What Is an Easy Pace Anyway?

In Three Years Later I mentioned a new "easy" pace had been identified. I left it hanging. Fair enough — I wasn't sure I could explain it properly.

This is me trying.

Disclaimer — I am not a coach. This is what easy means on my legs, in my lungs, on my watch, on a Tuesday morning when it's drizzling.

What easy wasn't

For years my default was head out and go. As fast as I could. Or felt like going.

That might mean charging up the first hill to "get it over with." It might mean negative-splitting by accident because I started too hot and faded. It often meant my head was in a race nobody else had entered.

I wrote about pace charts and resting heart rate when I started running properly. The numbers mattered. Progress mattered. Speed was the story I told myself.

Easy wasn't really in the vocabulary.

If you'd asked me then what an easy run was, I might have said "anything where I'm not vomiting." That was about the sum of it.

The first few slow runs

When I read about long slow runs, the phrase that stuck was conversational pace.

Could you hold a chat? Could you speak in full sentences without gulping air between words?

On paper, yes. Obvious. Sensible.

On the road, uncomfortable. My legs complained. My ego complained louder. I was ticking over slowly and it felt wrong — like I was wasting a run.

If I saw another runner I sped up subconsciously. Always a racer. Slowing down hurt.

The first mile was the worst. My body wanted the old rhythm. Heart rate crept. Patience was required. By mile two or three something settled — not bliss, but less of a fight.

I stuck with it anyway. Partly curiosity. Partly because my annual kilometre total was climbing and I wasn't breaking myself as often.

My comfortable number

My comfortable pace seems to sit at about 5 min 30 per km. I just seem to fall there. I do go slower but that takes concentration.

That's not a target. It's a observation after months of looking at summaries and thinking "oh, there I am again."

A few years back I would have found that pace insulting. Now it's where a lot of good runs live.

Faster efforts still happen — Strava segments, a cheeky finish, a day when the legs feel light. But 5:30-ish is the hammock I swing in.

How I know it now

Easy is not one number. It's a band.

On a good day, easy might be a pace I would have called "steady" a few years back. On a tired day, after poor sleep or a heavy weights session, easy is slower still — and that's the point.

Here is what I actually check:

Breathing. Can I nose-breathe for stretches? Not the whole run — I'm not that zen. But if I'm only mouth-breathing from minute two, I'm not easy.

Talk test. I mutter to myself sometimes. Full sentences. If I'm planning the day out loud without wheezing, I'm probably in the right neighbourhood.

The watch — but loosely. I glance at heart rate. I know roughly where "easy" lives for me. I don't chase a zone like it's homework. I've already written about why I don't worship V02 Max — same energy applies here. The watch informs. It doesn't command.

How I feel the next day. Easy runs should not leave me hobbling downstairs. If every "easy" session trashes my calves, it wasn't easy. It was slow-ish fast.

What moves easy around

Easy is not fixed. These things shift it for me:

Hills. I slow down without shame. Trying to hold flat-ground pace on a climb is how old me got injured.

Heat. Summer runs are slower. Obvious but I still need reminding.

Cold and wind. Winter miles taught me that battling the elements at "normal" pace is a fool's game.

Weights. Since I've been lifting more in 2026, heavy leg days mean easy is genuinely easier — or the run becomes a shuffle. Both are fine.

Caffeine. I still drink it. I know my sensitivity is mixed. Some days it helps me out the door. Some days everything feels a notch frantic.

Sleep and stress. The mental health angle never really goes away. Anxious weeks don't magically produce relaxed pacing.

Music and easy

I wrote about finding your rhythm with playlists and beats. That still matters — but differently now.

Fast music used to pull me faster whether I wanted it or not. Now I pick stuff that matches easy, not fights it. If the chorus makes me surge, wrong song.

Sometimes I run with no music at all. Running as meditation isn't my daily practice, but silence helps me hear my breathing — the cheapest pace gauge going.

Easy vs lazy

This took a while to untangle.

Some days I don't want to run. That's not an easy-pace problem. That's a motivation problem — I've been there and written about it.

Easy is a deliberate choice during the run. Lazy is skipping the run and calling it recovery when I know fine well I'd feel better if I went out.

Easy still means showing up.

Easy vs slow

Slow is a pace on a screen.

Easy is a feeling.

I can run slower than easy — plodding because I'm beat. I can run faster than easy — still aerobic, still controlled, but my breathing says we're not in Kansas anymore.

Easy is the slot where I could do this for an hour and not dread the last twenty minutes.

When I ignore easy

I'm honest — I still go faster sometimes.

Strava segments when the mood takes me. A hill because I fancy hurting a bit. The final kilometre home when the playlist kicks in.

The difference from the old me is that easy is the default, not the exception. Fast is optional garnish, not the whole meal.

I don't have to race to enjoy going quicker. A segment is a mini race. That's enough.

When easy means don't run

Listening to my body still applies. Easy pace doesn't cure a cold. It doesn't heal a shin that's sending clear signals.

Sometimes the smartest easy run is a walk. Or a rest day with sardines and smugness.

In 2025 I learned this again the hard way — injured, then sick, then the every-other-day 10k plan. Easy pace on a broken leg is not heroic. It's stupid.

Easy and distance

Easy is how I stacked kilometres.

Short easy runs count. They add up. A 30-minute trot you barely remember is still a brick in the wall.

Long easy runs are a different skill — boredom, hydration, the voice that says speed up because you're nearly done. I let that voice have a biscuit and carry on.

The annual total grew because easy made frequency possible. Not because I discovered a secret sprint workout.

The number (if you want one)

I almost didn't include this. Numbers age. Fitness shifts. Weather happens.

But you might find it useful as a ballpark, not a rule.

For me, easy on flat ground is roughly where I could double the distance I planned and still finish without drama. It's a few minutes per kilometre slower than the pace I'd run if "trying" over 10k. Heart rate sits in a band I recognise after years of glancing at the watch — not zone 2 gospel, just familiar.

Your easy will differ. Age, terrain, heat, sleep, caffeine, yesterday's weights — all of it moves the dial.

That's why I like the talk test more than the spreadsheet.

Why bother

Easy running is how I stopped dreading the front door. It's how I ran in rain and winter and on days I couldn't be bothered.

I'm not faster because of easy alone. I'm more consistent. Consistency has been worth more than any single heroic session.

If you're like old me — head out fast, wonder why running feels like a chore — try boring yourself on purpose for a few weeks. See if the annual total climbs. See if the legs thank you.

TLDR — easy pace is conversational breathing, not a vanity number; ~5:30/km is my hammock not my religion; watch helps but doesn't rule; slow and easy aren't the same; default easy, sprint if you fancy.

More soon.