And somewhere around mile 25 (40 km), doing math in my head to stay awake, I realized something uncomfortable: at this pace, a 100-miler would take me over a day of non-stop running.

That’s not a race. That’s a hostage situation!

In ultrarunning you can grind out longer and longer distances, but if your base speed doesn’t improve, you’re adding hours, not miles. My average pace at Crystal Springs was roughly 14:25/mi (8:58/km). Extrapolate that to 100 miles and you’re looking at multiple days of continuous movement.

I don’t want to crawl through a 100-miler. I want to run it.

So before going further in distance, I’m going backwards. Way backwards. To the 5K.

The goal: sub-20 minutes this year. Fingers crossed.

You train for what you want to do

This sounds obvious, but it took me a while to internalize. For months, my training was simple: run long, run slow, run more. That approach got me through a trail half marathon in September 2025 and the 50K in January. But it wasn’t making me faster. It was making me better at being slow. It turns out that zone 2 training isn’t all I needed to do.

The shift required a different kind of discipline: cutting back mileage and adding speed work. Periodization, the coaches call it. You can’t train everything at once. You pick a quality, you build it, you move on. The idea is that your body can only adapt to so many stresses at once. If you chase endurance, speed, and strength simultaneously, you get mediocre at all three. But if you focus on one for a concentrated block of weeks, you get real adaptation. Then you shift focus, and the gains from the last block don’t disappear; they become the foundation for the next one. It’s sequential, not parallel. Think of it as compounding interest for your legs.

For the past few months, that quality has been “speed” (relatively fast for me, of course).

Most people assume the 5K is a sprint. It isn’t. A 5K race is roughly 90-95% aerobic. Three systems matter:

• VO2 max: the maximum rate your body can consume oxygen during hard effort. Your aerobic ceiling.

• Lactate threshold: the pace at which lactate accumulates faster than your body can clear it. The intensity you can sustain before things start to burn and fall apart.

• Running economy: how much energy you burn at a given pace. The efficiency of your stride. Two runners with identical VO2 max can have wildly different race times if one wastes less energy per step.

All the same systems that power an ultra, compressed into 20-something minutes.

Growing up in Singapore, the IPPT fitness test used by the Army (among others) includes a 1.5 mile (2.4 km) run as the endurance benchmark. At my peak, age 20, I ran it at about 9:40. Fast, but not blazing. A sub-20 minute 5K works out to roughly the same intensity. I’m now two decades and change past that peak.

I’m under no illusion this will be easy, or even possible. But if you don’t try, you don’t know. And here’s the upside: every second I shave off my 5K pace makes my ultras faster by default. Speed feeds endurance.

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Finding the floor

I started in September 2025 with tempo runs at 5K+ distances. No intervals, no track work. Run hard for 3-4 miles (5-6 km), see where I am.

Here was where I started: 9:44/mi (6:03/km) pace. A 30-minute 5K.

Over four months of consistent tempo work, the pace dropped steadily. 8:50/mi (5:29/km) by October. Sub-8:03/mi (sub-5:00/km) by November; 8:02/mi (4:59/km), my first PR of the journey. A slight regression to 8:15/mi (5:07/km) in December, which I’ll chalk up to holiday laziness.

The trend was clear though. Four sessions, 90 seconds per mile faster. My body was responding to the training.

Enter the interval

In January 2026, I shifted to structured intervals. The concept is simple: instead of running one continuous hard effort, you break the work into shorter, faster segments with recovery jogs in between. You run each segment harder than you could sustain over the full distance, rest enough to partially recover, then go again. The recovery lets you accumulate more total time at a faster pace than you could in a single effort. Over weeks, your body adapts to that speed, and what felt unsustainable starts feeling normal.

My format: 6 x half-mile (6 x 800m) repeats with recovery jogs. The goal: build top-end speed that I could eventually sustain over longer distances.

Session one: 7:34/mi (4:42/km) average across the reps. Consistent enough. HR manageable at 153.

Over seven weekly sessions through March, the pace came down like clockwork: from 7:34/mi down to 7:02/mi (4:42 to 4:22/km). Thirty-two seconds per mile faster in seven weeks, and my cadence climbed from 182 to 186 SPM. My legs were learning a new rhythm.

By the final session, I was running each half-mile rep at 7:02/mi (4:22/km) with a spread of only 11 seconds across six reps. The speed was there. Time to race. Or so I thought.

Race day

March 21, 2026. Sunnyvale Trail Running parkrun. My first timed 5K.

For the unfamiliar: parkruns are free, weekly, timed 5K that happens every Saturday morning in parks around the world. No entry fee, no qualifying time, no pressure. You show up, you run, you get a time. Volunteers make it happen. It started in the UK in 2004 with 13 runners in a London park and has since grown to millions of runners across 23 countries. It’s the on-ramp to racing for people who’ve never raced, and a no-stakes speed check for people who have. You register once online, print a barcode, and that barcode is your lifetime passport to any parkrun anywhere.

I went in targeting sub-23 minutes. I came out... not as expected, in 24:44.

The pacing chart tells the whole story:

See it? I thought I was running intervals. The first km I ran in 7:26/mi (4:37/km), which was interval pace. I went out like I was running a half-mile rep, not a 5K race. My heart rate spiked 16 bpm between km 1 and km 2, and by km 3 I was redlining at 176. The last two kilometers were damage control.

A 58-second positive split per mile from first to last km. Classic beginner racing mistake.

It was a good race. I finished, I learned, but it wasn’t the time I wanted.

What the numbers say vs. what my legs said

Here’s what’s frustrating: the fitness for sub-23 was there. My interval training had me comfortably holding 7:02-7:26/mi (4:22-4:37/km) in workouts. An even pace of 7:23/mi (4:35/km) would have given me 22:55 but I most likely should have adjusted my target given how I felt that day. Instead, I blew up because I overestimated the fitness I was in and couldn’t resist the adrenaline of the first kilometer.

