This End Update!

Visit Rachel at her new studio The Yoga Bar in the heart of Cincinnati, Ohio

Yours truly living the dream in her new home of Cincinnati, Ohio

I spent October through December in magical Mysore, India, once again practicing in the home of Ashtanga yoga, this time under the graceful guidance of Saraswati. What a true gift to study under such a woman in a country where women as gurus are beyond a rarity.

I knew when I returned to Mysore that my travels were winding down - I had decided to move to Cincinnati, Ohio (my hometown) and in a few months I would leave the home of my practice in India and once again become a full-time, U.S. resident.

I settled back into Mysore life quite quickly and contentedly, moving into a beautiful flat in the home of my Brahman/landlord Ganesh who not only sheltered me, but nourished me with frequent Hindu teachings and pujas.

The shala was blessedly unpopulated this time around and as such I secured a 4:30a.m. practice time which, (I won’t lie – sounded like cruel and unusual punishment at first, but…) I came to love. I took every chance I could to study beyond my asana practice, to explore India, and to experience new teachers.

In November a nasty cycle of illness began, which resulted in me contracting something really dreadful from a mosquito – this lead to a complete lapse in my Ahimsa practice (non-violence)… and a few Full Metal Jacket episodes of flying insect eradication on my part. I would like to blame this lapse on the fevers and lack of sleep, but truth be told I have never been able to reconcile the scientific or environmental benefits of those vile, buzzing, biting, virus-carrying creatures and just perhaps this was all the excuse I needed to let lose my inner destroyer – No offence to Shiva…. Om Namah Shivaya.

This cruel mosquito-gifted ailment came with the added joy of… let’s call it a really powerful ‘cleansing cycle’. This ‘cleanse’ gifted me with hours of time on my squat toilet the true gift of which I now realize whenever my heels touch the ground in down dog or yogi squat. Decades of high heel wearing Achilles tendon shortening practice overcome by one month on the shitter in India. I do not recommend this method for you dear reader, if you are struggling to relinquish your heels as well, I say slow and steady wins that race.

Just as I started to mend from this experience I got hit by whammy number two. Perry.

Perry, as I affectionately refer to him, is the parasite that came to live in my digestive system and made me realize just how stinkin’ dirty India truly is. Perry led to trips number two and three to some of India’s finer emergency rooms and aryurvedic practitioners and also instilled a kind of germaphobia in me I never thought myself capable of. Suddenly, every glass of water was a life or death decision, every bug my mortal enemy and every prepared meal a game of Russian Roulette.

Special thanks here to Carla, Julian and my driver Apu – all of whom helped me immeasurably in my moments of need. And to my dear Liz… there may be no kinder gift than dropping off rolls of toilet paper to a friend in need in India.

So reeling from three weeks of solid communion with my squat toilet I was more than ready for a nurturing trip to the US for the holidays. The promise of loving family and friends was so urgently needed that I chose to ignore the rumors of sweeping Indian visa reforms afoot. A few preparatory calls to various embassies and consulates left me secure enough that I could pop home for mashed potatoes and mistletoe that I happily jumped on a plane to Ohio.

Skip ahead a few weeks when I should have been returning to India but was finally informed that short of a letter from the American Embassador to India himself… I was persona non grata in “Increadible India”. Seems while I was opening Christmas gifts and gorging (and purging thanks Perry you MF-er) on pumpkin pies… India decided that those of us traveling on multiple-entry, 10-year visas ought really to enjoy 60 days outside of the subcontinent between trips. This meant I was not allowed to return to India until February 8, two days before my originally scheduled departure date, the effective end to my yogic round-the-world trip and two months after my closest girlfriends were arriving in India to visit and travel with me. This is really bad, I thought, and boy was I right….

Side Bar: LBM, AAA, KR, Sandra, Jelena and Nina – my heart truly broke to not see India through your beautiful eyes. Shelley, oh what could have been – Mysore got of easy me thinks ;) Another time my beloved sisters.

Sometimes momentum shifts sneak up on you and sometimes you see them far off in the distance with plenty of time to right your course before they hit. This one jumped me from behind, slipped a black bag over my head and set about immediately kicking me and Perry in the stomach over and over again.

