What Rocycle Taught Me About Feminism
Rocycle Studios during a class -- is it paradise or torment?
By Freya Rock
Edited by Sterre Schlosser
If you had asked me a year ago what my idea of personal hell would be, spinning on a stationary bike in a sweaty room full of millennial strangers with Taylor Swift blasting would have been at the top of the list. For those unfamiliar, Ro-cycle is essentially glorified dancing on bicycles, mixed with weight training, and a ton of cardio.
You may be wondering: what's so enticing about sweating in the dark with 60 strangers? When you enter Rocycle, you feel as if you're at the reception desk of heaven, like you're being baptized in over-priced athleisure and motivational quotes, ready to be reborn as someone who actually exercises for fun. You check in, get your shoes, and feel a slight hint of judgment as the receptionist asks if you know your ‘European’ shoe size. You enter the locker room, and just as you start undressing, the last class leaves the spin room, their faces bright red as they quickly gather their stuff to move on with their day, having only put an hour aside in Google Calendar. You stand in line and question your outfit choice, beginning to realize that this class may actually be sponsored by Lululemon.
I enter my first class—Taylor Swift-themed—full of nerves. Everyone adjusts their bikes, and as soon as I get on mine, I feel a deep sense of irony. Am I really biking indoors in Amsterdam? Suddenly, the lights go down, and the instructor starts a monologue about doing your best and not focusing on anyone else. It’s followed up with the line, “don’t be intimidated by the front row.” I whisper under my breath, cursing whichever one of my friends signed me up for seat number 7 out of 60.
The class begins and I’m staring in the mirror, watching everyone hit double time—two times forward, one time back. Suddenly, I’m wondering if this is, in fact, one of the cults I’ve been warned about. And more importantly, am I paying to be in this cult?
To be honest, the room can feel like a place of internalized doom. You wonder if you’re secretly in an unspoken competition with the girl next to you about who can turn their resistance dial higher. But once you cross the line from being hyper-aware of your existence to realizing that everyone else is just as hyper-aware of theirs, you stop caring about how off-beat your legs are, or that you don’t know how to crunch that low.
In the middle of the class, my definition of femininity shifted. I entered the room with preconceived notions about spin class, women’s athletics, and female presentation. These were broken down in a space filled with darkness, sweat, and brutality. On my way to the class, I remember thinking, How hard can this be?—predetermined by the notion that if 50-year-old moms are doing this, it can't be that difficult. Then I realized how wrong I was as I watched a woman in her late 50s destroy me with her crunches.
Our generation is reclaiming feminist activity. Spinning is shamed because of its association with femininity. But in this space, women are allowed to do the most—take autonomy over their bodies and push themselves beyond the limits of what is considered “showing off.” Sweat drips down your face, your arms feel like they can’t hold your weight anymore, and the sound of your breath is drowned out by “Dancing Queen.” All of a sudden, you’re so profoundly present, so unable to focus on anything but the inside of your own body.
This week, fifteen people in our Grade 12 class went to an Abba x Queen Rocycle class at 8 p.m. on a Wednesday night. Suddenly, I’m in a sports bra and shorts, sweating in front of a girl I talk to maybe once a year. We’re in sync, singing “Mamma Mia” together, and I feel more connected to her than I have in all four years we’ve been at school together.
