Diary of a Manhattan workout addict

Lying on mats next to me are dozens of perfect pregnant women, all wearing black Lululemon, tight and lean with identical neat little balloon tummies and tanned skin, bending like pipe cleaners, their glossy ponytails swinging like a line of Giseles.

I must keep up with them. Just as I am really flagging, our instructor and resident goddess, former ballerina Kara Liotta, catches my eye and gives me a shout-out and a wink, and suddenly I feel the energy flooding back into me as she calls us onto our feet. That’s the power of a guru. She beckons us to rise up on our tippy-toes for the next routine. I’m with her all the way.

Gigi Hadid

GETTY IMAGES

Forget fashion shows, cocktail parties, swanky restaurants. As a 47-year-old Brit who has lived here for ten years, I can tell you sex, drugs and rock’n’roll are so over in New York. Intensive exercise classes led by instructors who are revered like the latest spiritual leaders are now the world to inhabit. That’s where you’ll see Gigi Hadid, Katie Couric and all my West Village mom friends and magazine freelancer colleagues. In fact, running into people at classes – as we call them – is so unbeatable for networking, it’s now the central plank of our social life (and social climbing). When a woman in New York asks, “What do you do?”, she doesn’t mean, “What’s your profession?” She means, “What class do you take?” Your answer telegraphs your place in the social pecking order as effectively as a VIP wristband (remember those?) once did.

Tuesday
SLT, 7.30am
It’s 7.26 exactly and I am waiting in the gorgeous lobby of a stylish downtown building that is more like the office of an interior decorator than a gym, anxiously watchingthe seconds on my iPhone tick down. SLT – Strengthen, Lengthen, Tone – is famous for its ruthless latecomers policy: if you are more than exactly five minutes late, your place is forfeited and given to one of the hopefuls on standby gathered among the fresh flowers and perfectly curated sofas on which no one ever sits.

Right now, I am feeling pretty damn pleased with myself because I have managed to snag the number one spot on the standby list thanks to my best buddy, Tracy Taylor, aka TT, a senior editor at Net-A-Porter. I couldn’t be more excited. The clock hits zero and I am in. I rush through the studio doors, lie facedown on a bench next to TT and give her a huge thumbs-up. At this very moment, there is nowhere in the city more prestigious to be than in this studio. In minutes I am hooked up to my own personal “Megaformer”, a torture device masquerading as a Pilates machine, and we are launching into the most gruelling full-body workout imaginable. No wonder they call it Pilates on crack. Even better, just as the class is getting going, I spot the lady whose place I took come bursting into the lobby. She clocks me instantly – the regulars all know the regulars – and fixes me with an evil gaze, knowing I am the usurper who has prevented her from getting into the class. I seriously wonder if she is about to storm in and pull me off my hard-won equipment. Instead, she bursts out crying and storms out of the lobby. Hey, this is New York, lady. By the end of 45 minutes of lifting, stretching, pulling and pushing, I am a quivering ball of jelly muscles. But after a shower with the gluten-free Vermont body soap laid on here – at $40 (£31) a session we have the right to be demanding – I am energised beyond belief.

No one could find my new-found mania for exercise more surprising than me. My grandmother taught me that horses sweat, men perspire and ladies glow. So I was never a gym bunny. Until recently, my main exercise routine involved sticking one arm in the air, waving and shouting, “Taxi!” Now I spend $300 per week on classes. When I tell this to my friends back in the UK they gasp and can’t believe it, but that’s normal out here. Most women I know now spend more on their classes than they do on eating and clothes.

I’d like to think that this new obsession is all part of a desire to put less emphasis on possessions or displaying those possessions, and a greater emphasis on personal experiences. Really, it’s just the latest way we can indulge in one-upmanship.

Wednesday
The Dogpound, 8.30am
TT and I – and six of our friends – have booked a session at Hugh Jackman’s favourite boxing gym, the Dogpound. We are jabbing and dancing around each other while catching up on work ideas and gossip. It’s like a dinner party in a boxing ring. At 8.30 in the morning. In New York, 8.30am is the new 8.30pm.

