San Francisco’s Fort Mason park is empty in the early morning darkness, every surface the color of a used cast-iron pan. It’s pouring rain, and I’ve been wandering around since just after 6, trying to find … well, I’m not exactly sure. All I know is that, according to a Facebook post, members of one of the strangest fitness groups in the country are supposed to be meeting here right about now. But the Google Maps screenshot I pulled from the website seems to have directed me to a parking lot. Or the front door of the high-end vegetarian restaurant Greens. It’s hard to tell.

I check Facebook again.

What are you planning to do for the first Monday of 2016? Sleep in? Lazily slog on into work? No need for that. Come join us for #DonutMondays at NPSF (Gil, don’t forget the donuts!). Fort Mason. 6:25AM

Just as I start thinking I’ll have to find my own doughnut, a woman in her mid-­twenties jogs up to me looking equally lost. She’s dressed in a gray Adidas jacket, black leggings, and a tank top that resembles caution tape. Her wet hair is stuck to her forehead as though she’s just been dunked in the Pacific.

“Do you know where November Project meets?” she asks with a slight accent. Relieved, I tell her I’m trying to find them as well. “I’m Stine!” she says.

And then she hugs me.

Jake Stangel

If you join November Project, you’re going to get a lot of hugs. Hugs when you show up. Hugs when you’re introduced to new members. Hugs when you finish a workout. Sometimes, hugs just because.

I’ve been an athlete all my life. I’ve run ultramarathons, trained with alpinists, practiced yoga for 10 years, studied ballet for 16, and tested every fitness trend imaginable. Throughout that time, I’ve never made a practice of cuddling strangers while I exercise. But to have any hope of understanding what November Project is all about, one must embrace it—in every way.

The group’s preferred term, it should be noted, is fitness movement, and it has chapters in 29 cities around the US, Canada, and (as of earlier this year) Iceland. This it has achieved almost entirely through social media and the work of volunteers; if you want to launch November Project in a new city, you have to apply online and pass a rigorous screening process that looks for serious athletes with strong social media followings. Many leaders find themselves working nearly full-time to create and grow their commu­nity, all without pay. While nobody tracks the numbers, it’s safe to say that thousands of members show up multiple times a week for intense presunrise workouts—and they’re all ecstatic to be there. They love each other so much.

Jake Stangel

None of that may sound so unusual. In the past few years, fitness has developed into something of a social identity — at least among plugged-in, upper-middle-class, roughly millennial-age urbanites. SoulCycle is marketed as an experiential group high; you pay a bunch of money to sweat it out with the Lululemon elite. If you join Orangetheory, you’re part of the “orange nation.” Barry’s Bootcamp, Throwback Fitness, and the Bar Method are all at least partly social. And on the more extreme end, CrossFit has basically become a lifestyle, with paleo diets and buttered coffee as much a part of the culture as burpees.

Fitness researchers see the trend as both natural and encouraging. “Perhaps what was unnatural was the movement toward exercising alone that the fitness industry often promoted,” says Pedro Teixeira, one of the most extensively published experts on motivation and exercise. “We tend to find meaning and pleasure in sharing our activities with others.” In most of these exercise programs, though, you’re paying for that connection—which must account for part of their success.

What distinguishes November Project is not just the fact that it’s free—just as instructors aren’t paid, members don’t pay—but the degree to which it actually is a social identity. The movement extends beyond exercising to encompass rituals and customs, social expecta­tions, and repercussions for failing to participate. That’s right: If you skip a November Project workout, you’re not out any cash, but the fallout is arguably more severe. You’re, well, shamed. Online. It’s weird.

Spoiler: Not a lot of people miss workouts. Teixeira calls it “an absolute feast for someone studying motivation for exercise.”

One member compared November Project to a church. More commonly, people refer to it as a cult. Never in the pejora­tive I’m-trapped-and-I-can’t-escape sense, though. More like, This is the greatest-tasting Kool-Aid in the world!

Jake Stangel

While we walk, Stine, who’s originally from Denmark, tells me about her obsession with November Project. She’s been a member of the Boston tribe—bears repeating: tribe—for about four months and is visiting San Francisco for the week. “It’s been such a great way to meet people. Cities can be lonely, but you have this instant community,” she says, using a nice-enough line that begins to sound like propaganda as I hear other members repeat it.