As I hung up my phone and affectively hung up all hope of returning to my beloved Mysore flat and half my wardrobe… standing in the parking lot of a diner in my hometown of Cincinnati, Ohio, I realized in an instant… I am no longer what I label myself to be. Rachel Catherine Roberts Global Yogini became Rachel… unemployed, home devoid, Ohio resident. It felt like I hit a wall going 100 mphs, and it sent me reeling for months.
Now it is April, almost May and I have transitioned to Rachel Catherine Roberts full-time yoga teacher, part-time writer/photographer, girlfriend, recommitted daughter, loyal, stable friend and fulfilled soul.

There are so many lessons in both my travels and now in my stillness… so many I should probably write a book ;)

Thank you all so deeply for the gift of an audience to share my journey with. Thank you for all the support and challenges you threw my way. Thank you for the gift of your practice and your patience.

Lokah Samasthah Sukhino Bhavantu – May all beings everywhere attain happiness and freedom!

Be well, be wise and be joyful!


p.s. You can continue to follow me at - I hope to see you on your mat sometime soon.

Beetle Bedlam

Dear Readers:
I am busily working on my first non-fiction book, Yoga Drunk. As such the frequency of posts here will likely suffer. Currently I am in the US teaching and leading workshops. In October I travel to Austria and then to India where I will remain for six months as I complete the book.
I thank you for your continued support and interest and promise to update this site as I am able and as my adventures warrant. If you need a fix, you can always follow me on Twitter (RachelRoberts). Until... be well, be wise and be joyful! - Rachel

Rachel Roberts featured in Travel & Leisure article
Read the Beetle Bedlam article on The Accidental Extremist

Check out the new site at

Croatia was never on my list of places to go. I simply knew nothing about it, so I did not know to hope to come. I can therefore say that I am here only because yoga brought me here and for that, among a million other things, I give immense gratitude for this practice.

To say this place is pretty does not begin to scratch the surface. Hvar is surrounded by the kind of blue waters that you think only Photoshop or Koolaid mix can create. The stone beaches are like bleacher seating for the beautifully tanned and Speedo-clad bodies that lie on them all day, every day. And everything smells like lavender. Hvar is famous for it’s lavender products and they are sold everywhere resulting in the lingering scent that is strong enough to even win out over the sea of cigarette smoking tanners.

This town is apparently THE place to be for the month of August and with no planning on my part I find myself in the heart of Europe’s biggest summer beach party. Every night here is a cacophony of motor yachts humming, techno music blaring, wine glasses clinking, and street performers singing love-lorne ballads in Italian, French, Croatian or English.

Part of the real beauty here is that there are islands everywhere. The vistas are dotted with tiny rocky outcrops, just big enough for a channel marker, up to large, mountainous landmasses shaped like a young child would draw a plump-petalled flower, the spaces in between the petals each, in fact, a secluded bay with safe anchorages and heavenly bath water swimming holes.

The island of Hvar is the biggest one around and I wanted to do some exploring, so a few days ago I rented a car. Because it is prime season here, I was limited to only one option for a car. A first generation VW Beetle, painted in sparkly purple and adorned with gold flames and a lions head. Seriously, this was my rental. Now of course I acknowledge that this car was three decades past its prime. Anti-lock brakes, power steering, a radio, these were of course luxuries I could not expect to have but there was more missing from the standard line-up of generally expected auto accessories.

Upon being given the keys I was warned by the rental guy that I should probably go straight to the gas station as “the fuel gauge doesn’t work so who could know how much petrol is in the tank.” While approaching the gas station I figured out that braking was not a given either. Thankfully, it was a manual and I know how to downshift, so no huge problem, however it should be noted that to engage the clutch it was helpful if you could regularly leg press 100kilos.

Also, no seat belt (not a huge problem since the human Velcro effect of sweaty skin on pleather made me feel secure in my oneness with this vehicle), no roof, no way to adjust the position of the seat, which was way too close to the rally-car after-market pedals and steering wheel, and most problematically it would turn out… no lights.

At the petrol station I had a momentary hesitation where I realized that this car, (and I use that term loosely) was perhaps not going to make for a fun day and that if I were wise, I would return it and reserve a real, (manufactured in this century) car for another day. Of course I put this absurd thought out of my head and headed off for points unknown.

First stop Stari Grad or translated – Old Town, a well-earned name as the place was founded way back in 385 BC. Here I strolled around snapping photos of various architectural features and stopping for a perfect breakfast. I am a big fan of breakfast, in fact it is my favorite meal of the day. Back when I had a ‘normal’ life, going out with friends for a leisurely weekend breakfast was something I truly looked forward to every week.

