Everyone keeps asking me about the whole yoga thing. So let me put this to rest once and for all: yoga and climbing were never meant to mix. Oil and water. Crash pads and candlelight.

In fact, very few climbing gyms even bother with yoga. And why should they? Climbers don’t need “recovery methods” like yoga. We recover by flashing 5.13s before breakfast and topping out boulders that make other people cry.

Child’s pose won’t get you up El Cap — my confidence will.

When I took over the gym, I checked the books. Yoga didn’t make money. And in my infinite wisdom, I knew what had to be done: axe it. Efficient, ruthless, legendary. A decision only I — The Breeze — could make.

“But Breeze,” you say, “what about balance, mindfulness, community?” Spare me. The only balance that matters is the kind I display when I heel hook at 50 feet. The only mindfulness you need is focusing on my beta spray. Community? You’re welcome — my very presence builds it.

Yes, yes, I’ve heard the sob stories. The yoga teacher, Becca Steinbrecher, had just come back from a terrifying fall in the Black Canyon. She was fighting for her life.

Inspirational, some called it. I call it irrelevant. Did she generate revenue? No. And I’m not running a feel-good retreat — I’m running a climbing gym empire.

Now, some haters say I missed my chance at a “hero moment.” I could’ve kept yoga, slapped my name on it, and made myself look like a savior. But I was too busy being right to bother being revered. That’s how rare my genius is.

So here we are: no yoga. No meditation. Just me, standing taller than a headwall at sunrise, reminding you that when I cut something, it stays cut.

You’re welcome.