Two people who say it a lot are Brogan Graham and Bojan Mandaric. They are November Project’s cofounders—and they totally fit their gladiatorial-­sounding names: 6-foot-tall, bald, tattooed former collegiate rowers. Back in 2011, when the friends were trying to stay motivated during a Boston winter, they agreed to work out every weekday morning at 6:30, keeping track of their progress on a spreadsheet named for that first month, November.

Then, for reasons neither can quite remember, they sent out a tweet to see if anyone would join in. Two people became three, and a movement was born. When the Boston tribe reached 300 people, Graham and Mandaric got matching tattoos.

In the past few years, fitness has developed into some­thing of a social identity — at least among plugged-in, upper-middle-class, roughly millen­nial-age urbanites.

It was a powerful turning point for Graham. During his sophomore year at Northeastern University, he was charged with assaulting a rival college rower. Though the charge was dropped in exchange for community service, he lost his scholarship and was kicked out of school. The experience shaped Graham’s views on community and inclusion. “Got a bad rap? I don’t care,” he wrote in the movement’s official history. “Are you at November Project to be kind, work your ass off, and start your day right? Then that’s all that matters.”

As Stine is telling me how much she loves November Project’s “instant community,” we find who we’re looking for. Unmistakably silhouetted against the foggy morning sky, about 40 people stand in a lopsided semicircle, arms crossed, heads bowed against the wind. They could be praying.

A woman in striped leggings and a North Face trucker hat climbs onto a park bench. “Good morning!” says Laura McCloskey, the San Francisco tribe leader, in a stage whisper. “We’re going to do a workout that I just came up with! I want everyone to break into groups of four! Find your four! Try to group up with someone you don’t normally pair with!”

Jake Stangel

Before we start, she asks if today is anyone’s first time. A few people raise their hands. I, not quite ready to give up my anonymity, do not. The newbies are directed to state where they come from, how they got here, and whether they’re single. A version of this happens at every November Project meetup, one of the traditions borrowed from Graham and Mandaric’s original Boston tribe—along with chants, stair laps, a rallying move called “the bounce,” and, of course, physical affection. “People come looking for a sense of belonging,” Mandaric says. “We foster that.”

The same thing goes for November Project’s other tactics for promoting inclusiveness. Hashtags are essential — follow November Project on Twitter and you’ll see a lot of #hills­forbreakfast, #sleepwhenyouredead, and #justshow­up. Members usually don highlighter-colored sportswear, stenciled and spray-painted with the logo #grassrootsgear. The result is a group of people who look alike, sound alike, and hug alike.

Toward the end of our workout, a man in my squat group finally discovers that I didn’t announce myself as a new member. “We’re going to fix this,” he says with a grin. He outs me to McCloskey, who has me wave to everyone during the group photo (another ritual) and apologize for not making my presence known. Eventually, everyone becomes part of the tribe.

Jake Stangel

In Graham and Mandaric’s crew days, their coach had a policy: If anyone missed practice, the whole team had to do dry-land workouts. It worked because nobody wanted to let the group down. When they started November Project, they knew they’d need a similar system for keeping people accountable to the tribe.

I feel a tiny bit of this—an expectation that no one is above the group—when I’m teased for not introducing myself. But that’s nothing compared to what happens to someone who doesn’t show up for a workout. For that, November Project has perfected a bizarre, more 21st-century form of establishing accountability: online shaming. This is known as “We Missed You.”

From November Project’s website: “If you decided that staying in bed was a better option than working out with your friends (who you promised that you’ll be there) then your face will be featured here.”

Members usually don highlighter-colored sports­wear, stenciled and spray-painted with the logo #grassrootsgear.

By “face,” they mean embarrassing photos lifted from the shamed member’s Facebook profile or supplied by friends. Posts go on to explain that this person committed to attending a workout—made a #verbal, in tribe-speak—but reneged. Screenshots of text messages and emails confirming said #verbal are posted, along with guesses as to why the absentee might have failed to show up—anything from “you must have gotten too drunk the night before” to “perhaps you were lost on a Segway tour.” It’s an elaborate expression of profound disappointment in the offending person, and there are hundreds of examples on the website.

Paddy O’Leary, a member of the San Francisco tribe, remembers when he skipped a workout in 2013. A fellow member made him a “We Missed You” video; he hasn’t missed a workout since. Other victims confirm the tactic’s effectiveness. “You look like an idiot for sleeping in when everyone else is having an amazing time,” says Holly Richardson, also in San Francisco. “It’s not worth it.”

