If you’re searching for an exclusive gym that makes Equinox look like a neighborhood rec center, welcome to Continuum Club, the ultra-private wellness haven in New York City that commands as much as $100,000 a year for the privilege of breaking a sweat.
On All on the Table with Katie Lee Biegel, Biegel grilled Elizabeth Endres, host of The Wellness Process, about what really goes on behind Continuum’s velvet ropes—and the answers were juicier than a post-workout smoothie.
Endres told Biegel she kept walking by it and seeing a security guard standing outside. Her curiosity got the better of her, and honestly, same. What kind of gym needs a bouncer? She finally had to know what made this exclusive gym tick.
Think of Continuum Club as a luxury health campus disguised as a boutique fitness studio—30-day onboarding with lab work, VO₂-max testing, DEXA scans, and a personalized “wellness prescription” built by doctors, PhDs, and data scientists. After that, the amenities unfurl like a red-carpet montage:
No wonder Continuum caps membership at 250 people, as Endres noted, which probably explains why you’ve never heard of anyone who actually goes there.
If the price tag made your Apple Watch hiccup, the recovery menu might revive you. “They have cold plunge sauna float therapy, which I’m dying to try,” Endres says. “They have a hyperbaric oxygen chamber, massage, and there are certain tiers of memberships where you get, like, unlimited of those things.”
Translation: ice-bath one minute, hyperbaric nap the next, then float in body-temperature salt water that turns stress into a distant memory. It’s the wellness equivalent of pressing “select all” on the spa menu—and the exclusive gym delivers it under one gold-plated roof.
Forget “celebrity trainers,” Continuum’s coaches are academic overachievers. Endres spells it out: “I believe you either have to have a master’s or a doctorate in your specific category of whatever you’re training in.” Layer that expertise over an AI platform that crunches every biomarker from REM cycles to resting metabolic rate, and clients get workouts scientifically matched to their mitochondria.
Hydration isn’t an afterthought, either. Hendress laughed about the club’s famous bottled-water service—but the culinary perks go far deeper. “They have a chef,” Endres says, explaining how some people, based on their membership tier, get all their chef-made meals there.
Picture farm-to-dumbbell dining—anti-inflammatory bowls before your float session, grass-fed steak after your EMOM, and cold-pressed adaptogen shots waiting at the juice bar. It’s a dietitian’s dream, and one more reason clients treat the club like their personal townhouse.
So, who can drop six figures to train in near-solitude? During her visit, Endres only spotted about four people, “all kind of the demographic you would expect…older men.” One can assume the club is full of hedge-fund legends, tech founders, Olympic hopefuls, and the occasional supermodel catching a 2 p.m. infrared session.
With New Yorkers paying five-figure rents, $100,000 for a world-class health headquarters isn’t impossible, especially if it replaces all the separate fees for a gym, trainer, physical therapist, dietitian, and spa days. Add the priceless perk of anonymity—no TikTok teens filming your RDLs—and Continuum’s membership suddenly looks almost logical.
Still, it’s not just about the money. As Endres summed up after sampling the goods, Continuum delivers “a fascinating concept.” It’s the ultimate wellness blank check—diagnostics, performance, recovery, and social networking stacked into one discreet playground.
For now, the rest of us can keep hustling our ClassPass credits—but if a mystery benefactor ever offers you a Continuum invite, remember Katie Lee Biegel’s incredulous reaction: “Stop.” But don’t actually stop!
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