It’s not just the summer heat pushing New Yorkers to ditch apps in favor of running shoes – it’s the overall dissatisfaction with how we’re supposed to meet people nowadays. Run clubs have emerged as a compelling alternative, promising genuine connections instead of superficial swipes on a screen.
But the revival of run clubs isn’t as simple as it seems. What started as community-focused gatherings is slowly but surely being transformed into yet another business opportunity.
A few months back, the New York Times branded running clubs the latest substitute for dating apps, capturing a growing trend that gained momentum as the pandemic upended our social lives. Run clubs offer people a way to connect in the real world, away from the confines of our phones. Upper West Side Runners, for instance, was founded by Oliver Barret, who saw a need for community in his neighborhood and created a space where locals could meet and come together over their shared interest in the sport. It was a genuine concept – a return to basics in an era dominated by digital interactions.
While the idea of connecting through physical activity isn’t new, what’s changed is the way these spaces are being co-opted by commercial interests. As the fitness and lifestyle industries expand, some run clubs have begun to shift from community-driven efforts to profit-oriented ventures. It raises a critical question: Why do so many genuine attempts at building community eventually turn into business opportunities?
New York City’s Lunge Run Club is a prime example. The TikTok trendy club is an extension of Lunge, the dating app that connects fitness enthusiasts. Here, running takes a backseat, and the search for romance takes center stage. As the founder and CEO Steven Cole recently put it during the bar portion of the Wednesday night ritual: “If you go to run club to run, you’re kind of an idiot. You can just step outside to run.”
On the surface, Lunge looks like any other run club, consisting of a group of people meeting up to exercise and mingle. But underneath, it instead functions more like a carefully crafted marketing ploy for their dating app. The lines between community and commerce blur as the club positions itself not just as a space for runners, but as a brand with a clear motive: profit.
“They’re building a community around a brand, and then monetizing that brand,” Barret said to me. “That’s what bothers me.”
I decided to join one of Lunge’s Wednesday night runs, where according to the organizers, approximately 900 people signed up. We gathered at Washington Square Park, a majority wearing black from head to toe – a symbol that meant we were single, which felt like a modern scarlet letter. It was then a choice between a three-mile run or a 1.5-mile walk, and then we were off, moving through the city and eventually making our way to the West Side Highway. The run itself was fine, but it was impossible to ignore the performative aspect of the whole thing – participants dressed in coordinated outfits, taking over entire streets (which has been heavily criticized by other runners online for its “lack of respect” ) as strangers stopped to take pictures of the runners.
Afterward, everyone met up at a few select bars, which is where the true purpose of the evening finally started. After waiting in line for 20 minutes, I finally made it into the beer hall, where I took a lap to get a feel for the vibe. It was reminiscent of a speed dating event – everyone hopping from one conversation to the next, eyes scanning around, planning for their next move.
Early on in the night, my friend and I started chatting with a man in his late 20s. After we casually talked about our types, he pulled out his notes app and showed us his friend-ranking list – an actual tiered list of his friends from closest to least. My friend pointed out who from the list she thought was attractive, and suddenly, he was playing matchmaker for friends who weren’t even there. At an event that’s supposed to be about face-to-face connections, it was pure irony. Maybe just as ironic as an event that’s supposed to get people off the apps and meet people in person, but somehow, you still end up being encouraged to download another app to connect.
As for the rest of the night, it followed pretty much the same layout: small talk, swapping numbers and Instagram accounts, and chatting about what brought us to the “hottest” run club in town. Was this your first time? Would you return? Have you met anyone interesting?
So is there any space left for authentic human connection? When I joined a run club earlier this year, it was to meet new people interested in the hobby and to stay motivated as a beginner runner. I get that growth can be a sign of success, but it’s a shame to see run clubs – which once symbolized community – are now at risk of becoming just another pawn in the startup business game.
