Words: Samuel Trotman
Photography: Ewen Spencer
In today’s running world, people aren’t just chasing personal bests—they’re chasing connection. The global rise of run crews has shifted the spotlight from individual effort to community, where the finish line matters less than the friends made along the way. Whether it’s Sunday social runs, weekly track workouts, or group trips to marathons abroad, a growing movement is built around the idea of moving together. And what better way to show that unity than pacing side by side in matching gear?
While team uniforms have long existed (think back to the 1970s jogging boom), today’s run clubs are redefining what they represent. No longer just functional apparel, the racing vest has become a symbol of identity, belonging, and cultural expression. Scroll through a Strava feed and you’ll see finish-line group shots and post-run selfies—crews proudly repping their kits. Out on the streets, the same energy is visible: runners weaving through city crowds, clad in club-affiliated colors that signal something more than just a workout. This new wave of running culture draws clar parallels to UK football, where team jerseys are symbols of loyalty, tribalism, and pride.
But while major sports clubs rake in profits from global fandom, run crew kits operate on a different plane. These pieces don’t just represent allegiance; they’re rooted in shared experience, storytelling, and collective identity—often without any commercial intent.
Soar Running has played a pivotal role in bridging performance and identity through its Custom Vest program, launched in 2019. Designed to give clubs a blank canvas to showcase their colors, the ultralight 44 g singlet quickly became a staple at races for top UK clubs like Highgate Harriers and Tunbridge Wells Harriers, as well as international crews. The idea emerged when Soar noticed that club runners—even those already training in Soar gear—wouldn’t race in it. “For them, wearing their club colors trumped everything,” recalls Rob Wilson, brand director at Soar. “It was about identity—a statement of who they are and where they belong.” The brand’s solution? Merge performance with representation. “If you can’t beat them, join them,” Wilson says.
“We wanted to connect our product and identity with the emotional pull of the club vest.” The early response was overwhelming. “We had people from all over asking, ‘Can you do this for us?’ We didn’t have the supply chain set up at first—but we had to figure it out. The demand was too real.” What began as a targeted project quickly became a self-sustaining movement. “The early adopters were the fastest guys at the fastest clubs,” Wilson explains. “It made sense—it’s a technical product, not cheap, and reflects how invested someone is in the sport.” From there, it snowballed. “We’ve done very little active marketing. People see the vests at races and want in. It’s become the best free marketing we’ve ever had.” The club vest, he notes, is often a runner’s first interaction with the brand. “They might not be into fashion or big on brands, but they care about performance and identity. The vest becomes their entry point into the Soar world—and from there, it might lead to shorts, jackets, or accessories.”
More than just apparel, the club vest taps into a broader subculture. “It allows us to be credible within this huge community that spans cities, towns, villages—all driven by the same values: showing up for.” The process is streamlined: clubs submit their designs, and Soar’s in-house team brings them to life as high-performance race kits. For new crews or those without an established visual identity, design support is available to help build one from scratch. Wilson explains that the approach varies depending on the type of club: “If it’s more of a community-based crew or a culturally driven club, we’re putting our name behind it—so it’s a bit more tailored, a bit more bespoke. But if it’s a traditional athletics club that just wants its colors on a Soar vest, then it’s more transactional. You’re the boss, we’re the client, and we crack on.”
There are some light-touch stipulations around who Soar partners with, but Wilson says the brand gravitates toward uniqueness: “The quirkier, the weirder, the more localized—almost the better.” These grassroots teams often become de facto ambassadors, showing up on race days in their custom kits, representing not just their clubs but the Soar ethos itself.
The idea of collectivism in running is deeply intertwined with local and national club rivalries—a dynamic that mirrors football culture. In cities like London and Brighton, traditional clubs regularly face off in cross-country races and team competitions, where the rivalry is intense, if not quite as aggressive as football. “It’s brutal, it’s cutthroat—and it really matters,” says Wilson. Clubs like Highgate Harriers and Victoria Park Harriers in London, or Brighton Phoenix and Brighton & Hove AC, compete not just for individual glory but for dominance within their local scene. On a broader scale, national rivalries—like Salford Harriers versus Highgate—play out at major races only a few times a year, but the competitive energy remains fierce. This sense of pride is at the heart of why the Soar club vest resonates so strongly. It represents more than individual performance—it’s a symbol of identity and allegiance. “It’s about collectivism as much as individuality,” Wilson explains. “Yes, I want
to race my best for myself, but I’m also representing something bigger—my club, my team.”