Here’s what’s encouraging, since I’m a glass-half-full person: 24:43 with terrible pacing on a first-ever 5K race. Imagine what happens when the pacing is right.

What’s next

We keep going.

A few days after the parkrun, I ran my first session of 6 x 1km (6 x 0.62 mile) repeats at threshold. The shift from 800m to 1km reps is deliberate: the longer interval teaches the pacing discipline I clearly lacked on race day.

I managed to keep six seconds of spread across six reps. That’s the pacing consistency I needed during the race but didn’t have.

More importantly, while my parkrun first km was 7:26/mi (4:37/km), today’s average across 6 full kilometers of work was 7:26/mi (4:37/km). Same pace, completely different outcome. In the race I blew up after one kilometer at that speed. In training, I held it for six. The difference in this case is pacing strategy, not fitness.

The plan: 3-4 sessions of these 1km repeats, then another parkrun. This time, the strategy is different. Open at 7:31-7:39/mi (4:40-4:45/km), not 7:26/mi (4:37/km). Hold through kms 3-4, and finish strong. Target: sub-23:30 as a stepping stone.

Sub-20 is still the north star. That’s 6:26/mi (4:00/km) pace, and I’m at 7:26/mi (4:37/km) in training. There’s a long way to go. More interval blocks, probably some 400m work for raw speed, and more racing experience.

But I ran a 50K at 14:25/mi (8:58/km) and now I’m running 1km repeats at 7:26/mi (4:37/km). The direction is right. The process is working.

You train for what you want to do. Right now, I want to get fast.

If you are interested in my fitness journey, click here to follow me on Strava.

I ran my first mile in 9:43. I ran my last mile in 16:21. Everything that happened in between is the lesson.

The lessons aren’t groundbreaking. I just ignored or plainly forgot valuable advice received, only to relearn why they were advice in the first place.

What went wrong

I have always nodded along when experienced runners say “start slow, then slow down.” I agree completely. And then the gun goes off. And this race started with 35K runners, marathoners, and 50K runners all together. Same trail, same first miles. I didn’t know who was running what distance. I just saw people ahead of me and thought, “That looks about right.”

It wasn’t about right.

Mile one: 9:43. Heart rate at Zone 5?! The person I followed for those first miles might have been running 35K. They would finish 15 miles before me. They could afford 10-minute miles. I couldn’t. You don’t know what race the person ahead of you is running.

There’s a cutoff at mile 11: make it by 2 hours 50 minutes or go home. I made it with 25 minutes to spare. I’d run this exact stretch before in training, same course, same 11 miles. Standing at the aid station, I realized my time was nearly identical to training. Despite being fitter. Despite all those long runs building toward this day. If you’re running the same pace while feeling worse, something is wrong. You don’t bank time in an ultra. You borrow it. And ultra running, like credit cards, charges interest.

Going too hard wrecks your stomach. When you run above your aerobic threshold, blood diverts to your legs. Your gut gets less. Digestion slows. That gel you need to eat? Your body doesn’t want it. I’d never had stomach issues in training. But I’d never pinned my heart rate at Zone 5 for the first hour of a long run either. By the back half, eating every 30 minutes became eating every 45 minutes. I was forcing food down, knowing I needed it, fighting nausea the whole way.

What got me through

Here’s an honest thought I had at mile 11: “If I’m going to drop, might as well be at an aid station.”

That’s my brain doing logistics while my legs are screaming. The body wants out. The mind starts looking for doors. Wouldn’t it be silly to DNF my first ultra? I’d been sick all week, coughing until the day before. But standing there with 19 miles left, the pain made me feel alive. I didn’t drop.

After the aid station, I finally ran my own race. Nineteen miles late. I walked every incline. I only ran during downhills. When I hit the point where it hurt to start walking and also hurt to start running, I learned the only useful truth: If it hurts to walk and hurts to run, you might as well run. You get to the end faster that way.

My heart rate finally settled into Zone 2. But my pace ballooned to 15 and 16-minute miles. This was survival mode. This was what I should have been running from the start.

What I’d do again

I’m glad that I figured out nutrition before race day. How many grams of carbs per hour. How much water. When to take salt. I dialed all of this in during training. Race day is not the time to experiment. By mile 20, when everything else was falling apart, at least I wasn’t cramping.

I also did the shakeout run with my full race kit. A month before, I ran with my vest packed exactly as it would be on race day, on the same trail even, just a shorter distance. Gels in the same pockets. Water in the same bottles. On race morning, nothing surprised me. One less thing to think about when thinking gets hard.

I finished. Not fast. Not pretty. But I crossed a line I’d never crossed before, carrying 19 miles of lessons I couldn’t have learned any other way.

The things I would do the next time

1. You don’t know what race the person ahead of you is running. Run your own race.

2. You don’t bank time. You borrow it. It charges interest.

3. Going too hard wrecks your stomach. So go slow to go fast.

4. If it hurts to walk and hurts to run, run. You get to stop earlier.

5. Figure out nutrition and logistics before race day. Less thinking, more running.

Next time, I’ll start slower.

I probably won’t. But I’ll try.

• 24th out of 39 in my age category

• 75th out of 126 men

• 90th out of 168 finishers

I am, by every conceivable metric, thoroughly average at trail running. OK fine, below average.

Yet I love it. I LOVE IT. This article has been vexing me, taking almost two weeks to write. How do I explain this behavior? This is strange territory for me. I have historically followed what works well for me, things I can do such that I would be “top” in it. I have done well in my studies - not all subjects though - I simply couldn’t wrap my head around languages, but I was outstanding in math in school, graduated with distinction from my undergraduate, got a PhD, and have done well in my career - a lifetime of quantifiable achievements that put me in the top percentiles of something.

But out on the trails? I am magnificently, gloriously mediocre. And three months from now, I’ll attempt to run 50 kilometers - more than double my last race distance and longer than I have ever ran - where I will undoubtedly continue this tradition of finishing in the middle of the pack. Or more likely at the tail end of the pack.

