There is a perfect mile-long song and I’ve been chasing it for 15 years

Your pace may slow and your goals may shift – in running and in life – but a song can be with you through it all, finds Aram Mrjoian

LCD Soundsystem’s All My Friends arrived in May 2007, just as I finished school. I heard the single, off the band’s Sound Of Silver album, and right away I fell for the tireless piano riff and slow-building momentum.

The length – seven minutes and 37 seconds – made it an ideal running song, one that fit easily into my three- or four-mile morning jogs.

At 18, I could run seven-minute miles without much difficulty and would routinely cover more than a mile by the time the final cymbal crashes brought the song to a halt.

In my midtwenties, when I first started seriously training for marathons, I had slowed down. Injuries and general life responsibilities had stretched my average mile to eight minutes. Still,

All My Friends remained on my playlist, a challenge to return to my unburdened teenage speed. At the 80-second mark, singer James Murphy croons, ‘That’s how it starts,’ but by that point I would have already upped my pace, trying to keep up with my earlier self.

Now, at 32, and with a couple of lingering ankle problems, my average mile pace fluctuates between eight-and-a-half and nine minutes. It’s become daunting to hear LCD’s soft piano kick in and try to stick to my old routine. But when I hear those first notes, no matter whether I’m on mile one or 10, I try to match my pace to the song’s length. It’s an isolated race against time, a test that has remained constant for nearly half my life.

It’s not just the length of All My

Friends that makes it a perfect mile song. Its style and substance set up an introspective effort. The lyrics follow a narrator through the years and social losses of getting older: ‘You spent the first five years trying to get with the plan. And the next five years trying to be with your friends again,’ Murphy sings, his voice full of ennui.

During those summers in my late teens, All

My Friends was a reminder that the days were endless with possibility. Now I identify with the world-weary guy in the latter part of the song. I’ve moved several times, changed professions and lost touch with many friends. I can barely keep track of others scattered across the globe. At the crescendo, when James Murphy repeatedly asks, ‘Where are your friends tonight?’ I wonder about them while my chest burns and my legs wobble.

Over the years, as my running routes changed with the places I was calling home, All My Friends offered continuity in my running while everything else was in flux. Each time it begins, I smile at the challenge. By the end, I’m exhausted. It’s a reminder that you don’t have to succeed at nearimpossible tasks, like maintaining a pace for 15 years, or staying in touch with every friend, or living a blissfully fulfilling life. But it feels good to try. •