Consider the body at rest. Increasingly, people are sprinting to the frills of the modern festival of running: oxymoronic recovery gyms selling “optimal health” for £40 a month, sportswear employees thrusting electrolyte slushies into the hands of passersby, and sub-three-hour queues for Nike’s latest £200 recovery-redefining shoe.
“I smell bullshit,” says a laughing Christie Aschwanden, former elite cross-country skier, runner, cyclist and the author of the 2019 bestseller Good to Go, which aimed to debunk the science behind many so-called recovery products.
Recovery has been redefined from a noun – recovered: something you are or aren’t – into a verb. Recovery is something you do, or even a place to be, to go. “It’s contrary to the whole concept of recovery which is, from a physiological perspective, giving your body some rest to become ready to perform again,” says Aschwanden.
“Our bodies evolved to adapt to changing conditions and variables, but now there’s this sense we must constantly optimise, that our bodies need to be controlled and measured. From a scientific perspective, it’s ridiculous.”
It’s a linguistic and behavioural shift manoeuvred by marketing. First came thirst. From the 1960s, brands such as Gatorade successfully sold salty, sugary water rebranded as “electrolytes” (a fancy word for salts, sweated out the body but, as Aschwanden writes, naturally replaced by the body’s hunger mechanisms).
Then the ice age arrived. Now suggested to delay muscle repair in the long term, the spectacle of ice baths and cryo chambers, along with the lingering electrolyte obsession, remain central in the recovery world.
Aschwanden characterises the current age as “artificial and misguided optimisation”.
It is a kaleidoscope of technology: compression boots, percussive guns – the vibrating devices to massage muscles – AI apparel for “muscle activity insights”. Nike’s partnership with recovery giants Hyperice produced a £700 boot that distributes “dynamic air-compression massage” for “optimised” reinvigoration.
Each product is emblazoned with scientific buzzwords. The issue is, much of this science is not sound, nor definitive. Most have insignificant sample sizes – one study on the available evidence of sports drinks efficacy found a median sample size of nine – or have taken place in conditions incomparable with real life.
Research can be funded internally, by groups with conflicting interests, or hand-picked, often resulting in evidence of low quality, and high risk of bias.
Online, it is a minefield of product-led, scientifically dubious advertisements in a consumer-market relationship that feels like it is chasing its own tail.
Siân Secc, a qualified sports nutritionist, marathon runner and Instagram content creator, has built a following debunking influencers’ claims.
“The way science is translated into colloquial knowledge is explained really badly,” says Secc. “That jump is sometimes taken by people who maybe understand a headline but haven’t understood the full scientific protocols.
“The person consuming that content doesn’t know there’s been seven different loops around the houses. It’s the wild west, and no one’s regulating it.”
The popularity of running influencers and athletes’ social media has, in some ways, re-centred running as an all-consuming cultural identity. Fashion, technology, drinking and even dating have been drawn into the running sphere. Content is often routine-based, with reason: the day appears punctuated by products.
“There are multiple directions for companies to sell you stuff,” as Secc puts it. “It feels like: ‘Yeah, you’ve done the run, but you need to do more.’ It fuels an achievement and short-cut culture of ‘if you pay money, it will be better’. People want quick fixes.”
‘There’s this sense we must constantly optimise, that our bodies need to be controlled. It’s ridiculous’
Christie Aschwanden, science writer and athlete
The repackaging of private routines as public content frays the boundary between the elite and the everyday runner. The individualistic, quantifiable nature of running, entwined with the human intrigue of observing others, makes comparison a self-conscious act.
“There’s a pressure to optimise every run, every recovery, every moment,” says Secc. “The hamster wheel of products can prey on the vulnerability of comparisons.”
One study published last summer by Aqua found that 57% of runners feel pressure to spend money on running gear, rising to 74% for those aged 16-24. In lieu of a natural coach figure when starting out, the accessibility of running means information is largely self-sought.
In a market less lucrative than other major sports – with comparatively fewer broadcasting deals and institutional wages – runners are reliant on sponsorships, making products seem vital.
“In fact, it’s kind of the opposite,” Aschwanden says. “When you become elite, companies come after you. It’s kind of a dirty secret – a lot of athletes don’t use what they promote.
“Most of these things probably aren’t going to hurt you, but they’re a distraction. It makes running seem far more complicated than it needs to be. The funny thing is people aren’t optimising the basics to begin with.
“If you have an ice bath and feel fab, and you’ve got the disposable income, crack on. But don’t think it’s going to prevent injury or turn you into a better athlete. You’ve got to have everything else covered – sleep, nutrition, managed stress, appropriate training.”
At the heart of the recovery industry seems to be a fear that we have missed something, that we have done it all wrong. There is an essence of control in the futile search for a magic bullet of perfection, in a world increasingly run on the idea that “faster” is a synonym for “better”, even when an activity’s very definition is to do little, or nothing at all.
Aschwanden and Secc suggest runners consider the intent of content. If it’s an advert, don’t take advice as gospel.
Instead, look to creators not trying to sell you things, or people in your “running orbit”, like a running partner or coach.
“If you’ve just started running, you’re fed content by an algorithm, you don’t know any different,” says Secc. “You can feel like a failure. It completely warps your view on running if you haven’t seen the other side.
“These are the runners who go to Parkrun every week, who don’t care about any of that, and just know they should have a banana before they run and then rest. Happy days; that’s a runner.”
Photograph by Andrew Powell/Liverpool FC via Getty Images