“What the fuck am I doing?” I thought to myself as I started up the road to the top of Mandalay Hill. I’d run the stairs to the top before, but my travel partner at the moment convinced me to run the road with her. As I started up the unknown distance, miserable, dehydrated already and starving, I wasn’t in the best shape to run. Regardless, it was probably for the best, because running had taken a backseat to traveling for the last few weeks.
My desire to run probably wasn’t aided by my attire either. With my bus to Yangon leaving within two hours, all my clothes were packed. I at least had my running shoes, but knee long board shirts and a collared shirt didn’t make me feel ready to run. The fact I would have to travel with sweat-drenched, smelly clothes also played devil’s advocate to the runner in me. I was on the hill though, and my legs were moving.
The entire run is paved, and as I made my way up the switch backs to the top of the hill, I passed joggers, runners and tourists the entire way. I continued to pout and beat myself up, but did notice myself sneaking peaks at the makings of a beautiful sunset through the shading trees. The view of Mandalay and the Ayarwaddy is incredible through the cracks in the greenery.