The Dogpound is the unofficial gym of the Victoria’s Secret Angels and most of Condé Nast. It’s an all-black, Fabien Baron-designed space – and so unlike the grotty gyms of old that I prefer to call it a “curated exercise space”.

This morning it’s jam-packed with models lifting, squatting and punching. Kanye West blasts from the speakers. The Dogpound’s co-founders, brothers Dawin and Brey Pena, and trainer Kirk Myers, who is menacing and covered in tattoos and looks like he’s fresh out of the yard at Rikers Island (but in a sexy way), take turns barking at skinny girls to complete one more push-up. He’s the guy who turned Hugh Jackman into Wolverine. Everyone wants to sweat for Kirk.

In the taxi after our communal workout, TT tells me she’s started eating a very expensive kind of edible clay – which supposedly has zero calories – instead of snacking. She looks amazing.

Thursday
SoulCycle, 6am
Sometimes, of course, it all goes wrong. I’ve been invited to an extreme spin class by a Perky Swedish Mom from my ten-year-old son’s school (a private West Village liberal establishment), and she has insisted on putting me in the front row right next to her. There are 60 people in the room and we are arrayed as if worshipping at an altar: our instructor is on a raised dais. Horrible hardcore rave and rap blasts at maximum volume.

I am not a great one for being yelled at over loud music very early in the morning, so the screamed exhortations to go faster and harder are not exactly the best start. But I push on, a sea of absurdly bright blonde, perfectly snipped ponytails swishing all around my bedraggled one. I am just about coping until the heat is turned up – at which point, my legs buckle, my foot gets stuck in the stirrup and jams the wheel and I career off the saddle of the exercise bike onto the floor. Nobody seems to notice my epic fail amid the blaring rave tunes – not least because the room is largely blacked out, illuminated only by candles. Sorry, didn’t I say? Spinning in the dark, I decide, is not for me, and as I skulk out of the room like a loser halfway through the class, everybody stares in disgust. Including the PSM. Because the only thing worse than not having a class in the first place is abandoning one. I know I’ll never hang out with PSM again, and not just because the cow didn’t come to my rescue. Leaving another woman’s class is as insulting as telling her you don’t shop with her favourite designer, that you despise her interior decorator or hate her husband’s jokes.

To make myself feel better, I hop in a cab to my new breakfast spot, the Juice Shop on 21st and 7th, where I get a lavender water called Peace. It’s $10 and is basically water with a few bits of lavender floating in it, something I could make at home, if I had a garden. That will be my breakfast. No one’s eating croissants any more. They are barely touching coffee. And I won’t mention the s-word. I haven’t been near the stuff since one of our instructors shouted out in class, “Sugar is the devil.” I gave it up there and then.

Friday
Bari, 9.30am
I’ll basically try any class that is conducted on a hardwood floor. I can’t abide exercising on carpet. Too unhygienic. I’m quite particular about that. Bari is perfect for me, as it’s raised above the floor, so here I am bouncing on a mini-trampoline while doing a cardio workout to rap music surrounded by ex-Danish models, now mommies.

Bari

Everyone’s very blonde and very tall. It’s like being surrounded by a squadron of hygge jumping beans. Bari was invented by another exercise guru goddess, Alexandra Bonetti Pérez. She’s stunning and has a degree in finance and listens almost exclusively to Taylor Swift’s 1989. On repeat.

I come to these places because I have to. If I don’t get to at least four classes a week, it’s like going cold turkey. The sleeplessness and irritability that blighted my life for so many years come zooming back, my skin breaks out, I snap at the kids and my husband, and find myself craving meat and sweets and wondering if I need to go back on sleeping tablets.

