The “Chase” for Love

As our generation gradually realizes that love cannot be determined by dating-app algorithms, and that potential lovers are more than just profiles in an endless stream of matches, hopeful romantics have turned to new ways of finding “the one.” Enter: run clubs.

As a weekly ritual where dozens of young, sporty, and often single people convene, one could not conceive a more perfect place to mingle. Run clubs have taken to social media to show off their “more attractive” members in hopes of recruiting new ones. Posts are flooded with comments reading, “Run clubs are the new dating apps” or “How can I sign up?” The stories of couples who met at a run club and later married only further prove that jogging can jumpstart your love life.

It makes sense that one might turn to this sport to find love. Running with a partner shares many similarities with pursuing love. In both, participants attempt to find the perfect pace that matches the others’ preferences. Often, as things get hot and heavy, runners may find that they are suddenly not compatible, and the pursuit stops.

Unfortunately, my brief foray into the world of run clubs did not end with marriage—or even any first dates—but it did teach me an important lesson about myself: I’m a much better runner when I’m not alone. This discovery resulted in my first-ever run-mance.

I cannot get through a conversation with a new person or catch up with an old friend without bringing up running. To non-runners, I can impress them with my pace and distances. When I meet another aficionado of the sport, it can result in a new running buddy. So, naturally, on my first weekend living in New York this past summer, the topic arose when I met a friend who lived only a few blocks away. After discovering that we both wanted to increase our weekly mileage over the summer, we planned a run for that Sunday, and we were off to the races.

Despite my love for running in groups, my people-pleasing tendencies can leave me stressed when I run with someone for the first time. Am I meeting the pace they want to run? Am I being a good conversationalist? Do they think I’m a good runner? They are the same anxieties one feels before a first date, with the added stress of being judged not only on one’s social ability but also on one’s athletic capabilities. As a lifelong athlete, sometimes the latter is more important to me than the former.

On that first jog with my newfound friend, I had my typical pre-run nerves, and after just a mile, it became clear that I would not be able to sustain our agreed-upon pace. The conversational, easy run I had envisioned steadily progressed into a sprint, only exacerbated by the June humidity. But I could not say anything, obviously—he couldn’t know I was struggling. Fortunately for me, my friend was observant and offered to slow down. It was at that moment that I realized I had found a good running partner, and so began a weekly tradition.

We attempted a few morning runs, but one too many hangovers made the evening our go-to time—late enough to avoid the heat but early enough to catch some good sunsets, and, unintentionally, a touch of romance. It was like a recurring date that I looked forward to every week, but with a good friend.

A few runs in, our conversations got deeper, and our mileage got higher. He pushed me as a runner in both distance and pace, and I pushed him emotionally. We covered a wide range of topics in our mid-run chats, including job aspirations, religion, views on morality, and, of course, love. Our views varied, but I loved our conversations. I found myself pouring my heart out about past breakups and listening to him talk about his own dating struggles. The more we ran, the more I wanted to run (and it was not just because he looked good shirtless).

Suddenly, the line between friends and something more felt blurred. We had been spending so much time together that he was starting to fulfill the emotional role of a boyfriend without any of the expectations or love attached to that title. I was hesitant at first to tell him about a guy I had been seeing at the start of the summer. Did that cross some sort of line? 

We had never come close to having a label, but I somehow felt like I was being unfaithful. I decided to share, but I did not linger on the subject long. One Sunday, I nearly canceled our run out of embarrassment when I woke up with a hickey from someone else, but all he gave was a passing comment.

Like so many “almost-D1” sports careers, our runs ended with every athlete’s worst nightmare: injury. The entire summer, he had been complaining about an old injury, and when we got back to campus in the fall, he delivered the heartbreaking news: he could not run anymore. Just like that, our tradition was over.

But when one tradition dies, another one is born. It turns out those semi-romantic feelings were mutual, and back in Cambridge, we swapped miles for make-outs. Suddenly, we seemed to only see each other after midnight, and our conversations dwindled.

But after a few weeks, I realized I missed my running buddy. Every time I achieved a new PR on the banks of the Charles, I immediately wanted to tell him; each accomplishment seemingly meant more with his validation. Training for the Cambridge Half Marathon, I sent him screenshots of my runs, and he would lament the fact that he could not do those distances anymore. I would lament the fact that I had to make the treks alone.

When the big race day finally came, he cheered me on from the sidelines, despite how much we both wished he were alongside me instead. After the race, we hung out, both lying in my bed, as I was unable to move from the morning’s exertion. It was on that day that we had an important conversation—we could never date. 

In the midst of the many miles and words we shared while running together, we discovered that great running and life partners were not the same thing. We were fundamentally different people; it would never work out. Like how our running distances diverged, our lives were on different paths. From all our long-term conversations, I knew we wanted to live in different places and in different ways; I was drawn to the East Coast, and he wanted to return to the Midwest. He is a religious person, and I have no interest in church. As much as we enjoyed spending time together over the summer, we knew we were better off as friends. 

Although true love has not run me down, so to speak, running has still taught me a lot about love. You must find someone who can match your mileage and pace, and who you can talk to when things get hard. So often, people focus on who is putting in more effort or who is pursuing whom, but at its core, love is about choosing to show up and meet your person where they are. Sometimes, in a quest to be chased, we end up outrunning love.

A Hopeless Run-mantic is holding out for a lifelong running partner.