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.