Friends and family don’t understand it. “Why put yourself through that?” - I have nothing to prove, nobody is pushing me, each long run has moments of me asking “why am I doing this?”

Why, indeed, am I doing this?

The answer took me a while to understand myself. It required diving deep into the science and philosophy of running, reading so many books from Exercised by Daniel Lieberman to What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami.

What I discovered was both humbling and liberating: being average might be exactly where I need to be.

The Unfamiliar Territory of Not Being Good

For most of my life, I’ve approached challenges with a simple formula: identify the goal, optimize the process, achieve measurable success. This approach has worked beautifully. I planned how to graduate as young as possible, developed skills to advance my career quickly, and worked relentlessly to hit every milestone I set.

This optimization mindset naturally extended to my first foray into running in my twenties. Armed with heart rate monitors and training logs, I approached marathons like any other project - something to be systematically conquered. I tracked every metric: heart rate zones, interval training, splits, recovery times. Hey, I was doing a PhD - I had the time.

But something was missing. The data was perfect, the execution precise, yet the joy was absent. I ran my first marathon for the worst possible reason - my father, fresh off finishing his own marathon, had teased me about a middle-aged man outperforming his twenty-something son. So I responded with youthful pride and trained just to prove that marathons weren’t that hard.

I did prove my point. I ran that marathon, then several more, plus a handful of half-marathons. The times were respectable, the training methodical. But when work became demanding, I let running fade away without much thought. The truth I couldn’t admit then: I had never really loved it. Running had been just another achievement to unlock, another line on the resume of my capabilities.

Years passed. Then, almost by accident about six months back, I discovered trail running - and everything I thought I knew about myself as a runner crumbled.

I started hiking a nearby trail as a way of getting out of the door and clearing my head. I enjoyed the views so much that I started going on hikes every weekend, and hikes soon became light jogs (ok fine, they are still light jogs).

In any case, trail running broke my optimization formula completely. I know this to be true: no matter how perfectly I eat, how religiously I follow my training plan, how many hill repeats I grind through, I remain stubbornly, persistently average. My VO2 max improved marginally at first, then plateaued like a heart monitor flatline. My lactate threshold budged slightly before following the same stubborn horizontal trajectory.

For someone accustomed to seeing effort translate directly into improvement, this was deeply unsettling. Yet somehow, instead of frustration, I felt... relief?

The Science of Suffering (and Why We’re Built for It)

In Endure by Alex Hutchinson, he explores how our brains govern our physical limits. Elite athletes, he explains, can push closer to their physiological ceiling because they’ve trained their minds to tolerate more discomfort. They have what Samuele Marcora, an exercise physiologist at the University of Bologna, calls a higher “perceived effort threshold.”

Marcora’s psychobiological model reveals something profound: we stop exercising not primarily because our muscles fail, but because the effort feels too great relative to our motivation. It’s our brain’s perception of effort - not just physical fatigue - that ultimately determines when we quit.

I understand pushing through discomfort in other contexts. I’ve pulled all-nighters to ace exams, worked hundred-hour weeks to ship code, meditate for over an hour to achieve jhānas. But on the trails, when my heart rate spikes and my legs burn, something unexpected happens. I don’t push harder - I smile. I actually slow down to take in the view. I stop to pet dogs and greet hikers and runners who pass me.

Daniel Lieberman argues in Exercised that we didn’t evolve to exercise. Our ancestors moved only when necessary - to find food, escape danger, or travel to new territories. Exercise for its own sake is an evolutionary mismatch, which explains why motivation feels so elusive.

Yet humans are also spectacularly designed for endurance running. We have spring-loaded tendons, superior cooling systems through sweating, and the ability to carry water and food. We can literally run prey to exhaustion - a hunting technique called persistence hunting.

So I’m caught between two evolutionary truths: I’m built to run, but not programmed to want to. And somehow, being mediocre at trail running has helped me resolve this conflict. I’m not running to persistence hunt. I’m not running to win. I’m running because when I do, something deeper comes alive.

I run not to add days to my life, but to add life to my days.

Learning From the Back of the Pack

Christopher McDougall’s Born to Run introduced me to the Tarahumara people of Mexico, who run impossible distances not to win races, but because running is woven into their cultural DNA. They call themselves Rarámuri - the Running People. Their traditional game, rarájipari, can last 48 hours, where the point isn’t to beat others but to participate in collective movement.

McDougall writes about how the Tarahumara run with joy on their faces, even during ultramarathons. When I first read this, I dismissed it as romantic exaggeration. Then I experienced it myself, though not where I expected.

You won’t find this joy at the front of races - those runners are locked in concentration, calculating splits and managing effort with surgical precision. The magic happens in the middle and back of the pack, where I’ve made my home. We’re the ones high-fiving strangers, making terrible jokes during brutal climbs, and thanking volunteers like they’ve just saved our lives (which, at mile 18, they basically have).

We’ve already accepted we’re not winning anything, so we might as well enjoy the journey. And in that acceptance lies unexpected freedom.

Haruki Murakami, the celebrated novelist and dedicated marathon runner, describes something essential in What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. Despite running for decades, his times remain respectable but unremarkable. Yet running is essential to his creative life - not for fitness, but for accessing what he calls “the void,” a meditative state where thought dissolves.

“I’m often asked what I think about when I run,” Murakami writes. “Usually the people who ask this have never run long distances themselves. I might think about this and that while running, but I don’t think about anything worth mentioning.”

This resonates profoundly. In meetings, I was thinking three moves ahead. In daily life, I was optimizing retirement plans and investment strategies. But after mile ten on a trail run, my mind goes beautifully, blissfully blank.

Neuroscience confirms this experience. Research cited in Endure shows that the insular cortex - the brain region associated with self-awareness and internal monitoring - becomes less active during sustained endurance exercise. We literally think less about ourselves when we run long enough.

But here’s my theory: this mental quieting happens more readily when you’re not racing. When you’re gunning for a PR or fighting for position, your brain stays engaged, constantly calculating. When you’re just trying to finish somewhere in the comfortable middle? You can surrender completely to the motion.

