At 6:30 on a Wednesday afternoon, I’m hanging around with 150 other 20-somethings in a local park. The women wear shiny spandex shorts and sports bras, while most of the men wear all black. A man with a megaphone shouts instructions.
We are here to participate in a 5K race, but this is not a Park Run. Believe it or not, it’s a new way of dating. Yes, apparently in 2025 the best way to find love is by exercising.
At first, this seems like one of those nightmarish dreams. Running around, surrounded by strangers, while trying to flirt? And how can I run fast enough to not look out of shape, but not so fast that I become a sweaty, breathless mess?
The ‘social career’ has grown in popularity in recent years. Across the country, there are more than 1,300 Park Run events each weekend.
New statistics show the NHS Couch To 5k app was downloaded 790,000 times last year and the London Marathon had a record number of entries. According to Tinder, ‘running’ is now one of the most popular interests on users’ profiles.
And many attribute this rise in popularity to the appeal of influencers on TikTok and Instagram.
But since many young people my age avoid alcohol and partying, fitness has simply become something we can bond over.
Tired of online dating, Antonia Lenon and her single friend Sam tried a ‘social club’
We’re also sick of meeting people online. A recent Ofcom report shows that the UK’s top four dating apps saw a drop in their user numbers in 2024 as young people sought “real-life connections”. Match Group, owner of Tinder, Hinge, Plenty Of Fish and OkCupid, reports a steady decline in the number of paying users.
It’s no surprise that running clubs are the new nightclubs. And dating apps themselves are trying to corner this new matchmaking market: The running club I signed up for is hosted by Tinder, in collaboration with fitness app Runna.
So could it really help me find love? I’ve been stealing for almost a year without success. I’ve been on five mediocre first dates, the worst being an excruciating coffee with a serious aspiring musician, who I think was equally horrified by me.
For support, I brought along my single friend Sam, although his first reaction was less than promising. “That sounds like the worst thing that’s ever happened,” he responded when I enthusiastically proposed the idea.
Sam is wearing his t-shirt from a recent half marathon and, he tells me as we do lunges to warm up, it will be a good conversation starter and give him a chance to tell people how fast his time was.
‘What are you supposed to do if you get stuck talking to someone you don’t like?’ Sam asks. ‘Run until you lose them?’ I suggest.
There are a little more women than men. By far the most handsome man is a muscular 6-foot-6 blonde in a tight red vest. I tell Sam I’ll head straight for it, to which Sam warns, “I’m pretty sure it works for the running app.”
Then the race begins. We’re supposed to go at a “conversational” pace, with no prizes to be won. Unfortunately, I realize that the 6-foot blonde comes armed with a camera to record TikTok videos, and it actually works for the app. So, I decide to introduce myself to the next handsome guy.
Axel is a 22-year-old tall German data scientist. But the conversation starts to sound like a citizenship test when he asks me about British customs and culture.
Then the runners around us begin to quicken their pace. I feel myself start to sweat, which seems unlikely to help with seduction. Axel also seems to find the speed a little tiring, but he clearly doesn’t want to ask them to slow down.
We finish the first kilometer, then the group pauses to allow people to mingle. My next running partner is Teddy, who is coming with his friend Rick.
I worry that it might be rude to cut Rick out of the conversation, so the three of us end up running in a line, shouting questions at each other. It’s uncomfortable, but pleasant.
After 2 km, I meet Sam, who has a face like thunder. He’s been running alongside a monosyllabic ice queen who openly rolled her eyes when he tried to make a joke. He took my earlier advice and ran away, only to be stuck running alone between chatting couples.
The ‘social career’ has grown in popularity in recent years. Across the country, there are more than 1,300 Park Run events each weekend
“I’m leaving,” Sam declares. ‘Please can you pick up my things from the pub?’
‘Wait, Sam!’ I protest, but the crowd of runners has started again and Sam leaves.
But then I hear a smiling blonde say to her friend: ‘Oh, I like the look of that guy, let’s try it.’ The two chase after Sam and manage to catch him before he can make good on his threat to run home.
And before long, both girls are laughing at Sam’s jokes.
I run the last stretch chatting to two 25-year-olds who have recently moved to London from Manchester. I get a lecture on why the north of England is superior to the rest of the country.
So could a running club be the future of dating? I am prepared to consider it.
The conversation has been far from brilliant, but it’s much more interesting than being asked, ‘Do you have much to do this week?’ by a stranger on a dating app who subsequently ignores my response.
And I feel much more comfortable approaching men while jogging than in a bar on a Friday night.
The evening ends with a drink in a pub. Far from alcohol being a social lubricant, you notice how the vibe changes almost immediately, as people retreat to their own small groups.
I exchange hugs with the different guys I ran with, but not numbers. There is no one who considers it a serious perspective.
However, if there were, I would feel comfortable asking their details. As Sam and I head towards the exit, one of the girls he ran with approaches and asks for his Instagram details so they can keep in touch.
“So it wasn’t such a bad night?” I joke. “Well, I told you the shirt would work,” he replies with a smile.