Sweat is dripping down the side of my face, and there is nothing I can do about it because my complimentary towel has fallen off my bike and onto the floor. With my feet locked into the pedals by rental shoes, I have no choice but to keep cycling. I want to die, or vomit, but mostly I want the instructor to yell out “Arms!” because the arm workout signals that the SoulCycle class is almost over, and I can return to the comfort of real life and a well-lit space.
I am spending my afternoon in a Twerk Tuesday class at SoulCycle, a trendy, spin-exercise company that offers 45 minute sessions led by an instructor, who is sometimes cycling, but always motivating the room of cyclists through their “iconic soulful moment.” The package I purchased for $99 (rental shoes not included) gives me access to one class per day for 14 days. Unfortunately, I do not feel optimistic about the soulful two weeks ahead of me. However, I have timed my start date poorly with Spring Break, so in reality, 11 days of SoulCycle stretch before me.
I have taken a few SoulCycle classes before, but always with a friend much more enthusiastic about it than I am. Everyone seems to know exactly what they are doing; an army of Lululemon-clad girls hop onto their bikes and perform synchronized upper-body movements while still pedaling furiously. I always felt like I was so obviously out of place, marked by my mismatched attire and inability to set up the bike for myself. Despite considering myself to be decently athletic, I emerge from each class feeling a lot worse than anyone else looks.
As someone who enjoys the rush of endorphins after a grueling workout, I want to love SoulCycle. But in the middle of pedaling for my life, the allure eludes me. I wanted to see if the obsession was intrinsic, and thus simply beyond my grasp, or if SoulCycle was something I could learn to love.
The singular SoulCycle studio in Ann Arbor is becoming a new constant in my life. Located under Vic Village North on South University Avenue, I pass the studio almost every day on my way to class. While patting myself on the back for being not just awake, but out of the house, before 9 a.m., the exodus of girls exiting the SoulCycle building, having already completed a workout class, routinely puts me in my place. Now, I will be one of them.
The Ann Arbor SoulCycle studio is packed with more than 40 stationary bikes aligned in neat rows facing a mirrored wall, and the instructor’s bike presides over the room on an altar-like structure facing the rest of the riders. There are also four stationary bikes horizontally facing the instructor, positioned for ample viewing from the rest of the class. These bikes are available for anyone to book, but only the confidence that comes from experience could propel me to perform the workout akin to the instructor, thus I stay away. The room is kept pitch black during the workout, save for spotlights that illuminate the instructor’s stand (at her discretion) and candles on the ground.
While the room set-up seems standard based on my limited experience, I am struck by how close together the bikes are positioned as I squeeze myself toward the back row. The candles initially seem like an aesthetic choice of mood lighting, and I am amused by their unconventionality. However, on the first day of my SoulCycle challenge, the instructor effortlessly hops off of her bike and weaves through the rows, proffering lit candles to cyclists for them to blow out as they ride. The ritual seems incredibly over the top and unnecessary for a workout, but my incredulity is quickly replaced with anxiety about my ability to blow the candle out in a breath I can’t seem to catch, the timing of the ordeal with my pedaling and how to maneuver my upper body to lean forward. I soon realize that my worries are for naught. With four SoulCycles classes ever under my belt, I am still a neophyte. The candles are reserved for grander milestones; a 25th, 50th or 100th ride.
On Thursday afternoon (day three), I am cycling to the beat of “Frat-Party Anthems” while performing upper body crunches with my hands propped on the center of the handlebars, my eyes half-closed in anguish. The space is so dark that I struggle to distinguish my inner eyelids from the room, which contributes to the keen feeling of not being fully conscious. It is in the SoulCycle studio that I learn I am severely uncoordinated. My flailing is interrupted when I find out I am a participating member of one man’s 750th Soul Cycle ride. He is biking in one of the exemplary spots at the front, and, to celebrate his milestone, the rest of the staff run in dancing with neon glow sticks, a source of light that I welcome. However, the momentousness of this man’s milestone is not lost on me in my scrambled state — by my conservative estimate, he has spent more than $15,000 on cycling classes.
It is loyalty like this that lends a hand to SoulCycle’s image as a cult. At its height, SoulCycle was so popular among elite circles in New York City that weekly classes would fill up instantaneously when they opened on Mondays at noon. In Ann Arbor, the cult manifests itself in the close-knit community between cyclists and the instructor. The teachers often know people’s names and they share a personal connection that seems to go beyond the standard student-teacher relationship. At the end of one of the classes I took, a woman thanked the instructor for her fearless leading and the instructor thanked her back for fearlessly letting her lead. I want to remind them that we are cycling on stationary bikes.
