Chapter Six Silas
Chapter Six
Silas
S aturday dawns. I am nervous.
No matter how many times I tell myself to just chill out , I can’t stop the erratic beating of my heart and the sweat currently seeping from my palms. Perhaps doing another late-night deep dive into Jo’s Instagram while eating cold noodles straight from the fridge was a bad idea.
I’ve thought about Jo more over the last week than I care to admit. Part of this was research for the article, because no matter what search words I try or how many pages deep I go into Google, I find nothing from the woman herself. Instead, I read the same corporate talking points repeated over and over again to various news outlets, until deep in the midst of Forbes and Fast Company headlines, I stumbled upon a forum dedicated solely to talk about Haven instructors.
This is where things got weird.
Initially, it took me by surprise that such a place exists. Are there really half a million people invested enough in these instructors that they gather online to discuss them? After a few scrolls, I realized that this place was more of an Internet water cooler—full of gossip, from who’s allegedly dating who to theories on who’s had plastic surgery done, and everything in between.
Man, those Internet strangers have shit to say .
I searched for Jo’s name as far back as the forum’s origination, which was sometime around the launch of the Haven Home bike. Some of the comments were innocent enough; people wanted to know who she was, where she was from, if her classes were worth taking. But then there were the less friendly threads—the ones with commentary on her body and questions about her relationship status—which devolved into contentious discussions that made me feel uneasy now that I’d met her in person. Everything seemed to be fair game, including speculation on the one point of interest I find: several years ago, she disappeared from the schedule without notice and didn’t appear again until a couple months later.
After two hours in the underbelly of the Haven snark forum, I closed out of the website and decided to never go back. It’s one thing for anonymous people to talk about Jo as if she’s a character from a TV show, almost as if she isn’t real. Unfortunately, she’s not the first celebrity to have invasive fans or clients—whatever they call themselves. But it feels entirely different now that I’ve seen a glimmer of who she is in the real world.
I’ve had no other choice but to scrape social media—mainly Instagram, where her followers are the most active—in hopes that I’ll find clues to the woman on the other side of the screen. But the best I’ve found is an Instagram account dedicated to the best of Jo’s on-camera hair flips, along with a handful of Haven meme pages. I’ve gone so deep that I’ve dreamed of Jo twice now, but it’s not the smiling, spandex-y pictures that find me in sleep.
It’s the salt-and-tropical smell of her skin and the ebony waves that shimmered in the dim light of the bar. That version of her—the one that has nothing to do with Haven—is the one I want to know more about, which frustrates me endlessly. She is not someone I typically would want to know if it weren’t for this assignment.
A gorgeous early summer morning greets me when I exit my studio apartment at the edge of Chinatown. This early, it’s cool enough that the air is free from the smell of hot garbage, and I’ve given myself enough time to walk the mile and a half to the Haven HQ studio in NoHo. A light breeze ruffles my hair and cools the warm, anxious skin beneath my athletic shorts and T-shirt as I meander up the Bowery.
The neighborhood is already bustling. Nearly everyone I pass on the street is dressed athleisure chic; women in flattering leggings of various hues feed their cute dogs little cups full of whipped cream from the coffee shop on the corner, dads with strollers worth more than two months of my rent look impeccably sharp in their designer gym shorts and denim jackets. I feel like a complete outsider in this bourgeois world until I realize… I’m dressed exactly like them.
Situated at the corner of two busy cross streets, Haven’s HQ is the center of this upper-class universe. I stop and take in the window coverings, from where a giant Jo stares back at me, arms folded across her chest, biceps flexed, face severe enough that I feel like I’m looking directly at the sun. Next to her is Mike, the other founding instructor, looking like a Black Adonis with waves and a low fade, his physique so sculpted it should honestly be criminal.
My palms are sweaty again when I pull the doors open and step into what can only be defined as well-organized chaos. To my immediate left is a wall of branded Haven retail. I spy a rainbow of sports bras dangling over the root of the company’s long-term success: a sexy black stationary bike with a tablet affixed in front of the handlebars.
To my right, a juice bar is abuzz with activity, but even the shrieking blenders are no match for the booming music piped in from mystery speakers and the crowds of people milling about the lobby. Eventually I find my way to the check-in desk, where a bubbly blond girl no older than twenty greets me with an excited wave. If there wasn’t a partition between us, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she hugged me.
“Welcome to Haven! First time?” she asks.
My eyes veer to the enormous block lettering printed on the wall behind her: WELCOME HOME. “Uh, yeah. Is it that obvious?” I ask.
“First timers always look a little lost,” she says with an actual, honest-to-god wink. This girl has more energy than I’m mentally prepared to handle. “Which class are you in?”