Nature’s Humbling Indifference

Trail running amplifies everything transformative about running while stripping away everything competitive. On roads, pace is king - neat, quantifiable, comparable. On trails, pace becomes meaningless. That technical descent doesn’t care about your Strava segments. That stream crossing has no interest in your FKT attempts.

This feeling intensifies on mountain trails. Last month, grinding up a 4,000-foot climb, I was reduced to a walk… I mean power hike, stopping frequently to “admire the view” (translation: desperately aching). In those moments, I’m just another animal moving through the landscape, experiencing the absurd joy of voluntary suffering.

The science backs this up powerfully. A Stanford study published in PNAS found that a 90-minute walk in nature decreased activity in the subgenual prefrontal cortex - a brain region associated with rumination and depression. Nature literally changes our brain activity, pulling us out of our loops of self-focused thinking.

But trail running offers something beyond what researchers can measure: enforced humility. The mountain doesn’t know about your PhD. The forest doesn’t care about your promotion. Out here, credentials evaporate. You’re just flesh and determination, moving through space one step at a time.

There’s unexpected lessons I never could have learned if I were fast enough to win or slow enough to worry about cutoffs:

Lesson 1: Not everything needs to be optimized. Some experiences are actually destroyed by the attempt to perfect them. My training log has devolved from complex stats and trends to simple notes: “Felt good.” “Saw three deer.” “Legs tired but heart happy.” The imprecision is the point.

Lesson 2: Process can be its own reward. When winning is off the table, you’re free to notice what actually matters. The way morning light transforms familiar trails. The particular burn in your quads that signals you’re alive. The unexpected wildlife encounter that makes you forget you’re “training.”

Lesson 3: Joy and excellence are independent variables. This might be the hardest lesson for achievement-oriented minds to accept. You can deeply love something you’re mediocre at. In fact, the love might be purer because it’s untainted by external validation.

Why I’m Attempting a 50K (A Study in Voluntary Absurdity)

In three months, I’ll toe the line of a 50-kilometer trail race. If my 21K performance is any indication, I’ll finish around 60-70% back in the field. It will take me between 6 and 8 hours, assuming I beat the 8.5-hour cutoff. I will not win my age group. I will not qualify for anything. My finisher’s photo will not be inspiring.

But somewhere around kilometer 35, when my rational brain has long since abandoned ship and I’m reduced to pure forward motion, I’ll access something unreachable in conference rooms or code. Call it flow, call it runner’s high, call it temporary enlightenment through exhaustion.

The Tarahumara have a saying: “When you run on the earth and with the earth, you can run forever.” They don’t mean literally forever, and they don’t mean fast. They mean that when you stop trying to conquer the distance and start trying to commune with it, something fundamental shifts. The miles stop being obstacles and become opportunities for transformation.

Here’s what I’ve learned from placing 90th out of 168: mediocrity can be a form of freedom. When you’re not good enough to win and not bad enough to quit, you occupy a sweet spot where the only real competition is with the version of yourself that wanted to stay in bed.

My LinkedIn profile lists achievements and credentials, evidence of a life spent pursuing excellence. But nowhere does it mention my thoroughly average 14-minute-per-mile trail pace, or the time I had tears at the top of a peak I’d just run up, alone and overwhelmed by inexplicable joy.

Because here’s the radical truth about being average at something you love: it proves the love is real. I don’t run for medals or recognition or Instagram likes. I run because something in my DNA, forged over millions of years of evolution, recognizes this movement as essential - not to my success, but to my humanity.

Daniel Lieberman writes that we need to make exercise both necessary and fun. For me, trail running has become necessary not because it improves my market value or social status, but because it’s the one place where I’m free to be thoroughly, unapologetically mediocre. And that mediocrity has taught me more about joy than any achievement ever could.

The Trail Ahead

My “training plan” (I use that term generously) calls for 40-50 miles per week, hoping to peak around 60+ miles a month before the race. I’ll be passed by real runners with efficient strides and appropriate gear, and probably by some power-hikers too. I’ll definitely take too many photos. I’ll absolutely stop to pet every trail dog. I’ll finish tired, muddy, and statistically unremarkable in every measurable way.

And I’ll love every mediocre minute of it.

Because out there on the trails, I’m not a high achiever temporarily slumming it in the world of average. I’m just another human, doing what humans have done for millions of years: moving through landscapes, one footfall at a time, for no better reason than because we can.

The 50K looms ahead, promising hours of voluntary discomfort. My family think I’m crazy. My wife worries about my knees. My data-driven brain keeps highlighting that despite all this training, I’m not getting faster. I think I’m crazy.

But my legs know something: some things are worth doing badly. Some experiences become richer when you strip away the possibility of excellence. Sometimes, the best place to find yourself is exactly where you’d never thought to look - in the middle of the pack, running slowly through the mountains, grinning like an idiot who’s discovered a secret.

See you on the trails. I’ll be the one you’re passing.

There's a cruel irony in modern life: we've engineered physical movement out of our daily existence, yet our brains are still wired for the persistence hunts of our ancestors. We sit at desks, stare at screens, and wonder why we feel anxious, unfocused, and disconnected. The answer might be simpler than we think - we've stopped moving the way our brains expect us to.

Thinking about it, we (as in human race) certainly didn’t evolve to exercise, so why should exercising be good or healthy for us? This is discussed in the book "Exercised" - our ancestors moved when they had to - to find food, escape predators, or migrate to better territories. Voluntary physical activity for the sake of fitness? That's a weird modern invention that goes against every energy-conserving instinct evolution gave us.

