As I approached the bustling assembly of nearly four hundred runners gathered along a sun-scorched street in SoHo, I was immediately enveloped in an atmosphere thick with anticipation and barely contained excitement. The energy was palpable—an almost electric hum reminiscent of the first day of school, when everyone is a curious mix of anxious and elated. Laughter rippled through small clusters of friends reuniting after months apart, while tentative conversations sparked between newcomers meeting for the first time. It was the inaugural day of the NoName Program, a sixteen-week marathon training initiative proudly described as “powered by Lululemon,” designed to transform ordinary New Yorkers—people from every conceivable profession and background—into athletes capable of enduring the punishing absurdity of running twenty-six point two miles. Standing amid the crowd, I realized that we were part of something far larger than ourselves. In many ways, it feels as though modern America quite literally runs on running.
We appear to be living in a new golden era of distance running, a period in which public interest has never been higher and athletic achievements are shattering long-standing records with astonishing frequency. Cutting-edge technologies, most notably the introduction of carbon-fiber plated shoes, have propelled marathoners to performance levels that once seemed the exclusive domain of superhumans. Yet even as elite runners continue to push beyond previously imagined limits, those of us who run for personal goals rather than world titles find ourselves barraged daily by social media advertisements promoting an endless parade of untested, pseudoscientific devices, supplements, and training gear. Each claims to confer some elite advantage, and while a handful may offer modest benefits, many others are either financially wasteful or potentially hazardous—all feeding into an American market that now channels more than four billion dollars annually into running-related products.
Of course, I’ve come to expect exaggerated marketing in almost every aspect of modern consumer life, but the relentless deluge targeting runners feels different, even personal. Running, for me, has always embodied a kind of sacred simplicity—one of the few remaining acts that require little more than a pair of shoes and the desire to move forward. Nicholas Thompson, CEO of The Atlantic, an experienced marathoner, and author of the forthcoming memoir *The Running Ground*, echoed this sentiment when we spoke. “I love to race,” he told me, “but running isn’t about the racing. It’s about the act itself—heading up the mountain, stepping out the door. And for that, you need only the most basic gear: any shoes, any shorts, any shirt.” Yet, as the number of participants in half-marathons, marathons, and ultramarathons continues to explode, so too has a vast commercial marketplace emerged—one that thrives on exploiting runners’ insecurities and ambitions.
Since I laced up my first pair of running shoes, my digital existence has transformed into a cascade of algorithmically tailored advertisements—carbon-plated footwear promises revolutionary performance, while compression shorts claim to rescue fatigued hamstrings; breathable singlets and smart sunglasses pledge aerodynamic gains, and amino-enhanced gels assure sustained energy during long runs. These products, often marketed with the seriousness of medical breakthroughs, promise outcomes that verge on the unbelievable.
Recently, my social media feeds have been overtaken by sleek, professionally crafted videos from Firefly, a startup that gained notoriety after appearing on *Shark Tank*. The company promotes a wristwatch-shaped device that delivers mild electrical stimulations to the legs, purportedly to increase blood flow, accelerate recovery, and boost energy levels. These promotional reels, edited with cinematic precision and motivational soundtracks, have attracted millions of viewers and tens of thousands of followers. Yet the more I investigated, the more skeptical I became. Firefly’s website proudly touts studies claiming its product “increases microcirculation by 399%” and “moves three times more blood than pneumatic compression.” However, when I examined those studies, one published in the *European Journal of Applied Physiology* admitted that the resulting blood flow equated to only about half or two-thirds of what a brisk walk achieves naturally. The company’s marketing achievements—a multi-million-dollar valuation and widespread visibility—began to appear less as evidence of innovation and more as a testament to savvy branding. Was this, I wondered, a costly substitute for something as simple and free as walking?
When I brought these questions to Lauren Campbell, Firefly’s Chief Marketing Officer, she acknowledged the comparison but maintained that the product served a specific niche. “People will ask, why not just go for a walk? And if you can, you absolutely should,” she explained, “but many people are intimidated by the idea of layering a walk on top of an already demanding run.” Electrical stimulation as a recovery aid, of course, is far from revolutionary—Roman physicians were reportedly experimenting with the effects of electric fish as early as 60 AD. Firefly may be easier to use than an eel, but there remains little evidence that it’s fundamentally distinct from the far cheaper stimulation devices that have existed for decades. Dr. Swapna Ghanta, a board-certified surgeon, described the available studies as limited and inconclusive, saying they fail to prove that Firefly offers substantially greater benefits.
Compounding concerns, a single pair of non-rechargeable Firefly devices costs $48 and provides roughly thirty hours of use before needing replacement—equating to perhaps eight recovery sessions for those training seriously. A cursory online search reveals hundreds of alternative muscle stimulators, some selling for a fraction of that price and capable of lasting for years. Though Firefly’s marketing insists that its device isn’t a traditional stimulator or TENS unit, the FDA granted clearance on the basis of “substantial equivalence” to one such legacy product. Even Campbell conceded the irony of having to stress both its similarities for regulators and its differences for consumers. “Ours uses different frequencies,” she explained, “producing a much gentler stimulation of the nerve.”
