Run-club culture moved into New York not long after I did — summer 2021, all earnest and sweaty. It’s been five years since then, and still everyone knows someone who’s training for a marathon, your best friend’s boyfriend is cornering you at the party to tell you about his favorite performance gels, and the Prospect Park loop is as heavily trafficked as the Macy’s Parade. Run clubs are instantly recognizable — like any self-respecting club, they have a uniform: wicking fabrics, sneakers with soles that won’t stop getting thicker, and space-age reflective glasses with lenses that gleam like the hood of a tiny sports car.
Running is my favorite thing to do, and the more of a quote-unquote “runner” I’ve become — the more marathons under my elastic waistband, the more run-club-sponsored bakery crawls I’ve joined — the better I’ve cultivated my perfect wardrobe. I tend to forgo the highly technical for the lo-fi and utterly uncomplicated. I prefer an old Jockey undershirt that belonged to my granddad and the same sports bras I’ve had since eighth grade to the quasi-bionic spandex tops of today. I run in hand-me-down shorts for the same reasons I pull on jeans I know make my butt look good on a first date — it’s about how they make me feel. By wearing occasionally threadbare and always no-frills running gear, I take the pressure off my performance.
