“Take your journey. Change your body. Find your soul.”

Displayed in bright, fluorescent tubes, these words greet me, as they’ve greeted every other person—most of them dressed in spandex—who’s ever walked through the doors of this sanctuary. Except we’re not in a sanctuary. We’re at SoulCycle.

How did I end up at the world’s trendiest 45-minute spinning class? I first heard about SoulCycle this summer from raving friends who claimed it was more than just an exercise session. Then an article in The Atlantic called the group workout an “example of how a limited set of Americans might find new expressions of spirituality.” It appeared that for its many adherents, SoulCycle was not just a workout for the body; it was a workout for the soul.

Though many friends suggested I give SoulCycle a shot, I initially swore I’d never go. I was morally against paying $30 for a workout, I explained. Vibrant shades of yellow and an outspoken following weren’t enough to lure me to the cult. Then I heard Gisele Bundchen frequently attended classes at the nearest SoulCycle. Going once couldn’t hurt.

So on a breezy Saturday morning, I found myself with my friend Christine—a self-proclaimed SoulCycle aficionado—at the Chestnut Hill SoulCycle. With a bottle of water in my hand ($2) and special rental shoes on my feet (free for the first class, but usually $3), I was ready to discover my inner soul.

When it was finally time to enter the studio, I got a glimpse of what the next 45 minutes would entail. There were 5 rules of etiquette printed on the wall. These ranged from the obvious (“No cell phones”) to the metaphysical (“We ride close together so we can feel each other’s energy” or “talking during class is a major distraction for the spiritual folks around you”).  There were 55 bikes—nearly all of them taken—and only 11 males, myself included.

“Welcome to SoulCycle everyone,” a voice boomed over the speakers. At the very front, an athletic woman in her mid-twenties took the bike at the center of the room. “We’ve got three short minutes before we start, so it’s great to see everyone getting settled into their bikes.” I looked around to see everyone on their bikes, besides me. Apparently, the instructor—who I’ll call Kristen—noticed the same thing. “If you’re new, don’t worry,” she said through the speakers, making eye contact with me. “I can help you myself.”

Before I knew it, Kristen had made her way to me in the back row. “Hey there!” she greeted me, her microphone turned off. “Welcome to SoulCycle!”

“Thanks,” I responded. “I feel like I’m getting the VIP treatment.”

She proceeded to introduce herself and helped me figure out the dimensions of my bicycle. Though we were getting dangerously close to the start time, she was determined to make sure I knew what to expect; the comfort of new riders was her top priority, she explained.

When it was finally time to begin the class, all the lights in the room turned off, and a playlist comprised of bass-heavy house music filled the speakers. Strobe lights punctuated each beat. “Greetings everyone,” Kristen said over the music. “I’m happy to be here. I’m originally from Boston, but I’m coming with experience from SoulCycle New York.”

“That means she must be really legit,” Christine whispered.

“That makes no sense,” I responded.

By the second song, my headband and shirt were already drenched in sweat. Worse, as I reached to wipe my sweat, I accidentally knocked my sweat towel onto the ground. Suddenly, there was nothing I could use to hide my true state of physical being from the rest of the class; I felt naked.  

“Crouch above your seats like you’re in child’s pose,” Kristen instructed. “And turn right!” she shouted, as she jammed her head forward right as the song hit a downbeat. “And left!” she yelled, a second after. “Right again!” Bang. “Left!” Bang. “Dance to the music!”

So, on top of riding a bike next to strangers in the dark, I danced. As I looked around the room, I saw everyone in a near-synchronized form, violently jerking their heads to the beat of the music. “You couldn’t look more out of place,” Christine alerted me over the music.

Throughout the workout, Kristen shouted pieces of inspiration, most of them completely unrelated to fitness: “This is your sanctuary!” “Don’t ever listen to people who say you can’t do something!” “Tonight is Saturday night, so get ready for your drinks!” The crowd responded with cheers and grunts of approval.

Halfway through the workout, Kristen’s attentions turned to someone in the center of the room. “This is your party!” she yelled. A woman in the third row briefly looked up at Kristen and gave her a terse nod. “Kathy, today is your birthday, and you’re celebrating it at SoulCycle.” Kathy continued to stare ahead and pedal. “This is your party!” Kristen yelled again.

Though I struggled throughout the class, I understood how the experience could be cathartic. As trite as they were, Kristen’s pointers would routinely boost my spirits and encourage me to pedal faster. Moreover, everyone in the room appeared content to be sharing a space and their sweat with the other denizens of Chestnut Hill. Perhaps the etiquette on the wall was correct—maybe we do feed off each other’s energy.

Gradually, the music slowed, and the class began to wrap up. “You’ve earned this, everyone,” Kristen announced, without elaborating on what exactly we had earned. The conclusion couldn’t come sooner. Though many of my preconceptions about SoulCycle turned out to be accurate—the clientele, the cult-like atmosphere, the comedy of it all—there was one thing that caught me off guard: I was exhausted, both in body and soul.

“Oh, one last thing,” Kristen announced before we could leave. “There’s something important that we forgot to do.” And then we all sang happy birthday to Kathy.