I was late to the spin cult. Now I’ve I joined, I am here for the long haul. I will stay until this trend becomes the aqua-aerobics of the early noughties — I will land up, just as our shiny-tighted, 80’s counterparts did, as nothing more than a themed fancy-dress costume in 20 years’ time. I will have no shame.
Spinning is magical. Spinning is fun. Spinning makes me feel alive. I never realised how much I needed therapy until I sobbed my eyes out to a Coldplay-Destiny’s Child mash up on a bike that doesn’t go anywhere. In spin-induced moments of feeling, we question our existence. We wonder what is going on internally as we drip tears and sweat on to our handle bars. Is it sensory overload? Exhaustion? Emotional release? Fatigue? Ecstasy? The answer is d) all of the above. I believe a really good spin class should make you smile, audibly woop and maybe make you cry. Of course, if you’re new to this, the very notion of cheering and crying in a dark room full of strangers might seem completely buck-wild if not, at least, the definition of insanity. (You’ll be pleased to know I did subsequently see a therapist).
I understand the fear and the resentment to this studio-based sport. I am not talking about indoor cycling; the kind where a man in bib shorts shouts numbers you don’t understand with a backing track that has no relevance to what you’re doing. Spinning has existed since the cardio-heavy 90s in this format. The spinning I’m talking about is the happy-clappy, goopy-lab esque Los Angeles-style stuff, started By SoulCycle in 2006. The candle-lit, celebrity-frequented exercise class which is just as much mental as it is physical. Since they opened in the UK in 2019, new out-postings of studios compete with them: Psycle, Boom Cycle, 1Rebel and Digme, to name a few of the major players in London. The trend has become so addictive that people now choose to spin virtually from the comfort of their homes or gyms with Peleton. Peleton shares increased +350% in 2020 due to people getting their spin fix remotely during the pandemic. A Peleton bike will set you back £1,375 plus a monthly £12.99 peloton membership so you can attend classes. A one-time studio pass will cost you between £18-35. You will get a discount the more classes you buy and of course, a full monthly membership works out cheapest. Sounds a bit like a cult? It is. This is the exercise version of Scientology. I’m sure Tom Cruise has done a SoulCycle class too.
And like any cult, as a new comer, it is incredibly overwhelming. It is obstacle after obstacle. Sometimes I wonder if the joy of spinning is just the achievement of getting through all the hurdles to start doing it in the first place. Arriving to your first spin class is one problem to solve after another under constant time pressure before the class begins.
Most spin studios seem to be located in basements, down some side street of a financial district. They never, ever correctly display on your GPS. Google Maps will take you round the houses to get there. You will be flustered before you arrive, even if you’ve factored in ‘getting lost’ time (something I regularly do, as a person with a poor sense of direction). You will come up against numbers, codes and contraptions everywhere whilst being reminded over a tannoy that the class will begin in 5 minutes. You will forget your bike number after you have to self-set a locker code in some kind of 4-digit mini-escape room. I often, still now as a regular, choose what I think is an easy configuration to remember, only to have to admit after the receptionist following the class I have locked myself out, even after reading the instructions for the fifteenth time. That, or I accidentally left my personal possessions as fair game for 45 minutes because I never locked it in the first place.
You will use your not-yet-warmed up night vision to try and understand the bike numbering system, (which almost never appears logical) and snake your way through the darkness and ear-drum bursting audio to find the bike number. You will attempt to choose the correct height. Every lever is confusing, every dial takes longer than it should to un-lock, and you remain under the time pressure from the instructor as they ask if anyone has any injuries or needs any help setting up. This is notwithstanding the shout-out to some smug woman with crazy abs in the front row on her 500th ride. The room cheers for her. I remember distinctly in my first class being so confused; everyone stand-up pedaling like blonde-ponytail swishing gazelles in lycra before the class even began. I am now one of those annoying people.
Then, there is the issue of the shoes. I am dumfounded that people who cycle on actual bikes that require balance use these. How do they unclip themselves on the move? The cleets are my largest deterrent to do a triathlon (after being tragic at swimming and most water-based sports). These grotesque foot gloves; ugly in their fishing reel type fastening clips are near impossible to get into the bike and off of the pedals, until you’re familiar with them. And, once you finally manage to get off the bike, you have the issue of trying to uncover how they unfasten from your feet so you can remove yourself from a communal sweat pool. Even with sanitisation tactics, it is a disgusting thought that someone else’s sweaty toes have been inside the same synthetic leather vessel. I must move on before I put myself off this sport too. I promise you, you’ll have forgotten all of this stress and disgust before the end of the first track of your first spin class as you start to move, with other spin-goers, as one rhythmic organism to the beat of an amazing soundtrack.