As I travel, breakfast is often my longest and largest meal of the day. So I fancy myself a bit of an expert on this building block of nutrition. In Stari Grad I had a plate of perfectly fried eggs, topped with homemade cheese and local sea salt, served with a fresh from the oven baguette and the ripest tomatoes I may have ever eaten. This breakfast masterpiece was accompanied by a perfectly crafted cappuccino and it was by far the best meal I have had here. I figured I was off to a great start and that my day would thus be assured fabulousness.

There are a couple other towns near Stari Grad that I had already visited so I decided to pass them by to get into new territory on the island. The lack of braking capacity on the VW started to concern me as the road left the oceanside and started inclining rapidly. As I wound round and round and up and up I started getting a tad nervous about my return trip as this was the only road available for both the outgoing and incoming journey.

Here is where my FOMS kicked in. FOMS (Fear Of Missing Something) is a term coined by my friend Bob Daniels of Durango, Colorado and it aptly describes my normal state of propulsion. So as the same little voice in my head that had though perhaps I should return this grape colored lemon of a car was saying to me – Um Rach… Do you really want to descend this mountain in second gear, relying on what little remains of this things transmission to slow your plummet to the sea? I kept crawling higher and higher, afraid I could be missing something amazing up ahead.

Finally, at a vista point I saw my future, more up and therefore more steep downs to come. I gave in to better judgment and turned around. I did stay in second gear the whole time and by about the 20th switchback I figured out that the bailing wire and duct-taped lever dangling below the steering wheel was in fact the horn, which added an air of safety to my entering the blind corners.

Back at sea level I decided to head west instead of south. West was less mountainous looking so it seemed a safer bet. A few kilometers in and the western road started climbing as well but soon enough I got to a tunnel, which thankfully went through, rather than over the mountains. As it turns out this tunnel was carved by a crack-pot force of, I am guessing, sugar-high Oompah Loompas. I say this because the tunnel was very short and narrow, it wound up and down as well as side to side and it was pitch black. Like, can’t see your hand in front of your face, ink black.

The tunnel is a one-way affair so cars queue up and wait for the entrance light to turn green gaining them entry into this very long and winding roadway. About 100 feet into the tunnel and I realized I should turn on my lights, as I fumbled with dials and levers the cars in front of me sped away leaving me with no way to see what was ahead of me, or for that matter next to me above or below me. No matter the combination of switches, levers or buttons I pressed no lights came on, not so much as a blinker.

I navigated that tunnel solely on sonar and the very infrequent flickering of headlights from the SUV barreling down on me. If I could have found my purse and used my iPhone flashlight app I would have – this would have been a miracle.

The 60 seconds or so that it took me to navigate that ink black birth canal of engineering mediocrity were among the most terrifying of my life. When I emerged on the other side I parked the car and got out to verify that I was still alive and that this hadn’t been some rabbit hole into oblivion for me. The worst part of course, was that I would have to go back through the tunnel because again, there was only one road.

This is when the novelty of the aubergine-colored bedazzled bug fully wore off. I was spent, fried, frazzled and seriously considering abandoning this thing right there at the mouth of the tunnel. I managed to pull it together enough to drive down into the next town, where again I got out to test the steadiness of my legs and to try every McGuiver trick in the book to get a light on this car to work. Finally, I figured out that if I pulled out all the buttons and simultaneously pulled the windshield wiper lever forwards and down the driving lights would work, this was confirmed by a kindly gentleman in a brand new Audi who upon confirming that I had about a 30 watt bulb to get me through the tunnel, wisely sped off to avoid the likely coming fiery crash. This is how I made my return passage, one shaky hand on the wheel and the other white-knuckled onto the lever and my dying flashlights of headlights blazing about a two foot path in front of me.

When I got back on the safe side of that pit of despair I said aloud to myself ‘I need a drink’. Now this is a phrase I try to avoid using. My alcohol consumption has a long-history of binge and purge periods, a fact that at times makes me think I should reevaluate my relationship with fermented spirits. So if the word need enters into an alcohol-related conversation, especially a one-participant conversation such as this one, I see this as cause for reflection. However, in this instance, I approve 100% of the usage of this phrase and I affirm that I really did NEED a drink. Sadly, or maybe not, there was no place around to get one so I just kept driving.

