Here's the thing about running playlists: most of them lie. They promise you'll feel powerful, transcendent, like a Nike commercial protagonist. This one promises nothing except that three miles in, when your endorphins haven't kicked in yet and your brain needs somewhere to go, you're going to think about her. And once you start, there's no stopping it. Too late now.
The first mile is always a con job. Wet Leg's deadpan wit makes you think this will be fun, some kind of indie-rock joyride. Girl Tones buzz with that garage-pop energy that feels effortless. Karen O howls through "Fleez" like art-school chaos incarnate, and your legs feel fine. This is the trap—your body hasn't figured out what you're doing to it yet, and your mind still thinks it can outrun whatever you're running from.
Then Wolf Alice holds the door open. "Smile" sits right at that threshold, Ellie Rowsell's voice carrying that My Love Is Cool grunge-dream shimmer, the moment before you commit to the uncomfortable part. You could still turn back. You won't.
Miles three through five belong to Wet Leg's masterclass in desire studies. Three tracks, three stages: "Chaise Longue" flirts with innuendo, "Wet Dream" gets lost in fantasy, "pillow talk" delivers the morning-after regret. Dan Carey's production makes discomfort sound catchy enough to run to, which is either genius or cruel. Probably both.
Mile seven is where this playlist stops being theoretical. Class Actress gives you that last bit of shimmer, Elizabeth Harper's vocals like expensive perfume masking something darker. Then TV On The Radio arrives with "Staring at the Sun," and there's nowhere left to hide. Tunde Adebimpe sings about bad decisions made with full knowledge of their consequences, and Dave Sitek's production creates this space around his voice that feels like standing in an empty room with your worst choices. It's 2006 Brooklyn art-rock refusing to offer comfort, and at mile seven, when your body wants to quit and your mind is out of distractions, that honesty becomes necessary. You don't power through this track. You reckon with it.
Caroline Rose and Cari Cari carry you through miles eight and nine on pure momentum, hooks wrapped around uncomfortable truths. Automatic brings Stones Throw precision to the cooldown, Jadu Heart adds atmospheric shimmer, and your legs finally remember they're tired.
Then IDLES ends everything. Joe Talbot screaming about grace while Nick Launay's production punches you in the chest—it's the only honest ending possible. You're not transcendent. You're not healed. But you're here, thirteen songs and nine miles later, still moving. Sometimes that's enough.
