The small crack in a running influencer’s foot was declared by my FYP page with the importance of a new political bill: Mary McCarthy has a stress fracture. What does this mean for you? 

My algorithm was suddenly overwhelmed by content reacting to this injury. Critics declared that an outcome like this was inevitable for someone who logs 100km every week. Others jumped to McCarthy’s defence: runners frequently get injured from less, it’s just that you don’t hear about it. Eventually, some physiotherapists stepped in to ask both sides of the debate to stop talking like they know anything about injuries. This intense reaction to one woman’s pain was partly due to bad timing: concern, fatigue, and resentment about the running creator industry had already been building, fueled by controversies such as an influx of injuries, falsified marathon times, and AI-generated training plans, alongside questions of access and privilege. This fracture just opened the floodgates for followers to ask what they’d long been thinking: what is going on with runfluencers right now? 

There has been an exponential boom in running since lockdown. In 2015, 38,000 people ran the London marathon – just over a decade later, more than 1.1 million people applied for this year’s race. The number of participants in their 20s more than doubled compared to last year alone. Run clubs have become a new social ‘it’ spot: according to one survey, 72 per cent of Gen Z who have joined a club did so because they wanted to meet new people, rather than to improve their performance. Run clubs have also become such a popular way of hooking up that they’re often described as ‘the new Hinge’ (Tinder even launched its own IRL club, called Sole Mates, to help runners find love). Influencers have been partly responsible for this boom by selling an aesthetic version of the running lifestyle and encouraging thousands of their followers to try it out for themselves.

Recently, however, the tide started shifting. During last year's spring marathon season, some of my friends who engage with influencers admitted they could no longer stand their relentless negativity in post-race debriefs. The issue was that these influencers were posting paces their followers could only dream of, in a race that they got to run for free and which most people can't even enter (unless you’re a celebrity athlete or being sponsored by a brand, there’s only a one in 50 chance of securing a spot) – and they were still complaining. It was tone deaf, my friends moaned to me, and showed a failure to acknowledge their privilege. I agreed, but then wondered: do we get annoyed at Team GB athletes expressing disappointment over missing out on a medal spot? Likely not – their careers ride on that performance. Influencers could be seen in the same vein: it’s their job to run, and the more impressive their performance, the more engagement and money they generate.

This complicated tension between athletes and influencers is the real fuel for the growing irritation towards the latter. It ultimately boils down to what they’re selling: no one watches Keely Hodgkinson and feels like they can replicate her performance, but influencers have to tread a fine line between aspirational and relatable: it’s their job to make us believe that their achievements are accessible as long as we buy the same shoes, follow the same plan and eat the same meals they sell us. Yet their lives, devoted almost entirely to training and recovery, are far closer to those of an Olympic runner than a recreational jogger. 

“I often find myself stuck in a comparison cycle of ‘why aren’t I that fast’ or ‘when will I be able to run like that?’ I’d love more transparency about the literal time and headspace they have to run,” says Amy*, who’s training for her third marathon while working 8:30am to 5:30am in an office. Like around 50 per cent of runners, she’s been injured when ramping up her training, often following plans sold to her by influencers. This common experience is why there is a building frustration at the idea being sold that influencers can ‘do it all’ (and that, by implication, so can we), and why some people take a certain satisfaction in their failures – it’s seen as proof that the training we couldn’t replicate was never sustainable to begin with.

The rise in injuries is a concern which experts have been discussing for years. While there’s no hard evidence of a higher proportion of runners being injured, more runners means more injuries. They’re often caused by overuse – doing too much too soon without a strong enough foundation – and under-recovery, and triggered by a lack of energy intake, poor sleep and excess stress. “I see people in the clinic who aren’t influencers but are influenced by their lifestyles – including a lot of serious injuries in young people who should not be experiencing that level of damage,” says Renee McGregor, a sports dietitian and leader in athlete health. Influencers themselves are often putting an unsustainable strain on their bodies. “I’ve treated influencers who have hormonal issues and fractures triggered by doing multiple ultramarathon races within the first year of taking up the sport for content. Others put their injuries down to continually being offered places at big races and being unable to say no because running is their job.”

Unlike athletes, who have off-seasons built into their routines by expert coaches, influencers must create content every day to feed the algorithmic gods. This leads to year-round competitions and a challenge culture, which normalises distance running that really should be saved for infrequent events. For amateur runners, it’s also a source of bib rivalry. “I’ve applied for a spot in the London Marathon for 10 years in a row and never gotten one. At the same time, I’ve watched influencers be given consecutive marathon spaces with brands,” says Kate, a recreational runner who feels frustrated with influencer culture. “I don’t begrudge them that, but it just highlights that there’s a real misalignment between influencers and their audience, which is responsible for them being so well known.”

Kate isn’t rankled by influencers posting speedy run times, so much as the way they talk about them. “I am fully aware that there does tend to be a ‘what about me?’ complex with anything that people mention online, but what influencers list as an ‘easy run’ is really out of touch,” she says. It would be one thing if influencers were just humble-bragging about their own accomplishments or talking about sprinting up a mountain like it’s a jolly day out (why not bring along your gran?), but it seems that some of them have taken to outright deception. The launch of The Official Marathon Time Integrity Unit, an anonymous organisation set up last year to expose discrepancies between times claimed on social media and official race times, sent shockwaves through the running community on social media. It alleges that people are being “misled by influencers or athletes presenting fraudulent performances”, who are often shaving off just a few minutes to post a personal best. 

The ugly direction of runfluencer culture has been shaped by the social media algorithm, pressure from followers and intense competition among them. As we head into spring marathon season again, what needs to change? “I do think some of the responsibility lies with us to take their content with a pinch of salt and recognise they don’t live the same lives as us,” says Amy. McGregor, meanwhile, insists that it’s the influencers themselves who need to change, and not their audience. “I think the main issue is the lack of responsibility and transparency – many sell unrealistic and inappropriate lifestyles, including their aesthetic and how much training they do.” Either way, influencers will still be at start lines with their gifted bibs, and their followers will still be watching them hit aspirational paces, even if they complain about it.