“Ten A.M. with Jo?” I offer, hoping this is the correct lingo.
She makes a knowing “mmmm” sound as she hands me a liability waiver to fill out. My attention wanders as she starts checking me into the system, but the girl is quick. I’ve just started to peer down the long hallway when she claps her hands together, pumps her fists into the air, and exclaims, “Okay, done!”
Startled, I blink at her. I’m fairly certain she’s just done some sort of cheerleader combo.
“What’s your shoe size?” she asks. “Shoe rental is on us the first time. Do you have water?”
“Eleven. And yes,” I reply as I motion to the backpack slung over my shoulder.
She whips a pair of cycling cleats out from beneath the counter and hands them over to me. “Perfect. You’re in studio one, first floor, bike seventy. Doors open ten minutes before class and close right on time. Once they’re closed, they’re closed, so do not be late. There are staff in the studio that will help you get set up.”
I nod as I tuck the foreign-looking shoes under my arm. The cleats on the bottom press into my side, and I can feel the scratch of well-worn Velcro against my arm.
“Men’s restrooms are down the hall, to the left. Lockers are everywhere, and common areas are gender neutral. You can take any locker that’s free,” she continues. “Oh! And have so much fun!”
Somewhat stunned, I make my way down the long hallway. Throughout the crowds of people, I can make out words like ATHLETE and HOME and BELONG and ONE painted in big, white block letters against the deep gray walls. I follow the blonde’s instructions and struggle to find a vacant locker where I can deposit my backpack, which holds my notebook, a change of clothes, and water for after class. All around me, people are buzzing with energy, flowing in and out of doors and halls and stairs like they’re part of some river whose current I haven’t quite caught.
I would be lying to myself if I said I hadn’t been prepared to hate this, to feel like I stuck out like a sore thumb. I had anticipated throngs of carbon copy elites, whitewashed like the factory-made shiplap that decorates the walls of their Connecticut summer compounds. But that’s not what I see at all, at least not here, in this small, cramped common area. There are people of all shapes and sizes here.
If anything, I most closely resemble the enemy I expected.
To my left, a door swings open, and more music spills out into the common area, clashing horribly with the bass-heavy sounds already pumping throughout the building. Just as I realize the sign above the door says STUDIO ONE, people begin to file in. I hurry to switch out my shoes and begin clomp clomp clomp -ing my way behind them. The bike cleats are impossibly loud against the tile floor.
That’s when I see her, her long, dark hair already wet and piled high on the top of her head. She’s glowing—literally, her skin seems to catch the ambient light in a way I’ll never understand—as she saunters down the stairs to the studio. She stops occasionally to wave and talk to people who grab her attention. The way her body looks in a matching set of black, skin-tight leggings and a sports bra doesn’t escape me.
My nerves come back in full force. Heart hammering in my chest, I wipe my damp palms on the fabric of my shorts. Why did I think this was a good idea?
You’re a runner , I tell myself as I inch toward the door. You average twenty miles a week with seven-minute miles. You’ve finished a marathon and three half marathons. What’s one spin class?
Our paths have nearly converged now. The closer I get to her, the more I realize I’m not nervous because of the class.
Well, not completely. I’m nervous because of her.
There’s a black belt slung around her waist, from which a cord runs to a microphone looped around her ears and the back of her head. With the way her body glistens and her eyes shine, she looks less like a fitness instructor and more like a pop star.
“Silas! Hey!” When our gazes snag on each other, her expression oscillates in quick succession: first surprise, then confusion, then—is that… joy? “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”
The full force of her smile hits me like a brick to the face. A thrill courses through me; inwardly, I chastise myself for being so elated at her attention. I clomp closer to her as the line of people ahead of me filters to their designated bikes. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Also, it’s my job.”
She smirks as she adjusts the microphone set against her left cheek. “You bring your press pass?”
“Dang—forgot it at home.” I make a show of searching for the badge I never planned to bring. “Am I still allowed inside?”
The corners of her lips quirk, almost like she’s fighting a smile. “I guess I can make an exception this time. I did hold a VIP bike for you. For free.”
“I appreciate that,” I reply in earnest before switching gears. “But I seem to recall that this was your idea. Are you still able to talk after?”
She nods, a little slowly, but I catch the trepidation in her narrowing eyes. “Yeah, I can do that. Give me twenty minutes after class and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
A staff member ushers me past her, and I’m immersed in the dark, cool room. There are bikes everywhere in here, lined up in neat little rows so they all face the podium, where a lone bike sits under a spotlight. As Jo makes her way to center stage, I’m led to my own bike tucked away in a corner. The staff member sets me up, and I try to pay attention to the instructions she’s giving me—really, I do—but it’s impossible to listen when Jo is going through her own setup, lit up like a star.
