The dating apps are a wasteland... But I’m still not joining a run club this Valentine’s Day

Ding. My phone has just gone off. Lovely - it’s a dating app saying I’d be a perfect match for someone with “no fatties” in their bio. Happy Valentine’s Day to you as well.

Another year, another half-hearted February panic to secure a beau - and an annual acknowledgment of my status as a “tough sell”. Roll up roll up, singletons - who wants a slice of this avoidant workaholic with commitment issues?

Maybe the time has come to accept that if I want to escape these doldrums in time for Valentine’s Day, I probably need a helping hand. But herein lies two awful choices: I can either throw money at the apps to stop insulting me, or I can join a weekend run club.

Not unlike how the dating apps themselves work, maybe it’s worth looking at these romantic prospects in a mathematical way. If, as Ofcom reported in February last year, the major dating apps are experiencing a decline in active users, it’s probably not a good idea to invest in their dwindling dating pools. Conversely: if running apps are experiencing a boom in popularity (with Strava reporting a whopping 3.5x user base growth in London alone last year), maybe that’s the horse to bet on?

In a less mathematical way, I can see why so many non-cynical lovers of this world would gravitate towards the run club option for finding love. The pheromonal outpour that comes with exercise cuts down a lot of the time and awkwardness of dating. The pool consists of above-average physical specimens, all making the solid choice of channeling their neuroses into wellness. You get to wear lycra. Then, to top it all off, run clubs are wrapped up in the most delicious lie: if you run hard and fast enough, maybe you can outrun your status as one of life’s single losers.

It’s an enticing thought, but it doesn’t mask the reality that running is an inherently boring thing - and it attracts a spectacularly boring type of smug person. Can I really see myself in a relationship where my main point of conversation is: “Yes, darling, you’re so right - cooking Ottolenghi DOES make us better than everyone else. Now shall we go for a run and listen to some Radio 4?”.

Maybe the problem comes down to my crappy self-esteem. Maybe I secretly buy into the run club lie of superiority, and I’m lashing out because I don’t feel worthy of the lycra-cladden smuggies. Ultimately: I’m not an above-average physical specimen, and I’m definitely not channeling my neuroses into wellness. Maybe I do deserve to be one of life’s single losers.

But then again - is being a single loser quite as awful as the apps clearly want me to believe? Yes, I’m a deeply flawed person who routinely picks watching telly over beating my “personal best” on Strava - but I do still rather enjoy my own company. I’m lucky enough to have a job I love, scores of brilliant friends who keep me entertained, and I even have a Le Creuset saucepan. That’s pretty good going for a single loser.

Maybe it’s time to stop buying into the prescribed panic of being alone - because it’s not as if panic is conducive to making rational life decisions. I’d rather stick it out than settle for Ottolenghi, or that Ozempic-warrior the dating apps are so desperate to set me up with. And if those turn out to be my only two options, so be it - I’ll just get five dogs when I turn forty, and we can all watch telly together.

Besides, I quite enjoy stressing my mum out with the threat of ending my bloodline - serves her right for not letting me have even one dog growing up.

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Rose Morelli is a producer and journalist for LBC.

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