Hot New Drug Hits the Streets: Cycling
Graphic by Emma Novy
There are very few places on campus where exhaustion, delusion, and groupthink collide so aggressively that you walk out convinced you’ve both transcended your body and joined a cult—but somehow, Syracuse cycling has perfected the formula.
Once on the bike, you're not just signing up for a wholesome little cardio session with encouraging instructors and a good playlist- you’re basically enrolling in a legally sanctioned rave disguised as wellness. You clip in, dim the lights, and boom- you’ve entered what I can only describe as fitness meets holographic pink cocaine. I’ve experienced significantly more peer pressure to attend one of these cycling classes than I ever have to try actual drugs. People aren't casually inviting you- they're recruiting you.
And the music- there is something in it. The bass is so loud it erases your frontal lobe. You physically cannot think about your unfinished readings or the group project you’ve been ignoring for three weeks. You’d sing along if you weren’t focused on surviving. The only thoughts available are: “pedal, breathe, don't fall off, wait, I like this song, and oh my god when will this song end”.
Meanwhile, Syracuse cycling classes get booked out like exclusive nightclubs, and the wellness portal might as well be a dealer. Oh, you miss studying abroad? Go to cycle and close your eyes—if you push hard enough, maybe the combination of dim lighting and exhaustion will convince you you’re in Copenhagen. Oh, you miss going out before the wave of fraternity investigations? Go to cycle for the music, the chaos, and honestly, the subtle feeling that you’re being hazed. Refresh. Refresh. Congratulations- you secured a spot. Forty-five uninterrupted minutes of manufactured euphoria, a front-row seat to your own cardiovascular ambition.
Then the LED lights go from purple to green and that's when it escalates. Suddenly, everyone in the room is locked in. No one is an individual anymore. You are part of something bigger. A spinning, sweating hive mind powered entirely by bass drops and motivational shouting. The wildest part? Ten minutes ago, half the room couldn’t run a mile. Now, under the influence of house music and collective delusion, everyone is convinced they could compete in a marathon immediately after class, and I'll be damned if I tried to stop them.
Maybe it's the craze over wellness, maybe it’s a new epidemic, but honestly, all I know is it works. For 45 minutes, you forget everything you were spiraling about, everything you were avoiding, everything waiting for you outside that room. You leave drenched, disoriented, and weirdly euphoric, already thinking about the next time you’ll fight the portal just to feel it again. And maybe that’s the real trick of it—not the workout, not the music, not even the illusion of transformation—but how easily you’ll line up to be part of it all over again.