I abandoned my silly idea of exploring new parts of the island and went promptly to Vrboska. I had visited this amazingly charming town a few days before via the tourist bus, a safe, reliable transportation option that it irks me to say, cost me $88 less in cash, and one less of my nine lives, than the beguiling Beetle. When I had visited before it was a short trip of just about two hours and it had been limited to the city center. I took the opportunity to drive a flat road for a bit and ventured off to the beach.

Now’s a good time to point out that here on Hvar clothing seems to be very optional. Stores here that sell bathing suits have an over-abundance of tops and a serious shortage of bottoms, since everyone knows tops are an unnecessary accessory. Often it seems bottoms are over-kill as well. I mention this because when I found the beach it was located alongside a campground named, Kamp Nudist. You know I had to check this out. I mean if pretty much every other person is already naked, what on earth could camp nudist have to offer? The answer of course… naked activities. Naked windsurfing, speedboat rentals, vollyball, snorkeling, and bicycling. I will refrain from further comment on this delightful little quick-dry oasis, but I will make one generalization. This was the most cumulatively attractive and well-groomed group of people I have ever seen.

After a few hours of de-stressing oceanside I opted to drive back to Hvar for the night giving myself plenty of daylight for the journey. I returned the car and told the rental shop proprietor of my concerns for the safety of others should he continue to rent this sparkly plum deathtrap. He took the keys, smiled from behind his twenty-something year-old eyes and simply said “lady, it’s like 35 years old… what can you expect.” I chose to let this last comment slide right by me, after all I am 36.

Hvar-dly know ya.

Update: Check out the new This End Up Yoga site at

My teachers Sandra and Marco sent me an email a few months ago asking if I wanted to Shantisit (watch their cocker spaniel Shanti) for the month of August. I said yes before I really knew any of the details. Free rent and the lure of the Croatian coastline seemed all the incentive I needed. This has turned out to be another one of those times, where through no planning on my part I have ended up at the perfect place at the perfect time.
Shanti spends his summers on the stunningly beautiful island of Hvar on the Dalmatian coast and so it is here that we are spending our days tanning, swimming, writing and napping. Hvar is a medieval city, a fort looms above and fortress wall still surround the main part of town. All of the old world charm is still here, cobblestone streets, narrow alleyways, gated entrances, but mixed with the ancient is the new, or more specifically the Nuevo Riche.

Hvar is a playground for super yachts and the Louis Vuitton beach bag-toting crowd. Everyone here is beautiful and beautifully clothed, assuming they are wearing clothes. I am surrounded by six foot-tall supermodel types and naked overly groomed men.
There is definite agenda each day you are on Hvar. It begins around noon when everyone hits the beach. They all seem to be entered into some kind of competitive tan-off and try as I might, my Arian roots are betraying me. I cannot hang with the naturally olive-skinned crowd when it comes to tanning. Clothing is very optional and tan lines are almost non-existent.
Late afternoon the crowds gravitate towards one of the beach-side discos for the first party of the day. From four until sunset the symphony of 80’s and 90’s techno pop is deafening. The Hvar vacationers are prepared for the transition from beach to dance club and they don bedazzled crepe cover ups and produce the latest shoe fashions, 4” heels or gladiator sandals, from their beach bags for the occasion. The transformation is mesmerizing and could give any Broadway quick-change artist a run for their money.

From sunset until 11pm I must assume that people nap and primp, because no one goes out to dinner before 10:30. Cocktail hour begins around midnight and the dance club built in the ruins of an old fortification opens around 2am.
Again, I cannot hang. I feel old when I try to meet up with some of the other yoga instructors for dinner and drinks. They take pity on the grandma of the group and opt for the Hvar equivalent of the early-bird special, eating at ten. We begin cocktail hour at 11 and by 12:30 I have turned into a pumpkin sneaking away to the flat and a warm bed complete with my handsome cocker spaniel date.

Even though I can’t keep the late night hours I have started sleeping in later and later. For most of my trip, regardless of time zone I woke up with the sun. Here, I often sleep until nine. I wake up, take Shanti for a walk, usually down to the water for a morning swim. Then I take advantage of having a kitchen at my disposal and make myself breakfast.
My afternoons are filled with tanning, exploring and writing. I have dedicated this month to writing a book proposal and so far I have been diligent, motivated and borderline obsessive in this endeavor.
My teachers have a yoga space here and most nights I go to it, sometimes to lead a class but most often to take one led by their new crop of yoga teaching trainees. Getting to live and practice in their space, their energy is inspiring for me and I am loving the time on my mat.

