Unintentional Hill Training in Hungary

 August did not sneak, but rather, galloped past our noses. Vacations abounded, while running went in spurts. As the leaves start to turn and hearts become fixated on the goal, the running regimen will gain more consistency.

But first, a story from my trip to Budapest in August, which I've deemed "Unintentional Hill Training." Translation? I got lost. 

I love Budapest. For those of you who don’t know, Buda and Pest are cities on opposite sides of the Danube River, flanked by numerous suburbs and villages. Imagine a Western European city, then add a layer of grit over the buildings, some weather wear and tear, and you’ve got Budapest.

After 10 days in the city with a friend, my running tally was exactly ZERO. This was mostly due to the fact that I didn’t have my running shoes and clothing because my suitcase was delayed. However, I decided a run (with some prayer time) was in order, and my friend told me what streets to turn on to make a 3.5 mile loop. I was feeling confident of the route, except for a little zig zag through the city center. But hey, I’m in Hungary! I’m going for a run! Whoohoo!

I  made it through the center and started up the Diosd Hill. Now, I could wax poetic and make all sorts of analogies comparing the hill to our marathon training, and the celebration that awaits once we conquer the summit; but in all honestly, it was not that romantic or life altering. The simple fact is: I got lost. And kept running up hills. The only thing breathtaking about it was the unarguable fact that it was TAKING MY BREATH.

I KNEW I was supposed to turn left on a dirt road and run across a ridge where the whole village would be in sight. I ran up one hill. Not correct, back down, up the next. Not right. Breath is increasing. Dead end at the top of the next one. Did I mention how STEEP this hill was?! Soon I had no idea where I was; couldn’t see the village for the trees; and fear was starting to creep in: I don’t have a cell phone. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know the language.

Enter, a little “Nagyanya, or, “Grandma” in Hungarian. I proceeded to make hand gestures about running and trying to get back to the church in the center. She spoke in rapid Hungarian, but gestured left, so I kept going to the left. I f inally spotted the church (another analogy about the church being a guide to life . .. but I’ll abstain) and was able to make my way home. I strolled in like nothing was wrong: I conquer hills in Hungarian villages every day.

However, not my ideal form of hill training.

By: Summer North