Saturday
Inscape meditation, 9.30am
I always start my day by opening my apartment door and taking delivery of a cooler full of amazing vanilla health shakes sent to me by my personal dietician, the TV diet guru, Rocco DiSpirito. I met Rocco (well, I say “met”, but we have a text-only relationship – I’ve never actually laid eyes on him) through a friend who had done every diet imaginable. Rocco, who charges $1,000 a week, has an approach that is pretty simple; shakes and energy bars (his own brand, of course) and for dinner a great vegetable selection and some protein, like salmon, tossed in olive oil.

Even better, I now get sometimes flirty texts from Rocco. I once messaged him to ask if I could have a slice of bread at dinner, “No way, Lucy!” came the instant reply. I wouldn’t dream of disobeying him – I mean, he’s just so gorgeous.

Nearly all of us are on bespoke diets these days – herb-infused water, coconut yoghurt and vegetables that are so organic they are mouldy within an hour are standard.

Today is a restful weekend day, so I kick off with an hour at Inscape, a meditation class in the Flatiron district. It takes place in a “dome” that is like a high-tech yurt. The Inscape class is led by a friendly Australian female voice on an app that is piped into the room and takes you through a meditation. There’s a facilitator, with a yogi vibe – serene, long hair, loose-fitting clothes – who’s in the room to provide focus. Yes, of course, you could be lying on your bed at home with this app and save yourself $22. But people use this place as an escape, for a quiet 45-minute lie-down.

Next door is the FlyBarre studio, which is convenient if I feel like doing a double-header, but today I am following it up with Body By Simone, with Simone De La Rue. She used to work for Tracey Anderson, Gwyneth Paltrow’s business partner. Body is an intensive class that requires you to do moves like the routines done by J-Lo’s backing dancers. The sight of a bunch of middle-aged mums thrusting and grinding is not exactly edifying. But it is wonderfully liberating.

Then it’s into the car with my husband and two children and off to the Hamptons, where we have a weekend home. I don’t drive – I have a phobia about holding a steering wheel. Maybe that’s why I also don’t like spinning.

Sunday
Master FlyBarre, 9am
In the Hamptons on a Sunday my big treat used to be breakfast at the Candy Kitchen, an old-school diner with a soda fountain and homemade ice cream, where I might run into Julianne Moore and her family, or give a little wave to another regular, Rudy Giuliani. Now my treat is a session with Todd Allen. Todd is my favourite former dancer turned Master FlyBarre instructor in East Hampton. He is tanned and toned and wears a white singlet and tiny shorts. He loves to sing along and often pretends to be doing an audition for Dancing with the Stars.

I moved to his sessions a few months ago. Switching to a new instructor is always a delicate manoeuvre – the unwritten rules surrounding such a change would have made Nancy Mitford’s head spin. You can always add a new class to your schedule – indeed, there’s a brilliant new app called ClassPass that allows you to use centrally purchased digital “tokens” to book different sessions (all the bookings are exclusively online; I can’t think of a single instructor I have ever seen talking on a phone). But swapping one for another? Now that is a different story.

Like all fashionable worlds, the world of classes is small, incestuous and gossipy, so don’t imagine for one moment you can sneak off to Barry’s Bootcamp without the girls at SoulCycle finding out all about it. So when it comes to dumping an instructor you have to be circumspect.

Another delicate scenario, and one that is becoming more frequent as the industry grows, is following a favourite instructor who sets up on their own. Many of the supertoned who once worked for one fitness goddess decide, inevitably, to start their own class, which they always claim is completely different and all their own idea, but is of course a variation on the basic theme of inspiration meets exercise. One thing that is technically forbidden is for the upstart to email old clients and invite them to a free try-out session – but then this is America. It happens all the time. And why not? It’s a brave new wellness world, and there’s more than enough of us fitness junkies to go round.