This creates a fascinating paradox. While we didn't evolve to exercise, we absolutely evolved to move - and our brains need that movement to function properly. In "Spark," psychiatrist John Ratey makes a compelling case that exercise isn't just about physical fitness - it's about optimizing the very organ that makes us who we are. When we run, we're not just training our bodies; we're literally rewiring our brains. Exercise triggers a cascade of neurochemical changes such as releasing BDNF (brain-derived neurotrophic factor), which Ratey calls "Miracle Gro for the brain," strengthening neural connections and even stimulating the growth of new neurons. It floods our system with neurotransmitters like serotonin, dopamine, and norepinephrine - the same chemicals targeted by antidepressants and ADHD medications, but in perfectly balanced proportions.

Running is really a form of voluntary stress that teaches the brain and body how to handle involuntary stress. Your brain doesn't distinguish between the stress of a steep climb and the stress of a work deadline; it just knows you're practicing resilience.

The evidence is striking. When Naperville Central High School restructured their gym class to focus on fitness rather than sports, their students achieved remarkable results. In a controlled study, students who participated in early-morning exercise combined with literacy support showed 1.34 years of growth on standardized reading tests, compared to just 0.7 years for the literacy-only group. The math results were even more dramatic: students who exercised before their algebra support class improved their test scores by 20.4%, while the control group gained only 3.87% (Education Week, 2008). This isn't an isolated finding. A 2023 systematic review analyzing studies from 2012-2022 confirmed that physical activity consistently enhances academic performance across different ages, with the frequency, intensity, and type of exercise all playing mediating roles. Movement, it turns out, primes the brain for learning in ways that extra study time simply cannot match.

The research on aging is particularly compelling. Lieberman's work shows that hunter-gatherers maintain their activity levels well into their seventies, experiencing what scientists call "compression of morbidity" - they stay healthy and active until very close to death, avoiding the decades of decline common in industrialized societies. The Stanford Runners Study found that runners in their 50s and beyond were three times less likely to die in any given year compared to non-runners, and they maintained basic physical abilities at double the rate of their sedentary peers.

More recent longevity research adds urgency to these findings. Peter Attia has identified VO2 max as perhaps the single most powerful predictor of longevity. His analysis of a 122,000-person study shows that moving from the bottom 25th percentile of VO2 max to just the 25th-50th percentile is associated with a 50% reduction in all-cause mortality. Push into the 50th-75th percentile, and that risk drops by 70%. As Attia notes, even a modest 1 mL/kg/min increase in VO2 max can lower your risk of death by 9% - making it more impactful than almost any pharmaceutical intervention.

And then there's Zone 2 training, which adds another layer to this story. By deliberately staying in that "all-day pace" where you can still hold a conversation, you're not just building an aerobic base - you're mimicking the intensity at which our ancestors spent most of their active time. Research indicates that this moderate-intensity exercise zone optimizes mitochondrial function, the cellular powerhouses that determine not just our endurance but our overall metabolic health. You're teaching your brain to maintain steady-state function under mild stress. It's the neurological equivalent of learning to stay calm in traffic. The patience required, the discipline of going slower to eventually go faster, the acceptance that progress isn't always visible - these are lessons that extend far beyond the trail.

So why do I run? I basically enjoy it, but reading up and preparing this article I learn that it’s also about giving my brain what it evolved to need: movement, mild stress, problem-solving on the fly, and the deep satisfaction that comes from using my body the way it was meant to be used.

Now, let me share the system I've developed to stay in Zone 2 on trails. Whether or not you want to run is up to you!

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Quick Primer on Zone 2 Training

Before diving into the gear, let's quickly cover what Zone 2 training actually is. Zone 2 refers to exercising at 60-70% of your maximum heart rate - an intensity where you can maintain a conversation without gasping for breath. It's your "all-day pace."

Training in this zone improves mitochondrial function (your cells' energy factories), enhances fat burning as fuel, and builds the aerobic base that determines your endurance ceiling. Elite endurance athletes spend 70+% of their training time in Zone 2. Yes, the fastest runners do most of their miles at what feels surprisingly slow (relatively to them, their zone 2 pace would still be too fast for average runners).

For trail runners, Zone 2 presents unique challenges. Hills instantly spike your heart rate. Technical terrain disrupts your rhythm. And there's the constant temptation to power through sections.

In my previous article about Zone 2 training, I shared the weird side effects nobody warns you about - the sore muscles with fresh lungs, the sleep issues, and so much walking (and hills!). Now I'm sharing my setup and what I found works for me.

This isn't supposed to be a "run slower to run fast" or Zone 2 training guide - I provide links at the end if you want to read up on those but this is the system I use to stay (sane) in Zone 2 on trails.

The Walking Truth Nobody Admits

Let me be clear: Zone 2 trail running means walking, especially for beginners like me. And I mean a lot of walking.

Athletes with low to moderate levels of fitness may need to walk on any incline to stay in Zone 2. This isn't failure - it's correct training. As Matt Fitzgerald, author of the 80/20 Running book, puts it: if your heart rate is above 80% of maximum, you're above Zone 2, regardless of how you feel.

My typical trail "run" breakdown:

• Flats: Easy jogging (barely)

• Slight inclines: Power hiking

• Real climbs: Leisurely walking

• Descents: The only time I look like a runner

I'm telling you this upfront because accepting this reality is the first and most important step. Your ego will protest. Other runners will pass you. Heck, even day hikers were passing me during inclines on their hikes. But your mitochondria are getting exactly what they need.

The voice guidance system I'm about to describe makes this ego-crushing reality easier to accept. When I hear "You are now in Heart Rate Zone 3," I immediately slow down. No negotiation, no "just to the top." The voice has spoken, and I walk.

The Problems and The Hacks

A Note on Investment

Before we dive in, the complete system I'm about to describe represents a significant investment. I didn't start here, and you shouldn't either. I just added only when I found something frustrating.

Priority order if you're building gradually:

1. Heart rate monitor ($90-150): Polar Verity Sense or chest strap - this is non-negotiable for accurate Zone 2 training

2. Proper footwear ($150-200): Protect your feet first, whether minimalist or traditional

3. GPS watch ($300-600): Any fitness watch (like from Garmin) with lactate threshold detection

4. Hydration vest ($150): Great for runs over 90 minutes

5. Audio solution ($300): Smart glasses or bone conduction headphones

6. Trekking poles ($180): Game-changer for hills but not essential initially

You can absolutely start with just #1 and #2, using your phone for tracking and voice guidance. Build from there based on what frustrates you most.