As the week progresses, I start to see familiar faces. SoulCycle has clearly established its fanbase within the University of Michigan student body. As students with free access to indoor cycling at school gyms, there is a dedicated chunk willing to pay for the accompaniment of a toned and cheery instructor and a curated playlist. Based on what I’ve noticed during my visits to SoulCycle, almost everyone is a student. However, the majority of SoulCycle studios are not located in the center of college campuses, and they bring in an older clientele, predominantly white and wealthy women aged 25 to 50, specifically those willing to shell out almost $30 per class. As a white woman myself, and one who paid almost $100 for this whirlwind experience, I fit the SoulCycle demographic, no matter how much I may feel like an outsider.
On Wednesday morning (day two), I was apprehensive about the hour ahead of me, as I filed into the room along with the other enthusiastic cyclers. When my alarm went off 30 minutes prior at 6:30 a.m, the only thing that got me out of bed was this article. Walking over to the studio, I was excited to start my day off with a workout. It was excellent running weather and I was wistful about the fact that I’ll be cycling indoors instead, away from the crisp fresh air that would have certainly woken me up for the day. When I finish a SoulCycle ride and leave the dark room to return to the bright, sterile locker room, it feels like I am returning from an alternate dimension. That night, I fell asleep at 8:30.
While no time or space alteration has occurred, I have quietly undergone a lifestyle transformation. Days four and five fall on the weekend, and I am in the studio at 8:30 a.m. both days. I ride out my second week with consecutive 7:00 a.m. sessions for days seven and eight. Surprisingly, my body feels fine, and I enjoy the alertness induced by morning exercise. However, without the thrill of a challenge, I have low hopes that my early morning wake-ups will last.
Midway through, I have also adjusted to the choreography. The instructor yells things out like, “side to side,” which involves leaning your body to alternating sides of the bike on sets of four and eight counts. The choreography constantly changes, from push-ups, to lean backs, to crunches; all the while, your feet are expected to stay on the beat. It almost feels like a dance class instead of a fitness class.
My rhythm deficiency isn’t a problem for the first couple of days because there is no one behind me and thus no energy to disturb. However, part of my 11-day challenge is to also move up in the rows. While this may not seem so impressive in a normal fitness class, SoulCycle places a heavy emphasis on the energy of the pack. Front-row riders are expected to lead by example.
Perhaps it is because I am improving or because as I progress forward I move closer to the light at the front of the room, but on day four, I find myself starting to actively enjoy SoulCycle. This feeling sneaks up on me. While the price is still exorbitant and the brand is mired in exclusivity and elitism, I will say that a run has rarely gotten me out of bed before 8 a.m. this school year, no matter how determined I am the night before.
With a class to hold me accountable, however, I am up (albeit at the last possible moment) and in attendance. And while showing up is half the battle, there is something to be said for the cult-like atmosphere of SoulCycle. The candles, the motivational sermons and the darkness initially contribute to an off-putting vibe. At first, I obsessed over the psychology behind SoulCycle — researching why I started each class immune from the preachy encouragement from the instructor and by the end found myself clinging to every word to fight the urge to give up. I was determined that the darkness was a strategy to strip down the psychological barriers of riders, comparable to the mildest form of torture.
As the week progressed and I acclimated to the oddities of SoulCycle, my mentality softened and my attention shifted from the cult to the community. Instructors will personally encourage specific riders mid-workout, ask how their midterms went and even leave a birthday card on the bike for a rider. On day six, when I finally make it to the front row, the “energy of the pack” is pulsating and I find myself having a blast.
This energy is what drove Assistant Manager Kelsey Ziegler to work at SoulCycle after taking a couple of classes, which is how she ends up being the cheery face to welcome me to Ann Arbor SoulCycle. Although not an instructor herself, Ziegler says that SoulCycle looks for “a whole package” in their instructors. “They want somebody who really makes it look effortless on the bike,” she says. The “whole package” involves having a good sense for the choreography and how to fit it to the music. Notably, a background in physical training or any certification is not necessary for the “whole package.”
While the selection process prioritizes skills more suited for DJs and influencers than the standard fitness instructor, I’ll admit that the resulting experience feels worlds away from the stationary bikes on the second floor of the Intramural Sports Building, despite the equivalent forms of exercise.
I genuinely thought I would view the end of my SoulCycle journey as a triumph of making it through the depths of despair. I envisioned a wrecked body and daily classes I’d spend my days dreading. Instead, I feel great, definitely tired and a little bit sad that it is over. After the expiration of my package (and my challenge), I cannot justify regularly spending $24 for a 45-minute workout when a run can whip me into shape. Despite adjusting to SoulCycle’s peculiarities, I still recognize that the overall branding is bizarre and that its cult-like reputation is deserved. But I now understand the firsthand appeal of SoulCycle, and when I sign up for the occasional class, I will enjoy it in the way I previously yearned to.
Statement Columnist Molly Goldwasser can be reached at gomolly@umich.edu.