighth, $235 an ounce at The Clinic Highlands, 3460 W. 32nd Ave in Denver
An activity for the high: Marijuasana yoga class
Additional support from Bluebird Botanicals and Hi Life Creative
On the first hit, the more saccharine elements are predominant and it’s a smooth smoke, allowing my bellows to push out hits like a Snapchat vape enthusiast. The buzz is talkative considering we’re a crowd of mostly strangers getting high together for the first time. That shifts, however, as we climb the three flights of stairs to begin our “practice.”
This is brutal.
I’m five minutes into the class when I abandon my first pose, my arms feeling numb and tingly as my 6’4″ frame stretches for the first time in earnest. My body feels as loose as it’s going to get courtesy of the Panama Punch, but I’m having trouble visualizing what I’m supposed to be doing.
Our instructor, Marijuasana founder Stacey Mulvey, is telling me to do things with my knee and ankle that aren’t in the realm of possibility. In a world of Stretch Armstrongs, I’m the Tin Man sans oil.
It dawns on me that I could injure myself doing yoga. My full attention is now on every movement until my fiancée on the mat next to me sees how red my face is and reminds me to breathe. As those around me move into more difficult poses, I slam a bottle of water.
The next 45 minutes play out in similar fashion: me making an attempt at what everyone else is doing, then trying not to be a distraction when I fail.
Panama Punch wasn’t to blame for my yoga struggles. It provided an ultra-focused high and I completely lost touch with the outside world, dialed in only to how I would prevent myself from falling over. If Dom in “The Fast And The Furious” lived his life a quarter-mile at a time, mine became an existence of quarter-minutes.
Completely exhausted, we hustled home, where I fell asleep by 6 p.m. I’m glad I didn’t pick an indica.