Problem 1: Checking heart rate zones is a chore

Here's the fundamental issue with Zone 2 training on trails: your heart rate becomes a moving target on the trail. Hit any incline - even the gentlest grade that barely registers as uphill - and your heart rate spikes immediately. Take a breather or hit a downhill section, and it plummets below your target zone. You need to react quickly to these constant changes, but how?

The obvious answer is to check your watch, except that's asking for trouble on technical terrain. Nothing says "face-plant incoming" quite like staring at your wrist while navigating spiky rocks and pokey roots. Plus, wrist-based heart rate monitors struggle with accuracy during higher intensity efforts, so even when you do check, the data might be lying to you.

You could use your phone for audio guidance, but that creates its own problems. Nobody wants to hold a phone while trail running, and audio-only heart rate announcements become disruptive, especially when you're running with friends who definitely don't need to hear your robot coach calling out "Zone 3" every thirty seconds as you climb.

Solution: I run with two devices tracking heart rate simultaneously.

Yes, it's overkill. No, I don't care.

The Tracking System (Garmin Watch)

The foundation of my setup is the Garmin Fenix 8, which I only put on when I actually start running since I can't stand wearing watches otherwise. The Garmin serves as my official recording device, but more importantly, it provides something crucial: automatic lactate threshold detection.

Here's why this matters: most people set their zones using age-based formulas that can be off by 20+ beats per minute. The Garmin actually detects your lactate threshold during runs when you maintain a steady, high intensity with consistent heart rate. This gives you zones based on your actual physiology, not some generic calculation. The catch is you need to stay above 70% for more than 10 minutes continuously, which means I have to throw in occasional tempo or threshold runs to keep the measurements current.

Once the watch detects your lactate threshold, you can set your zones based on %LTHR (Lactate Threshold Heart Rate). Since your lactate threshold marks the boundary between Zone 4 and Zone 5, this gives you scientifically accurate zones that actually reflect your fitness.

The Voice Guidance System (Polar Flow + Verity Sense)

While the Garmin handles the official tracking, I needed something that would keep me in zone without requiring constant watch-checking. Enter the Polar ecosystem:

The Polar Verity Sense armband sits on my upper arm, providing optical heart rate data that's comparable to a chest strap but actually comfortable enough for multi-hour efforts. The key is enabling dual Bluetooth on the Verity Sense so it can talk to both my watch and my phone simultaneously. The sensor feeds data to the Polar Flow app on my phone, which has voice guidance enabled to announce zone changes through my headphones.

This setup transforms zone training from an active monitoring task into a passive experience. Instead of constantly checking a screen, I just run until a calm voice tells me to adjust my pace. It's the difference between driving while constantly checking your speedometer versus having someone gently remind you when you're speeding.

The Audio Delivery (Oakley Meta Smart Glasses)

The final piece solves a problem I didn't know I had until I started using earbuds on trails: audio isolation is dangerous when you're in the wilderness. Traditional earbuds either block environmental sounds (unsafe) or bounce around and fall out (annoying).

My solution: Oakley Meta HSTN smart glasses with transition lenses. The open-ear speakers let me hear zone announcements clearly while maintaining full awareness of my surroundings - crucial for hearing mountain bikers, wildlife, or that suspicious rustling in the bushes. With 8 hours of battery life, they outlast even my longest Zone 2 slogs. No wires to snag, no ear fatigue from hours of wear, just clear audio that doesn't compromise safety or comfort.

How It All Works Together

This four-piece system might sound complicated, but it creates the simplest possible trail running experience:

• The Garmin Fenix 8 records everything and provides scientifically accurate zones based on my actual lactate threshold

• The Polar Verity Sense feeds accurate heart rate data to both devices

• The Polar Flow app monitors zones and announces changes

• The Oakley Meta glasses deliver audio guidance without blocking trail sounds

The result? I run, a voice tells me when to adjust, and I never have to look at anything except the trail ahead. It took four devices to achieve what should be simple: staying in Zone 2 without thinking about it.

Problem 2: Barefoot Five Finger Footwear for the trail

Barefoot running feels incredible, but taking it from casual hiking to actual trail running requires some adjustments. The moment you pick up speed on technical terrain, you realize that pure barefoot just doesn't cut it - you need protection without sacrificing that natural foot movement.

For those of us who specifically love Vibram FiveFingers, the challenge becomes finding the right model for trails. Road-focused FiveFingers get shredded on rocks, and most of them turn into pebble collectors the moment you hit gravel. You need something built for the abuse of trails while keeping that distinctive toe separation that makes these shoes special.

The Footwear Solution That Actually Works

I landed on the Vibram V-Trek shoes. The first thing I noticed is the higher ankle collar - finally, someone realized that keeping rocks OUT of the shoe is just as important as ground feel. The 50/50 wool/synthetic blend upper breathes surprisingly well for something that covers your ankle, and the Megagrip outsole is the same compound Vibram sells to actual hiking boot companies. It grips on wet rocks well.

The ground feel is still there, just with enough protection that you're not wincing every time you land on a sharp rock. Think of it as the difference between being barefoot versus wearing a sandal - you still feel the trail, you just don't hate it.

I have also started to test out the Vibram Scramkey shoes. This shoe has sole-integrated straps (no need to tie shoe-laces!), and has a durable upper sleeve on the ankle that keeps sand and rock from entering the shoe. I find these shoes to be amazing on trails with rocky surfaces, grass, and tree roots. They seem to be especially good on inclines but not as great on flat hard interior surfaces.

Pro-Tip: Proper Toe Socks

Here's what nobody tells you about five-finger shoes on trails: the right socks change everything. I run in Injinji Trail Midweight Crew socks, and yes, putting toe socks inside toe shoes feels ridiculous until you realize what it solves.

