Being a huge proponent for trying the latest LA fads, my dad always has one on the agenda when I come to visit him in Santa Monica. More often than not they are workout related, which means that I have to put my Netflix binge on pause for an hour, give or take. On tap for this trip: SoulCycle.
A bright white and yellow lobby welcomed me into the studio. Packed with people bustling in and out of classes, the chaos was imminent from the moment I walked in.
A Jay Alvarez look-alike, sultry, tousled locks included, named Ben, strutted into the studio. He would be our trainer. While the first two rows of bikes were reserved for veteran MILFS who, I’m sure, would love to call Ben “daddy,” my actual father was sweating in front of me. The combination of the blaring music, intense bass, and strobe lights made me feel like I should have worn something less baggy, and strapped stilettos on since I had basically been transported to a club.
I tried to keep pace with their pedaling whilst simultaneously tricep dipping forward and back, but I was way too concerned with the fact that Ben did not pull his hair up, and it was now sopping and sticking to his face. The up, down, back, forward, side to side of it all was mesmerizing and almost hypnotic. There was a strange, cult-like vibe that I got from the class. I felt like I was pedaling in to some sort of clique that would grant me access to all of the SmartWater I could drink, and a 24-hour Whole Foods.
Not only did I feel like a sardine because I was salty from profuse perspiration, but also because I was no more than a foot from the people beside and in front of me. My bike was situated in the very back corner of the room, and by no means did I object since, one; I slacked, and two; It gave me a better view. Even in the dark, I noticed that there were no fat people. None. I’m not sure if it’s the Hollywood air that must be tainted with laxatives or what, but every person in that room was tight and toned.
When I workout, I prefer motivation and inspiration rather than intimidation and judgment. Granted, I was probably the only one criticizing myself, considering no one had a view of my subpar cycling, but still. You’d think that being in a room full of beautiful, fit people would motivate me to push myself and spin harder and faster, but I only wanted to finish class, so that I could eat a donut just in spite of them.
I’m a fairly active person, but gah damn I needed a change of clothes after the class was done. The only other reason I would/should be that sweaty is if I was in a sauna with Channing Tatum and the cast of Magic Mike. Ariana Grande’s “Side to Side” music video is false advertising, because by no means did I walk out of there with a perfect ponytail and smudge-less winged eyeliner.
All that being said, I couldn’t walk the next day. Despite my lack of focus on the actual spin workout, I guess I paid attention to at least some of it since my legs felt like Jell-O. I’ll try most anything once, and SoulCycle was no exception. I sold my soul to SoulCycle, but once was enough. Excuse me, while I take the $40 I’m not shelling out on another class, and happily spend it on some Krispy Kreme.