In a sport that often celebrates solo achievement, the team element brings a rare and powerful sense of unity. And thanks to Soar’s deep connection to clubs across the UK, the brand uniquely captures this blend of tradition, rivalry, and belonging that defines modern British running culture. Alongside traditional fixtures and sanctioned events, Soar has helped introduce a new generation of unsanctioned races—grassroots,street-level competitions that operate outside the formal athletics calendar. While these events often began as a challenge to the rigidity of established running culture, they’ve become unexpected meeting points between heritage and modernity. Races like these now regularly attract legacy clubs such as Highgate Harriers, Herne Hill Harriers, and Victoria Park Harriers, whose members show up in traditional vests, embracing the competitive seriousness of the moment while engaging with the format’s modern energy. It’s a compelling juxtaposition: Victorian-era colors worn amid the concrete intensity of urban street racing, amplified by social media and DIY event design. This tension—and harmony—between the old and new mirrors what has long existed in football culture, where the sport’s modern, globalized spectacle remains deeply anchored in its working-class roots.
Similarly, in running, the most forward-thinking events often spark a renewed appreciation for club tradition. In some cases, the unsanctioned scene
has even fed back into the formal system: crews that began as outsider collectives now register with British Athletics and race in national competitions. This dynamic crossover creates a fluid culture where veterans hold fast to club history while newcomers bring fresh ideas, energy, and ambition. As Wilson puts it, “It maybe shouldn’t work—but somehow it just does.”
While many clubs stick to traditional colors, there’s a growing appetite for special editions and unique graphics tied to marquee races—turning race vests into wearable mementos. “People want their standard club vest, but they also want something special for a big marathon or key event,” says Wilson. Traditional athletics clubs often take a purist approach—“one version of the truth,” as Wilson puts it—where the club color and design remain fixed. In contrast, newer urban crews such as Peckham Pacers or YFR embrace creativity and limited drops, mirroring trends in football shirt culture
where identity and heritage coexist with playful reinvention.
This shift in gear culture reflects a broader change in runner mentality. Once stereotyped as reluctant spenders, runners—particularly serious club athletes—are now embracing premium gear. “People used to say runners just wear old kit and don’t invest,” Wilson recalls. “But that’s bollocks—it’s a lazy stereotype.” He draws parallels to cycling’s cultural evolution in the 2000s, when identity, performance, and community drove demand for better gear. Today, runners are comfortable paying £200 for supershoes with limited lifespans, so £75–80 for a race vest that lasts seasons feels like a
smart investment. “There are still some dinosaurs out there resistant to change,” Wilson admits, “but they’re the minority now.”
What’s driving this shift is deeper than performance—it’s about meaning. “Some of my best and worst races have been in my Highgate vest,” says Wilson. “You carry those memories in the kit.” For many, the vest becomes a badge of honor, representing both personal milestones and collective identity. Like subcultures before it—from cycling to football casuals—running is now a space where people are willing to invest in the things that reflect who they are and what they care about. In an era when lifestyles blur between activewear and fashion, the cultural currency of crew gear now extends well beyond raceday. Club- and event-specific drops are increasingly seen as lifestyle statements, blurring the line between sport, style, and social identity.
Today, you’re just as likely to spot someone wearing a Satisfy Re-Possessed tee or Mental Athletic cap to grab lunch at Broadway Market as you are on a tempo run. Wilson compares this movement to the UK’s 1980s casual culture, when football supporters wore expensive Italian designer coats and high-end menswear. “They weren’t necessarily super affluent people, but it was important to them. And I think you see a bit of that in the current running boom.” It’s the cultural currency of this club merch that goes beyond aesthetics and makes it such a powerful connector. Crews like
East London’s YFR have built global communities through social media, transcending geography. It’s not unusual for runners from South Africa to Kazakhstan to show up at major marathons proudly wearing their crew’s colors.
For those in remote areas without a local squad, a crew vest becomes more than just kit—it’s a bride to a wider world of like-minded runners. Because in the end, a race vest isn’t just something you wear—it’s something you carry. A symbol of who you run for and what you stand for. It tells a story before you even cross the start line—of shared miles, club rivalries, hometown pride, and the people who have pushed you forward. It marks your place within a crew, a club, or a community, and some times even within a global network of runners bonded not by location but by values. In an age when performance gear meets personal meaning, where lifestyle intersects with legacy, the running vest has become far more than functional. It’s a flag, a uniform, a memory bank—proof that running is no longer just a solo pursuit but a deeply social one. Whether earned through loyalty, designed through collaboration, or collected as a keepsake, the vest endures as a badge of identity.
And that’s what makes it worth wearing.