{NM Daily}

SoulCycle instructor Stacey Griffith

You can see them congregating over coconut water at Juice Generation on Manhattan’s West 72^nd street or waiting on line at Whole Foods in Tribeca, drenched in equal parts sweat and neon-colored wicking fabrics. They’re the SoulCycle groupies who spin on average four times a week and travel across the city just to make Laurie Cole’s 9:30 a.m. class or Janet Fitzgerald’s grueling one-hour Sunday morning class. SoulCycle, like its competitor FlyWheel, has become a fitness phenomenon. A single class costs $32 to $36—steep, even by New York standards. But both men and women swear by the payoff of 45 minutes spent sweating and pedaling by candlelight in SoulCycle’s high-tech studios: endorphin highs and svelte silhouettes. And they’ve inspired new activewear trends: neon-colored, camouflage-patterned Nike biking shorts topped by burn-out T-shirts with empowering slogans splashed across the chest, skull-patterned scarves worn as headbands, and Mylar tote bags.

The first time I ever met Lee Alexander McQueen, he was having an outburst. Furious about the flogging he’d received in the press for his first Givenchy haute couture collection—a campy kind of ode to Greek mythology—he had just flown into New York City to work on an ad campaign with the photographer Richard Avedon. When I stupidly mentioned the recent criticism, McQueen began railing against various individuals—most of them quite powerful—in the fashion business, telling me he didn’t give a bleep about them.

Ines de la Fressange

For as long as I’ve known Ines de la Fressange, I’ve never not wanted to dress exactly like her. I first met her in Paris in the late Eighties when she was a model for Chanel and was named the Marianne, the national emblem of France. Since then, I’ve run into her at fashion industry dinners or in the Roger Vivier showroom in Paris where she works alongside designer Bruno Frissoni as a brand ambassador. Every time I see Ines she is wearing some indescribably gorgeous piece of clothing, like an emerald green satin shirt, paired with some other, intensely colorful piece like midnight-blue velvet jeans. It’s hard enough to imagine conjuring these things to wear on a daily basis, and harding still, knowing that everything looks better on Ines because she has asparagus thin limbs, a singular Gallic slouch and a brilliant smile. Suffice it to say I’ve never met another 50-year-old woman who can pull off white jeans.