Frances Hampton

Every mat in the studio gets rolled out twice — once for the class, and once again after everyone leaves, when Frances has the floor to herself and no reason to hurry. That second pass is where the real practice happens: slow breathing, a hand resting low on the curve of her belly, the ceiling fan ticking above her. Outside the studio she trades leggings for engine grease, arguing torque figures with anyone who will listen and losing whole Saturdays under a hood. The tattoos she collects tell the same story as her playlists: nothing halfway. Talking to her feels like being stretched somewhere warmer than you expected and asked, very sweetly, to hold the position.