When I left France I made a statement that I would get to Croatia and get back to clean living, no cheese, no wine, no more bottomless espressos, back to my ‘normal’ asana and meditation routine, etc. No such luck.

Because I never bothered to research where I was spending August, I didn’t realize that I am on an island famous for its wine production and in a country whose national foods seem to mirror those of Italy and France: pasta, pizza, baguettes, formagio, gellato. And my beloved Italian-born teacher Marco of course has an Espresso machine in the flat, which I am powerless to walk past without firing up.
Never one to go against local customs I have been eating pizza most days and making nightly stops at the local wine bars. I am an international ambassador for good, if not necessarily the yogi ideal.
Hvar is a cultural haven as well as a hedonistic one. There are frequent outdoor concerts held in the sacristy of an ancient convent, I attended my first Sunday night, a jazz quintet. The Piazza is filled with musicians each night and local artisans set up kiosks featuring their paintings, hand made lace and lavender creations.
All in all it really is pretty much heaven. The town is dripping with European charm and entertaining locals, the water marvels the most beautiful blues I have ever seen and there are no bugs. I repeat… no bugs. In the ten days I have been here I have suffered not a single mosquito bite. I may never leave.

Champagne Dreams

A student from the last retreat I did in Bali offered us her Paris flat for the week. Martina’s beautiful home was the most amazing gift! To have an apartment in the city, complete with kitchen, lift and satellite feed of Le Tour, was beyond anything we could have asked for. From Martina’s flat we set out daily to explore Paris’ sights and gastronomical delights.

Kristin only had one full day in the city before her return flight to Denver. On that day we must have covered ten miles of landmarks, the Lovre, Notre Dame, Sangre de Criste, Eiffel Tower, the Champs, on and on. The next morning at an ungodly early hour I hugged my dear friend goodbye, put her in a cab and went promptly back to bed. Two hours later I got a text.

- U won’t believe this. Don’t have a seat on the flight – Expedia f-ed up. Next is not until Fri, so might as well stay 2 Sun. B back in 30.”

Well as Kristin’s wise uncle once told us “when life gives you lemons… throw them out and buy a bottle of champagne.” So we did.

The next day we hired a car and headed off for the Champagne region. The car was not available until 2pm, but no worry our first stop was to be a small town with Champagne in its name, just a short two-hour drive from the city, so we would be toasting by 4:30 at the latest.

We arrived only to find no champagne, no grapes, no bottles, nada, only yet another cathedral which we obligingly explored. After about an hour we found our way to the tourist info office and learned that we needed to go 40 minutes back the way we had come to a town called Epernay, the home of Avenue de Champagne.

When we arrived on Champagne Avenue it was already close to 7pm and all the Champagne houses were closed. Signs announcing Moet and Dom Perignon mocked us from above sealed doors. The only open bar we could find boasted Heineken umbrellas and dozens of beers on tap.

Parched we found a wine store and bought a split to wet our whistles. We walked into the center of town and popped the cork. I went to lift the bottle to my lips when I spied a man staring at me with a look of absolute horror. He came over and told us that it was unacceptable to drink like this and told us to stay put for a moment.

Unsure if I was about to be arrested for public consumption I waited. Henri returned with two champagne glasses from his flat. He gave them to us to keep as a souvenir and made us promise to never again defile his country’s nectar of the gods in such a hedonistic manner. We promised.

The ensuing hours we my absolute favorite in France. Our car plodded on back to Paris and along the way we visited a local winemaker's house bought three bottles and kept going. At the most beautiful part of the evening we stopped at a solitary church and cemetery where we took hundreds of soft-lighted photos of ancient headstones backed by vineyards of champagne grapes. The past and the future intrinsically entertained. Those who originally planted the vines, now resting among them for eternity.

It was a truly amazing day and one I will not soon forget.

Over the course of the next few days we visited Versaille, the Grande Palace, the Petit Palace, more cathedrals, more landmarks, retail stores we could not afford, bistros we barely could and then we took a whole day to stay indoors, watch the Tour and an entire HBO series. That day was fantastic too. While it may seem wasteful to while away a whole Parisian day indoors, the truth was we were beat.