Before I realize what’s happening, I’m clipped in, my ass firmly planted against the hard bike seat, my feet trapped by the cleats securely fastened to the pedals. The doors to the studio close, and Jo begins rattling off some basic instructions; I catch words like resistance , power , and take it at your own pace . I’m on sensory overload here, a nervous thrill coursing through me at how new and foreign this is.
Jo clips in, the lights drop, and the music turns up. I’m acutely aware of how far out of my comfort zone I am.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m sure that I’ve died.
I started this day determined not to be bested by this whole experience. It took only a few songs for me to realize that I have nothing on these Haven devotees who fly through the class like we’re being graded. And they’re nothing like I expected either. Even in the darkness, I can see the variety in the people currently pedaling their way through Jo’s instructions. There are so many bodies here, from hard lines to soft curves, folks with graying hair next to the spritely bottled blondes of youth. I’m having an out-of-body experience, watching myself pour sweat as I struggle to keep pace with a pack of seventy-some strangers.
Jo herself rides the whole class. The ease with which she rides the bike and yells instructions into the microphone astounds me. She has a commanding presence even when she’s breathless and slick with sweat. Her legs and arms move in such close tandem that I wonder what it’s like to be so coordinated and assured. Every time her heels dig down, I try to match her movements, to feel what she feels as the music pulses all around us like a living, breathing thing.
Aside from the obvious athleticism, Jo brings a sense of drama. When she swings her head to the beat of the music, eyes closed as her legs strain with effort, I can tell that this is more than just a workout to her. Several times I notice her lip-syncing tidbits of the song blaring through the speakers. The emotional connection she feels to this—to all of us, pedaling in front of her—is clear.
When the beat drops low and the pulsing rhythm of an EDM song drives us all forward, Jo places a hand to her chest while the other grips the handlebar. “All of you showed up here today for some reason. I want you to think about what brought you here today, to this class, to sweat and move and feel. Let all the other bullshit just fall away. You’re safe here. With me. With everyone around you. Push through that noise that can make life so fucking hard and feel that. Feel this.”
Some riders woohoo and snap their towels at her words. In any other circumstance, I would roll my eyes at a proclamation like that. But here, in this moment, I feel it.
So I do my best to match my feet to the impossibly fast pace, and breathe.
I can see why Mia was late to work the other day.
If the men’s bathrooms are this chaotic on a Saturday morning, then I can only imagine what the women’s bathrooms are like as people rush to get ready for work. Even though the restrooms are cavernous, with high ceilings and so many reflective surfaces I feel like I’m in a carnival fun house, the place is packed with bodies. The line for the showers is at least ten people long.
I carve out a space for myself at the end of a long counter, directly in front of a mirror, so I have no choice but to come to terms with just how hard I had to work in Jo’s class. I’m covered in sweat from my head to the damp toes of my socks. My face is red from exertion, and my heart rate still hasn’t returned to normal.
Just as I pull my change of clothes out of my backpack, the guy next to me says, “God, that was so worth it.”
“Right?” his friend asks. “I’m so glad we got to ride with both of them while we were here.”
“You know I love our people in LA, but no one compares to them .”
While I know that eavesdropping is generally frowned upon, I can’t exactly help it in a space this tightly packed. Did the two men next to me fly to New York just to take classes at Haven’s original studio?
Before I can think better of it, I turn to face the incredibly tan, attractive men currently changing into clean shirts next to me. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” I say, using my friendliest voice. “But did you two just say you traveled here from LA to take Haven classes?”
The two men exchange a quick look before the one closest to me answers. “Sort of. We’re visiting friends in the city, but we did plan to take Jo’s and Mike’s classes while we’re here.”
“Oh, you were in Jo’s class?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Just now?”
“Yes!” It’s the other one’s turn to speak, his face lit up with excitement as he gushes. “Were you in it too?”
In response to his enthusiasm, I find myself smiling. “Yeah, I was.”
“Well, then you know how amazing she is. Totally worth the trip.”
Without another word, the two men snatch up their belongings and weave their way through the crowd to the exit. Dumbfounded, I stare after them with my clean T-shirt clutched in my hands, mouth slightly open.
While I can admit that I worked hard in class—okay, I had a little bit of fun too—I cannot fathom a life in which I would travel across the country just to sweat with a semi-famous stranger.
Flabbergasted and a little bit disgusted by the extravagance of it all, I turn my attention back to the task at hand, determined to find fault in the woman worth flying thousands of miles for.