The testimonials praising Firefly are numerous, yet the skepticism remains strong within the running community. Tim Waanders, a rehabilitation specialist at Finish Line Physical Therapy in New York, told me that most runners would benefit far more from simple and inexpensive methods like foam rolling, stretching, and targeted exercise than from spending nearly fifty dollars every few recovery days.
Firefly, however, is just one representative of a broader phenomenon—an entire ecosystem of companies peddling overpriced solutions to problems that often don’t exist. Each day, my feeds bombard me with new miracle devices: a $199 hip flexor stretcher claiming to prevent systemic imbalance; supplements that vow to erase fatigue and eliminate “bonking”; ergonomic massagers endorsed by influencers who appear more sculpted than any real-life runner I know. Many tuck disclaimers deep within their websites clarifying that their products are “not intended to diagnose, cure, or treat” any medical condition—legal footnotes that undermine every bold headline promise.
Perhaps the most striking illustration of marketing spectacle over substance lies in the domain of nutritional supplements. Xendurance, a company popular among endurance athletes, advertises products that supposedly enhance vitality, improve race times, and shorten recovery. One advertisement showcases a veteran runner preparing for his 152nd marathon as he reverently lists his preferred Xendurance products. Yet the science behind these claims often disintegrates under scrutiny. The company cites a study noting reduced lactate buildup but admits it found no measurable improvement in performance compared to a placebo. For all the boasts about proprietary formulas, it remains uncertain whether Xendurance works any better than ordinary baking soda—a time-tested, dirt-cheap ergogenic aid. The contrast is almost absurd: $59.95 for a month’s supply of branded capsules versus a lifetime’s worth of supermarket bicarbonate.
Despite the proliferation of questionable products, there is one technological breakthrough that has undeniably changed the face of distance running: the rise of the “super shoe.” These carbon-plated innovations have transformed biomechanics, reducing injury rates, improving efficiency, and catalyzing a cascade of record-breaking performances. Julia Lucas, the NoName Program’s head coach and a former professional runner, told me that these shoes have completely reshaped competition. But as she and others warn, any powerful tool comes with inherent risks. When amateur runners attempt to mimic the pros without fully understanding what they’re using, the results can be disastrous.
I learned that lesson firsthand. Last year, at what I believed to be the peak of my physical conditioning, I purchased an expensive pair of super shoes days before race day, entranced by data suggesting they could shave precious minutes off my marathon time. For the first ten miles, I felt like I was flying—until every step began to stab. By mile eighteen, the airy propulsion had devolved into excruciating pain; by mile twenty-two, it felt as if shards of molten glass were embedded underfoot. My dream race ended not in triumph but in a grim exercise of endurance.
Running coaches later confirmed how common such stories are. “People see the ads and assume the shoes alone will make them faster,” says Coffey, cofounder of NoName. “They don’t realize you need to train in them for months before racing. Otherwise, you’re signing up for twenty-six miles of misery.” Lucas agreed, emphasizing that while the shoes are revolutionary, they cannot substitute for discipline or conditioning. “You can’t skip the work and expect magic,” she said. True performance gains come from consistency—tracking progress over months, acclimating gradually, and learning one’s body.
Thompson captured the paradox succinctly: “Someone running in an old pair of worn-out super shoes and a cotton T-shirt might be half a percent slower than a perfectly equipped athlete in the latest compression gear—but that’s all. The margin is smaller than we like to believe.” Marketing tells us that the right gear will reinvent our bodies; reality insists otherwise. For some, the new technology enhances potential, but for most, its impact is modest, and its value deeply individual.
Running, in its truest form, is not defined by the carbon in our soles or the circuitry in our devices, but by the connection between body, mind, and movement. Since I began running, it has helped me reclaim ownership over my health, forge community where I once felt solitary, and reimagine the boundaries of what I believed I could accomplish. Nowhere is that more evident than in the New York City Marathon, when tens of thousands of us traverse streets familiar since childhood, cheered by strangers who momentarily dissolve the city’s usual brusqueness into utter generosity.
Last year, when pain forced me to stop midrace, I stood helpless in the South Bronx, unable even to retie my laces. Then a woman stepped out of the crowd, knelt, and tied them for me before I could protest. That single act—a simple kindness offered to a stranger—embodied the spirit of marathon day, the fundamental decency that unites runners and spectators alike across cities and continents. It is that spirit, unpretentious and communal, that risks being lost amid the growing commercialization of running.
As corporate interests continue to monetize passion and sell speed in sleek packaging, I worry that the essence of the sport—the selflessness, the humanity, the shared perseverance—may fade beneath the noise. However fast I hope to run, no gadget or supplement can rival the profound beauty of moving through my city, propelled not by technology, but by the cheers of those who remind me what running truly means.
Albert Fox Cahn is the founder and executive director of the Surveillance Technology Oversight Project (STOP), a New York-based organization dedicated to defending civil rights and privacy in the age of pervasive surveillance.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/rise-running-industrial-complex-marathons-instagram-ads-2025-10