Saturday we moved to Roberto’s hotel to await his arrival. A nightcap with him and a quick sleep and it was time for Kristin to leave me for real.

KR – Best. Vacation. Ever. Love you and I will celebrate with you anywhere, every year.


I had never even heard of road biking or the Tour until maybe ten years ago. By that time though, I was already good friends with Roberto. And so my path to Paris had already begun to unfold. We were friends for probably an entire year before I really figured out who he was to cycling fans. I remember that day vividly. Roberto and I were walking down Main Street in Durango, Colorado on our way to lunch when a nice, sane-enough-looking man in his thirties came running across the road to us, he fell to his knees and started prostrating to Roberto, all the while yelling “Bobke, Bobke you’re the man!”

I stood there a bit on the bewildered side. Once prostrating man had paid his cycling penance, Roberto resumed our forward progression. I stopped and asked him to please explain.

That is how I learned that my friend, neighbor and standing Thursday dinner date was kind of famous. This revelation did little to alter our friendship, as I was not into cycling at the time and already regarded Roberto as part of the fabric of my life, pauper or prince made no matter to me. Then a year later he started commentating for the network that covers the Tour and so obligingly as one good friend wanting to support another, I upped my Comcast Cable plan to include the obscure sports channel he was working for and so began what was once a fleeting fascination and is now bordering on fanaticism.

Since then, there was only one year where Roberto did not go to France to announce the race for the entire US, that year he sat on my couch in Durango and commentated the Tour, right there in my living room, for the benefit of just myself and my father who happed to be in town. I remember marveling at how he could possibly know that the white and red polka-dotted speck hundreds of feet below the helicopter camera was a cyclist much less some Eastern European man with a multi-multi-syllabic last name who was killing it up the mountains.

From that day I dare say I was hooked on le Tour and even more enamored of my dear friend. Not because of ‘who’ he is to Tour fans, but because I got to see him in person doing something he is really, really good at.

About five years ago Roberto started inviting me to tag along with him to France. At the time I was subjected to a woefully inadequate two weeks of vacation time per year and really couldn’t envision myself here. But that all changed in 2008. I came here last year for a week and now I am sitting on a rooftop in Paris, watching the minutes tick by before my guest pass allows me access to the Champs where I will watch the final stage of the 2009 Tour.

For the last three weeks I have used the, ‘but I am going there!” card to overrule the television choices of my parents, strangers in sports bars, and those hosting me in their homes. This last week in France I subjected poor Kristin to my audible rantings at the live BBC radio feed’s inability to perfectly sync up with Eruo Sports TV programming and the official Tour site’s live blogging.

In an attempt to help her gain interest and thereby assuage my guilt from keeping her indoors, I would commentate for her. I’d tell her why being number one or 21 or 51 was important, what the different jerseys signified, what category climbs were and so on. From the helicopter shots I would say things like, third one back in white… that’s Hincapie he’s only worn the yellow jersey once before, so he is going to give it all he’s got… there he goes, or “Schleck’s going to go again… See told you

Basically, now I acknowledge that I am a fan in the truest sense. I love this event, I honestly think it is the most amazing sporting event we have going. And my absolutely favorite part of le Tour de France happens in a few short hours. When the race is over.

After the awards are doled out, each team does ‘victory’ laps around the Champs. Can you imagine what that must be like? Twenty-one days, something like 80 hours in the saddle, countless hours of preparation, strategizing, abject suffering and then whe it’s all over, to be riding with your teammates, knowing what you just accomplished, cheered on by thousands… whether you are wearing the Maillot Jaune (overall winner) or the Lanterne Rouge (last place), you are a bad ass who has accomplished something only the most select few can ever dream of. And I applaud you all.

As I sit for hours in different corners of the world meditating, trying to obtain single-minded focus I often think about all the other paths to Samadhi. For many, and I dare say for all of these riders, exercise, physical endurance is their path,. I can’t imagine that when you are climbing up a beyond category mountain stage there is much room for the monkey mind to intrude. I can see the yoga in it, I see the Tapas the meditation and maybe that is why I so love this sport!

Begin at the Beginning

The Beginning

What do you want to do? A seemingly innocuous question, and yet one that has become the bane of my existence over the last six or so months....