First, no more toe-on-toe blisters during long runs. If you've ever had a blister between your pinky toe and ring toe at mile 15, you know this alone is worth the extra 30 seconds it takes to wrangle your toes into individual sock sleeves. The midweight cushioning adds just enough protection without turning your minimalist shoes into pillows, and the moisture-wicking actually works - no more swamp toes after creek crossings.

The ribbed cuffs work with the V-Trek’s and Scramkey’s higher ankle to create a debris-blocking system that actually functions. I've gone from stopping constantly to empty my shoes to maybe once per run. For five-finger trail running, that's basically a miracle.

You Almost Certainly Don’t Have This Issue

This setup isn't for everyone. You're still running in minimalist shoes with separated toes, which means you'll get looks from other trail runners ranging from curiosity to horror. Your feet will still feel everything - just at a manageable level instead of painful.

But if you're committed to barefoot-style running and want to hit actual trails without destroying your feet, this combination works for me, an avid Vibram FiveFinger shoe junkie.

Problem 3: Fueling and Hydration on the trail

Long Zone 2 sessions require proper fuel and hydration, but you need gear that doesn't get in the way. Here's my complete trail setup:

The Hydration System

Salomon ADV Skin 12 - This vest is the sweet spot for long Zone 2 runs. The 12L capacity handles everything I need without bouncing, and the soft flask system in front means no reaching around to a backpack. The 2x500ml soft flasks sit perfectly against the chest and I can sip without breaking stride. The construction wraps snugly without restricting breathing, crucial when I’m out for 3+ hours.

The Gel Solution

Maurten Gel 100 and Gel 160 - Containing 25g and 40g (respectively) of carbohydrates using Hydrogel Technology that encapsulates carbs and carries them through the stomach. I find the texture and taste to be perfectly neutral and more importantly does not cause me any GI issues. One gel per hour for 3+ hour runs. Available at The Feed, Amazon, or directly from Maurten.

The Trekking Pole Solution

Leki Ultratail FX.One - These poles saved my knees on long descents and power my uphills without spiking heart rate. These poles are equipped with the new Trail Shark grip-strap system, developed exclusively for trail running.

The downside: fixed height so less adjustment compared to telescoping poles, but the instant deployment and bombproof lock make up for it. The carbon construction (181g / 6.4 oz per pole) disappears when not in use. When you're power hiking to stay in Zone 2, these poles turn your arms into a second engine.

Salomon Custom Quiver - Attaches directly to the ADV Skin 12 for instant gel access. An easy over the shoulder holder for my poles.

Problem 4: Is there even a trail near me?

You've got all this gear, but where do you actually run? Finding good trails can be surprisingly challenging, especially if you're new to an area.

The Trail Discovery Solution

AllTrails - My go-to for discovering new trails. The free version shows you nearby trails with difficulty ratings, elevation profiles, and recent reviews.

Google Maps - Find the trail already highlighted in AllTrails or simply search "hiking trails near me" and look for the highest-rated green spaces. Click through to see photos and recent reviews.

Getting Routes onto Your Watch

Once you find a trail, to get it on your Garmin watch check out Alpine Savvy's comprehensive guide. They also cover everything regional trail databases to crowd-sourced options as data sources.

Finding Your Real Zones

Instead of using age-based formulas (they're meant for the general population and individual differences can be up to 20 bpm difference), I use Garmin's lactate threshold detection. After a few weeks of running with a chest strap or the Verity Sense, it will automatically calculate my threshold. The new zones work far better for me.

Quick Zone Check:

• Zone 1: Can hold a full conversation, barely feels like exercise

• Zone 2: Can speak in full sentences, nasal breathing possible

• Zone 3: Short sentences only, breathing through mouth

• Zone 4: Few words max, heavy breathing

• Zone 5: Can't talk, max effort

Recovery Strategy

Zone 2 runs are LONG. Here's what actually helps with recovery:

Post-Run Recovery:

Tailwind Recovery Mix - Contains 20g of complete plant-based protein, carbs to restock glycogen, and electrolytes. Mix with 16oz water immediately after running. It actually tastes good, which matters after suffering for hours. Available at Tailwind Nutrition, The Feed, or Amazon.

Sleep Solution:

Remember those sleep issues from my previous article? Dream Shot from The Feed - A 2oz pre-bed drink that helps you fall asleep fast, stay asleep longer, and hit deep sleep zones. Contains tart cherry, magnesium, and other sleep-supporting ingredients. No more 2 AM wake-ups wondering why you're exhausted but wired.

What Actually Improved

After three months of this setup:

1. Zone 2 pace increased - Hills and pace that used to spike me to Zone 3 now stay in Zone 2

2. No more watch obsession - Voice guidance freed me to watch the trail, not my wrist

3. Better recovery - Actually staying in Zone 2 means less fatigue accumulation

4. Walking without shame - It's training, not giving up

5. Consistent training - No more blown workouts from going too hard

6. Trail confidence - Technical terrain feels easier when you're not redlining

I hope my setup helps you. It's not pretty, but neither is bonking at mile 20 because I never built my aerobic base.

