People would do whatever they could to game the system - a system that was designed to keep people out instead of letting them in.ĭuring the height of SoulCycle’s popularity from 2013 to 2015, front desk staffers at New York City’s flagship NoHo location had to stop answering the studio’s three phone lines at 11:50 am at the beginning of each week. The best time slots with the best instructors were gobbled up in seconds. On Mondays at noon, SoulCycle’s online booking system would open, and an entire week’s worth of slots would be up for grabs. (SoulCycle is said to have a soft limit of three classes per person per day but did not strictly enforce it.) The difficult part was booking the bikes. Many paid hundreds a month, attending two or three classes a day. Cleaving logic from money wasn’t the difficult part. Getting into a class also meant forking over Soulcycle’s steep $34 per-class price tag at its peak.

Acolytes spoke the secret language of the initiated (tapbacks, roosters, doubles, tribe) and wore the uniform of the converted (Lululemon leggings emblazoned with the company’s skull-and-crossbones logo). Inside each spin studio, every element furthered this air of aspiration and commitment: the welcoming sans-serif logo and uplifting mantras on the walls, the grapefruit-scented candles, the gorgeous instructors, the low-watt mood lighting, the chilled bottles of Smartwater, the amethyst crystals that supposedly absorb bad energy. This workout wasn’t just for people who wanted to get sweaty, but for wealthy, popular, and important people who wanted to get sweaty. When Michelle Obama was first lady, she booked private classes with Garrett in DC. In New York, Bradley Cooper went to Charlee. In Los Angeles, Beyoncé rode with Angela. No boutique fitness class was as exclusive, and no clientele as glamorous or devoted, showing up multiple times a week to ride a bike in the dark.

Not long ago, getting into a SoulCycle class didn’t just mean a 45-minute workout it meant status.

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