“How did your father and I meet? Well, we both went to a singles’ running club and our hands brushed as we reached for the electrolyte drinks at the end. He followed me on Strava, we exchanged kudos, and then he offered me his foil cape at the Hackney Half finish line. The rest is history.”
Somewhere, someone will say this in earnest, and frankly, the idea sends a chill down my spine. Romance has apparently traded candlelight and conversation for Lycra leggings, compression socks, and an alarming fondness for pre-run stretching. Gone are the days of love blossoming over cocktails in a dimly lit bar. Now, it’s all about catching feelings mid-5k, with someone who looks deceptively tall in their Hokas and can list their top three protein bars in a heartbeat.
Singles’ running clubs are cropping up across cities faster than you can say “sociable pace”. You’ll spot them instantly—groups decked out in Lululemon and Gymshark gear, jogging in sync while discussing interval splits and plant-based energy gels. Last summer, Tinder even joined the fray, hosting post-run socials complete with “icebreaker” cards. I kid you not—truths like “What’s your go-to running outfit?” and dares such as “Ask someone about their favourite running gear.” Get me to Dignitas.
Apparently, Gen Z are now swapping pints for Pilates. According to UKActive, the gym has replaced the pub as the go-to place for socialising. Huw Edwards, the chief executive (tragically named, considering the circumstances), told The Guardian: “Many of them prefer going to the gym rather than more traditional venues.” Meanwhile, fitness industry veteran David Minton insists that young people are turning to gyms not just for gains, but for dates—because “the gym offers an in-person experience rather than a virtual one.”
To which I say: when I reluctantly drag myself to the gym—usually once a month, tops—the very last thing I want is a romantic encounter. Yes, I’m aware the place has an undercurrent of pheromones and grunts, but I am there to suffer through my “abs & ass” YouTube routine in peace, not be chatted up by a bloke clutching a protein shaker and a questionable ego.
The problem is that once this dating-at-the-gym culture takes hold, it normalises conversations in places where no one wants them—like the hip abductor machine. Or worse, the sauna. I rue the day saunas became sociable. They’re meant to be steamy sanctuaries of silence, not venues for light banter. It’s already bad enough hearing other people’s spa-themed small talk. Add an attempted flirtation into the mix and it’s enough to make you break out in a second, angrier sweat.
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Of course, this bizarre shift stems from a collective fatigue with dating apps. The swipe, match, ghost cycle is exhausting, and people are crying out for real-life interaction. In response, speed dating nights, poetry slams, and pottery workshops have all had something of a renaissance. But even these “social alternatives” seem to come with an agenda of productivity—“flirt while making a ceramic mug!” or “bond over your shared haiku failures!” Whatever happened to just sitting in the pub?
That slow, sacred tradition of spending hours in a beer garden, chatting lazily with mates or potential lovers, seems to be going extinct. There’s nothing to achieve, no PB to beat—just vibes. And if romance arises, it’s the type you didn’t have to plan or sweat for. The best kind.
All I ask is this: don’t let the pub become the next frontier for puce-faced runners, fresh off a dopamine high and still comparing their split times. If we can’t protect our pints and peace from the panting pursuit of love, what hope is left?
Pick a side—run or romance. But please, not both.