The Complete Zone 2 Trail Running Gear List

Heart Rate & Tracking

• Garmin Fenix 8 - Main tracking device with lactate threshold detection

• Polar Verity Sense - Armband heart rate sensor

• Polar Flow App - For voice guidance zones

• Oakley Meta HSTN Smart Glasses - Open-ear audio for zone alerts

Footwear

• Vibram V-Trek Shoes or Vibram Scramkey Shoes - Five-finger trail protection

• Injinji Trail Midweight Crew Socks - Toe socks for blister prevention

Hydration & Trail Gear

• Salomon ADV Skin 12 - 12L vest with 2x500ml soft flasks

• Salomon Custom Quiver - Poles holder for vest

• Leki Ultratail FX.One Poles - Carbon poles with Shark System straps

Trail Finding & Navigation

• AllTrails Pro - Offline maps and trail discovery

• Gaia GPS - Route planning and creation

Fueling & Recovery

• Maurten Gel 100 - 25g carbs per gel

• Maurten Gel 160 - 40g carbs per gel

• Tailwind Recovery Mix - Post-run protein and electrolytes

• Dream Shot from The Feed - Sleep support for recovery

Resources

• Zone 2 Training For Beginners & Advanced Athletes (YouTube) - Floris Gierman covers zone 2 low heart rate training while running a sub 3 hour marathon

• Matt Fitzgerald's 80/20 Endurance - Essential reading for trail runners

• DC Rainmaker's Polar Verity Sense Review - Deep accuracy analysis

• Alpine Savvy's GPX Guide - Comprehensive trail-finding resources

• The Feed - For Dream Shot and Maurten gels

• Garmin's Lactate Threshold Guide - Understanding the science

• My original Zone 2 article - The weird side effects and reality check

• Spark by John Ratey - The revolutionary science of exercise and the brain

• Exercised by Daniel Lieberman - The evolutionary perspective on why exercise is a modern necessity

The (Weird) Stuff That Actually Happens

1. Your Muscles Will Betray You, But You Can Sing Your Lungs Out Still

Here's something that completely caught me off guard: After a 3+ hour zone 2 run, I can be not out of breath at all but still be really sore in my muscles. This feels completely backwards from my normal running experience from decades ago where I'm usually exhausted both muscle-wise AND gasping for air.

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It turns out there's a fascinating physiological reason for this. Zone 2 training keeps you in a state where your blood lactate levels remain stable - your body can clear lactate as fast as you're producing it. You're essentially working your muscles for hours while your cardiovascular system is just cruising along, using fat as fuel instead of frantically burning through carbs. Your muscles are doing serious work accumulating all those miles, but your heart and lungs? They're basically on a leisurely jog.

Think of it like this: normally when you run hard, everything fails together in one spectacular bonfire of exhaustion. With zone 2, your muscles are doing a slow burn while your cardiovascular system is barely breaking a sweat.

2. Why Can’t I Fall Asleep?!

I've had a lifetime of great sleep. I'm talking head-hits-pillow, wake-up-9-hours-later kind of sleep. Then I started these long zone 2 runs and suddenly I'm lying in bed at 2 AM wondering what the hell happened to my superpower.

A key moment came as I browsed The Feed (nutrition shop for athletes) and noticed product lines dedicated to sleep-related nutrition. Why would athletes need help sleeping? Aren't we supposed to be exhausted?

Turns out, marathon-level training can seriously deplete your magnesium levels - we're talking up to 12% of your daily magnesium lost through sweat alone. Magnesium helps regulate cortisol (your stress hormone) and promotes deep sleep. Without it, you get the cruel irony of being physically exhausted but neurologically wired.

I've since started supplementing with various forms of magnesium (glycinate, citrate, etc.) before bed, but who knew that running for hours could make you too tired to sleep?

3. Just Ran 3 Hours, You Must Be Not Hungry?!

Remember being a kid and your mom telling you to eat because "you must be hungry after all that running around"? Yeah, turns out mom was wrong.

I noticed this years ago when I ran marathons in my (much) younger days, but it's happening again with these long zone 2 runs: I finish a 3+ hour run having burned probably 1,000+ calories, and food is the last thing on my mind. My stomach feels like it's gone into hibernation.

As usual, the answer is science - intense or prolonged exercise actually suppresses your "hunger hormone" (ghrelin) and increases appetite-suppressing hormones like peptide YY. Your body essentially shuts down digestion to prioritize blood flow to working muscles, and this effect lingers after you stop running. Evolution probably designed this so our ancestors could hunt for hours without being distracted by hunger, but it means I have to force myself to eat recovery food when every instinct is saying "nah, I'm good."

The Parts You Should Know

Here are two notes on Zone 2 training which I will mention:

Walking. So. Much. Walking.

Want to feel like a fraud while "running"? Try zone 2 training on trails. Any slight incline and my heart rate monitor starts screaming at me to slow down. So I walk. And pause. And walk some more.

I've had to completely recalibrate my ego about what "going for a run" means. Sometimes my Strava looks like I've been out for a leisurely hike rather than a training run. But here's the thing - this is exactly what you're supposed to do. If you can't maintain zone 2 while running up that hill, you walk. Period. Your ego will recover faster than your aerobic system will if you keep spiking into zone 3.

You NEED a Real Heart Rate Monitor

Let me save you some frustration: your fitness watch is lying to you about your heart rate, especially during zone 2 training where precision matters.

I use a Polar Verity Sense armband (because I hate chest straps with the fire of a thousand suns), and the difference is shocking. Wrist-based monitors lag, they get confused by arm movement, and they'll have you thinking you're in zone 2 when you're actually cruising in zone 3.

When you're trying to stay in such a narrow heart rate range for hours at a time, accuracy and responsiveness matter. Bite the bullet and get a proper monitor - armband or chest strap. Your Zone 2 training will thank you.

Bottom Line

Zone 2 training is simultaneously the most boring and most surprising type of running I've done. It's exposed gaps in my fitness (strong heart, apparently weak muscles), created problems I didn't know existed (who needs help sleeping after running for 3 hours?), and forced me to walk up hills like… like I'm old (I am old).

But here's the thing - it's working. My easy pace is getting faster while staying at the same heart rate. I can run for hours without feeling destroyed the next day. Despite all the sleep issues (which I will figure out).

Just don't expect it to feel like "normal" running. Throw out your conceptions that running is hard. It's its own weird, slow, surprisingly complex beast. Just prepare to do a lot of walking. Your ego might hate it, but your mitochondria will thank you.

Helpful Resources:

• Phil Maffetone's MAF Method - The OG of zone 2 training

• Uphill Athlete's Aerobic Capacity Guide - Great for understanding your zones

• Examine.com's Magnesium Guide - Everything you need to know about magnesium supplementation

• The Science of Ultra Podcast - Deep dives into endurance physiology