Fitness Junkie by Lucy Sykes and Jo Piazza is out now (£9.99, Doubleday)

My New York workout: how I spend $300 a week. By Lucy Sykes

The Dogpound
$40 (£31) for 55 minutes

Dogpound regular Karlie Kloss

REX SHUTTERSTOCK

Ambience/vibe Rocky’s gym redesigned by cult creative director Fabien Baron. The focus is an old-fashioned boxing ring.
Most likely to hear“Did you hear? She got dumped from the new Victoria’s Secret campaign.”
Signature exercise Burpees – if you are late, you have do an extra 15 for each minute.
Star instructor Kirk Myers, the tattooed supertrainer who got Hugh Jackman fit to play Wolverine.
Most likely to see Karlie Kloss, the photographer Vanina Sorrenti, Vogue’s Emma Elwick-Bates.
You’ll leave feeling... Pumped up and ready to rumble.

SLT
$40 an hour
Ambience/vibe Ubercompetitive women fighting to get a place, then sweating through a routine worthy of an elite athlete. The motto is, “Better sore than sorry.”
Most likely to hear “I am getting ready for my 50th at GoldenEye.”
Signature exercise The scrambled eggs – on the Megaformer.
Star instructor Bethany Meyers, who looks like a supermodel.
Most likely to see Actual supermodels Carolyn Murphy, Constance Jablonski and Christy Turlington.
You’ll leave feeling... Sore but definitely not sorry.

FlyBarre
$40 an hour

FlyBarre

Ambience/vibe Superfriendly sorority sisters with top knots and ab-exposing tankinis; a clean, light dance studio.
Most likely to hear “Are you doing a double?”
Signature exercise Repeating tiny moves over and over while standing on your tiptoes.
Star instructor Kara Liotta, creative director, who is also a Nike ambassador and Instagrammer.
Most likely to see Gigi Hadid, news anchor Katie Couric, actress (and Sting’s daughter) Mickey Sumner, plus fashion execs, wellness coaches and lots of shiny, ambitious and supertoned young women.
You’ll leave feeling... Stretched out, taller, happier – and lighter.

Flywheel
$35 for an hour

Flywheel

Ambience/vibe Olympic athletes at a disco. Superpolished.
Most likely to hear “Are you running the Shelter Island 10k this weekend?”
Signature exercise Spinning while lifting weights to tone the arms.
Star instructor Kate Hickl, former advertising executive and yoga teacher.
Most likely to see Actors (and best friends) Hilary Swank and Mariska Hargitay, plus bankers, traders, etc.
You’ll leave feeling... Dead. Drenched in sweat.

Inscape meditation
$22 for 45 mins
Ambience/vibe Heathrow’s first-class lounge meets yurt.
Most likely to hear “The ayahuasca retreat was so authentic and I lost 10lb! It was all so emotional.”
Signature exercise This one’s about the inner journey.
Star instructor The Inscape app.
Most likely to see Padma Lakshmi, Vogue employees, the fashion crowd, health bloggers.
You’ll leave feeling... Ready for bed.

Bari
$35 for an hour

Lucy Sykes with Alexandra Bonetti Pérez

MACKENZIE STROH

Ambience/vibe Beachy. Palm tree wallpaper, ultraviolet light – like a casting for Estée Lauder.
Most likely to hear “I have to go and breastfeed – my boobs are about to explode.”
Signature exercise Mini-trampoline and bands, combined to create a hybrid cardio dance workout.
Star instructor Alexandra Bonetti Pérez, the former financial consultant, who set it up at the age of 25.
Most likely to see The Handmaid’s Tale star Elisabeth Moss.
You’ll leave feeling... Bouncy. Really bouncy.

SoulCycle
$34 for an hour
Ambience/vibe Dark and loud, the space is lit by candles and the soundtrack is turned up full blast.
Most likely to hear Whooping.
Signature exercise Furious pedalling while hovering above the saddle.
Star instructor Stacey Griffith – a real badass.
Most likely to see Lena Dunham, Brooke Shields, J.Crew’s Mickey Drexler.
You’ll leave feeling... Like you are the fitness revolution.

Shoot credit
Hair and make-up Birgitte for Laura Mercier at Sally Harlor