I Did Six Weeks of Spin Classes as My Cardio and This Is What Happened
It started the way most well‑intentioned fitness chapters do: with a desire for something more structured than walking, less punishing than running, and preferably soundtracked by Beyoncé. I’m generally quite fit, I walk everywhere, dabble in a run when my back allows (hi, Matt, my physio, I’m trying), and dip in and out of Pilates. But I’d been craving consistency, that feeling of rhythm that turns movement into momentum.
Running was no longer an option for my temperamental back, and the thought of another soulless gym session made my heart wilt. So I turned to Psycle, London’s cult spin studio, for six dedicated weeks of rhythm‑based rides split between their Clapham Junction and Notting Hill branches as my closest. They promised endorphins, music, and community, three things I suspected I needed more than another set of “before and after” photos.
Week One: Cleats, Confidence, and Cardio Shock
If you’ve never clipped into a bike before, the first experience is oddly intimate. Part ballet (which I was familiar with from the good old days), part bootcamp (not my vibe). The instructor dims the lights, the bass swells, and you find yourself shoulder‑to‑shoulder with fifty strangers, all pulsing in sync like a single beat. The first class left me breathless and exhilarated. My quads hurt, but the energy, that intoxicating mix of neon light, sweat, and collective momentum, made me grin through it.
And then came the music. Psycle doesn’t play music; it uses music. It’s curated, choreographed, and designed to hit that exact serotonin‑release frequency. When the first Beyoncé track came on mid‑climb, it felt not just appropriate but like a requirement, as if spin was invented for her voice. The instructor shouted affirmations over the beat, and I half‑laughed, half‑cried my way through it.
Fridays at Clapham: Sweat Before the Social
Six weeks in, I learned there’s a distinct personality to each studio. Clapham Junction on a Friday night? A scene. The energy is electric, full classes, flashing lights, the crowd collectively vibing like it’s pre‑drinks rather than cardio. I’d leave those rides super sweaty, drenched even but also, elated, and ready to continue the evening on the Northcote Road. More than once, I’ve gone straight home, showered, swiped on the jeans, and re‑emerged for drinks within the hour. It’s the perfect “workout‑then‑go‑out”: cardio, dopamine, outfit change, repeat.
The Routine, Romanticised
Somewhere between week two and three, spin stopped being a novelty and became a ritual. The non-negotiable running through my otherwise chaotic weeks. I’d pack my JULY bag with a washbag and laptop, slip from meetings into Psycle’s candlelit studio, and let the music drown out the Slack pings I’d been hearing in my head all day. There’s something cinematic about emerging from a dark, sweaty room into London daylight, cheeks flushed, hair damp.
If it was a morning ride at Notting Hill, I’d wander straight to Beam afterwards for brunch. Eggs, sourdough, a perfect flat white in crockery that I want to steal. The crowd there feels like an extension of the class, Lycra peeling off, ponytails damp, everyone riding the same endorphin wave. On Clapham days, my post‑spin routine had a different texture: I’d set up camp at The Arding Rooms with my laptop, sometimes joined by Kat, friend and founder of YogiBare, for a chat over banana bread from the newly opened WatchHouse. Cardio and creative connection, the kind of balance wellness culture always promises but rarely delivers.
The Physical Shift
After the first fortnight, the physical changes were undeniable. My legs felt stronger, more sculpted. My stamina improved to the point where those climbs I’d once dreaded started to feel almost… fun? The classes include a short weights track, so even my shoulders looked more toned, an unexpected bonus.
But I also became acutely aware of the contrast: forty‑five minutes of full‑throttle movement followed by hours of being sedentary at a desk. My hips felt tight, and no amount of stretching could quite undo the modern paradox of “fitness but desk job.” That’s when I decided to explore Psycle’s other side: the infrared strength classes at Notting Hill. Hot, slow, grounding, everything spin wasn’t. I’d leave those sessions radiating warmth from the inside out, feeling like I’d realigned, not just trained.
UNEXPECTED EMOTION
I expected the fitness; I didn’t expect the feelings. One week, I showed up emotional and frayed (the kind of day where small things threaten to undo you). Halfway through the class, a track built and broke, something so weirdly cinematic about Tate McRae, and suddenly, there I was, tears quietly tracking through sweat during the cooldown. There’s a certain safety in communal exertion; no one notices your tears when everyone’s riding through their own tension.
The release was a literal release, not in a manic way but in the sort of deep exhale you can’t orchestrate on command. I left calmer, clearer, almost proud of myself for simply showing up. After that, I understood why Psycle can feel like therapy disguised as spin.
Community in Motion
By the midway point, I began recognising faces, the woman with the perfect plait two bikes over, the guy who always cheers when the beat drops, the couple who clip in side by side like a team sport every Saturday morning. There’s a tiny satisfaction in nodding to each other by week four, strangers now united by shared sweat and routine. You start to sense people’s weeks in their body language: midweek fatigue, Friday relief, Monday determination.
It’s strange how silent community forms in spaces like that. Even without talking, there's a connection, a collective “we made it” energy that carries you out of the studio and into the day with something weightier than endorphins.
Still Spinning
After six weeks, I was meant to stop. The “experiment” was technically complete. But I didn’t want to. Now it’s become a fixture, one class a week, sometimes two. Clapham, sometimes Notting Hill, always with a friend or three who I’ve successfully converted. The novelty has worn off, but the affection remains.
What I love most now is the transition moment: leaving the studio, skin still humming, stepping into London, whether it’s crisp morning light or the electric dusk of a Friday night. In those moments, I feel like I have everything I need.
The Afterglow
Six weeks of spin didn’t reinvent me. It didn’t fix my posture or dissolve my deadlines. But it did soften something. My mood, my edges, my perspective. It reminded me that moving my body for joy, not performance is the surest route back to myself. The playlist doesn’t hurt either.
So yes, I started spinning because I couldn’t run. I kept spinning because it made me remember that my body is capable of so much more than endurance, it’s capable of expression, of rhythm, of releasing what I didn’t even realise I was holding. And as far as I’m concerned, the best kind of cardio is the kind that makes you want to dance straight to brunch afterwards.
Words by Eleanor Hoath for The Well Edit.
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