McCloskey makes no apologies for the policy. “November Project is successful because it relies on word of mouth and accountability,” she says. “If I tell you that I will meet you at the corner of Market and Sanchez to run to November Project, come rain, snow, or dinosaurs, I will be there. In the event that someone sends one of those pathetic ‘just can’t do it’ texts at 5:55 am, we have the right to roast them. And roast we do.”

Jake Stangel

Here’s the fundamental thing about shaming: According to behavioral psychologists, it’s not supposed to work. Sure, it might force someone to make a change in the moment—contestants on The Biggest Loser shedding pounds before a national audience, for instance—but the effects don’t always last. When your goals, attitudes, or values are shaped by external motivators, it’s unlikely you’ll stay satisfied or committed for long.

This is certainly true when it comes to working out. For decades, experts in behavior modification have tried to get people to commit to exercise. “So far, nothing has worked,” says Jack Raglin, a professor of kinesiology at Indiana University. It doesn’t matter if you’re paid to exercise, if you’ve paid to exercise, if you might die from lack of exercise—most people just don’t stick it out.

Yet there’s an undeniable element of shaming to this latest generation of exercise fads. It may have started with fitness trackers, which made people more aware of their activity levels in relation to others’—reach 10,000 steps or your coworkers will know you’re a slob. From there, programs began capitalizing on group pressure. In Orangetheory workouts, your calorie burn and heart rate are displayed on a screen. CrossFit posts scores as well, believing it encourages people to push harder—and now it’s in 13,000 affiliated gyms worldwide.

But this motivation strategy, researchers like Raglin and Teixeira suggest, could be as doomed as any other. You may initially want to impress your peers or get your money’s worth, but those considerations rarely lead to true behavior change. If the standard adherence rate for exercise holds, Raglin says, half the people will stop showing up to these classes within a year.

You’d think this would apply to November Project too. After all, the threat of “We Missed You” is external. But there are some differences. November Project members are not paying anything to be there, the goals aren’t about burning the most calories—yet people show up anyway. And many of them have been at this for years, without ever missing a single workout. It’s clearly working for some people.

Jake Stangel

True motivation, Teixeira says, takes something extra, something intrinsic. If members of a group think they are gaining useful skills, feel personally valued, and perceive that they have control over their actions, they are more likely to fully commit. Teixeira believes November Project gives you a bit of all these things. And indeed, everyone I talk to seems like a lifer. But then again, I only talk to people who are there. The one real data point we have is that November Project continues to expand. A recent partnership with the North Face aims to help grow the movement.

Jennifer Hurst, an associate professor of health and exercise science at Truman State University, suggests November Project may be succeeding at pulling off a rare thing: positive shaming. It only works “when the person truly cares what the shamers think,” she says. “The desire for social connectedness and the positive feeling some get from the environment must be worth the time, energy, and sacrifice.” That explains why the rituals, cultlike as they seem, are so crucial. You don’t want to disappoint people you hug, not to mention chant and bounce and dance with.

A number of years ago, Raglin and his colleagues found that married adults who enrolled in a recreational fitness program together had an average adherence rate of over 90 percent, compared to just 50 percent for those who enrolled on their own. “The married pair didn’t necessarily exercise together or even in the same room,” Raglin says. “They simply came and left together. Yet the social benefit was quite profound.”

That may also help explain November Project’s success. Members might not be married to each other, but they’re married to the group. And the group is what holds November Project together.

Jake Stangel

It turns out some November Project members actually are married to each other. At one of my workouts, a young couple tells me they met in the Boston tribe. The movement encourages this sort of thing—leaders are expected to host mixers and speed-­dating events. The phrase “There will be babies” appears on the blog and in promo material.

Yes, it’s all a bit creepy, and I don’t blame passersby who look at us funny (there are many of them). And no matter how many times I’m told that “We Missed You” is “not about shaming, it’s about love,” I won’t be entirely convinced. But you can’t deny the smile on these people’s faces. Nobody looks like that when they’re huffing it alone on a treadmill in their garage. I won’t be heading up a November Project tribe back home in Santa Fe, but if one comes to my town, I wouldn’t say no to a few hugs.

With dawn creeping over the edges of the city, we put our arms around each other and start to bounce. “Y’all good?” someone says, in signature November Project whisper-shout. “Fuck yeah!” the group whispers back.

Surprising myself just a little, I say it too.

Meaghen Brown (@meaghenbrown) is a freelance journalist based in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and the former online fitness editor for Outside.

This article appears in the July 2016 issue.