On the class starting, your name is now the day of the week you signed up for. You are now Tuesday. The instructors do it with such gousto that I feel as if I AM Tuesday. Unless you’re at 1Rebel where, of course, you are, ‘Rebels’. The instructor will regular tell you every 5 minutes: “Okay, Rebels: Turn it up!”; “Rebels: Just ride.” 1Rebel is a spin studio where generally people exercising there are doing it to look sexy naked. During the class, you can pretend you’re at an Ibiza night club, surrounded by other love island wannabes, you’ll listen to mashed up beats of pop remixes. Expect heavy bass. The instructor has a DJ podium. The instructor thinks they are a DJ. In fact, they probably are. (One of those beautiful blonde model types that looks good in the promo shots for Soho Houses Bank Holiday parties). They also probably did do a season in Ibiza as a dancer at Ushuaia. This studio gives you all the feels of a big night out, but you’re not going to have a hangover and get hassled by large crowds knocking your drink out of your hand. Just as with all major clubs in Ibiza though, you might still pay over the odds for a chilled bottle of water.
Your spin experience might be altered slightly depending on which studio you go to, but the high you experience is the same. Digme, is the closest to those old school indoor cycling classes. Be careful and read the class description carefully. I once signed up for the wrong class and was surrounded by 40-year old banker MAMILs (Middle Aged Men in Lycra) looking at stats on a screen; an avatar projection of myself struggling to keep up at the back of a virtual peloton. Boom Cycle, a quirky place where instructors with pink hair will encourage you to sing-a-long to Taylor Swift, frequently host musical themed rides. The Greatest Showman Ride was for up there for me in my spins of all spins. Instructors here, like their 1Rebel counterparts, definitely used to party too hard. These folks in the super-cool Manchester rave scene as teenagers. They too, have seen that you can get the same endorphin hit from an hour on a bike singing your heart out with less guilt, less expense and no hangover. Psycle is my favourite because it’s the one that makes me cry the most. Is it because they go at double time every song so like some kind of demented hamster in a wheel I hit my knee on the handle bars at speed and it hurts? No. It is because the god-like creature of an instructor works so much spirituality into the bike routine that I am overcome by the energy in the room and pouring out a little bit of my soul. I know, I know. I sound completely crazy. I cried in my first ever Psycle class because during the reflection track, the instructor did a monologue about how we only have one life and we should use it wisely. The song was ‘Wake Me Up When It’s All Over’. It was the week Avicii had died. They really know how to get you in the feels here. I was a wreck. I thought it was a result of the overwhelming sensation of my first ever class. Then I turned to my left, and saw my friend, a die-hard spinner and Iron Man Triathlete, wiping away her tears too.
There is something magical about a group of people being locked in a room for an hour with no contact to the outside world. Spin classes, cinemas, aeroplanes and therapy sessions are, for me, sacred because it is here, that my phone is no longer an option as a distraction. There’s something about the energy of everyone else in the room on their own journey; everyone connected by riding in time to the same beat that sends tribal vibrations into my heart and my mind. It is a form of therapy for me. I use this as a weekly barometer of what’s truly going on inside. Like therapy, I give up my own filters and expectation and I let the instructor’s work will me to hold up a mirror to my truth. When they ask what I’m pushing for, reaching for, to check in with myself; I do it all. Sometimes I will spin and feel nothing. This in itself tells me something. And, when my therapist charges 70 pounds for a one-time session, it’s also cheaper as an interim solution to do regularly. I use spinning weekly in between my monthly sessions with her to reflect and prepare for our next session and to temporarily escape from everyday life.
The pain you experience in spin is a metaphorical microcosm of life. Some bits you will find hard, others you will find easy. You will love one song and hate the next. Sometimes for no reason, a class will feel harder than others. You haven’t experienced the spin-evoked self-love until a SoulCycle instructor tells you to look in the mirror as you bellow collectively: ‘You’re too f***ing beautiful and everybody wants a taste’ above Nick Jonas on the soundtrack. You genuinely believe it. You can feel everyone else in the room does too. There is a specific moment in my head, I am referring to, where the feeling I experienced as we collectively sang (and helicoptered our sweat towels around our head) was better than any orgasm or night out I’ve ever had. It’s euphoric.
Spinning has helped me through some of the most difficult times and helped me celebrate the best moments too. You can do it solo. You can do it with friends. The way you feel when a heavy bass drops and someone asks you over a mic why you showed up today is one of those moments where we are forced to really look inside ourselves. If you haven’t cried during a reflection track, you’re not doing it right (or you have a terrible instructor). I believe spinning is one of the exercises most worthy of a cult following. It is such a privilege to be able to pay money to move pedals around on a bike that is glued to the floor. If an alien came down from another planet, they would not understand it. However, I am sure if they tried it for themselves, they’d get hooked too.
Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it and when I say try it, I mean, really try it. Lean in to everything they say. If you feel yourself wanting to woop or cry — It’s working. Let go, have fun, and just ride…
Wow
Totally fantastic.
I want to do a spin class now