Up the Down Staircase (aka The One About Running in Bergen)

"What will you be doing in Bergen?" asked the soft spoken older Swedish woman sitting next to me on the train from Oslo to Bergen.

"Running..." I said.

Before I could add "and sightseeing", she interjected. "You know there are seven mountains in Bergen."

No, nope. Didn't know that. The look on my face must have been telling because she just laughed in response.

At the time, we were going over and through a bunch of mountains (Something I hadn't really been aware of about Norway but probably should have been - there are mountains) but I figured once we got past them and to Bergen (That the city sits on the edge of a fjord probably should have told me something) everything would have leveled out. For the rest of the train journey, I let myself go on believing that the old gal didn't know what she was talking about. Surely, she'd exaggerated; surely, they were just hills; surely, it wouldn't be that bad.

After a magnificent seven hour train journey, we finally arrived in Bergen and I stepped out onto the platform into a crisp Western Norway evening. And looked up. Steep hillsides dotted with houses stretched upwards every direction. And beyond? Snow capped mountains. Seriously mountains. What had I gotten myself into? I hate running hills. HATE it. Well, up them. Down can be ok (more on that...).

As I walked through town on my way to my hotel I was once again able to kid myself that maybe it wouldn't be too bad. Sure, I could look up and see hills and mountains but the walk from the train station to my hotel was completely flat. Maybe there were plenty of flat roads and trails and we (my running guide, Erik, and I) would stick to those.

Fortuitously, the following morning - Saturday - dawned surprisingly dry and almost sunny. As I waited for Erik in the hotel lobby, the girl behind the desk looked at me and my attire and asked if I was going for a run. Much like the Swedish woman from the day before, she gave me a nod and a knowing grin when I said that yes in fact I was. I still didn't get it; I still bought into the fantasy that I could somehow avoid the hills. That girl didn't know. She didn't.

I suppose I should interject here that somewhere deep inside I knew. I had to. As a running tour vet (Bergen would be my fifth tour), I was familiar with the running tour 'pattern' - show the sights then head for the highest ground to take in the view (which usually provides a nice photo op for the obligatory digital souvenir). So, yeah, as I looked around Bergen, I should have been praying to every Nordic god possible that we wouldn't go to the highest ground, as I had in flatter cities. I should not have wasted time deluding myself that the run would skip hills entirely.

Anyway, after a brief introduction, Erik and I set off. We turned the corner from my hotel and guess what? We immediately encountered a hill. Well, f***. "We'll just go up this way," my guide jovially said as I heaved a sigh that only the shattering of an illusion can bring.

"See these raised sections here in the middle of the road?" Erik asked as he glided effortlessly up the hill. I couldn't miss them. The road was made of cobblestones but smack in the middle was a track of larger bricks laid in an angle. I noticed as I ran on them, I gained better traction.

"Those date back to the horse and carriage days," Erik explained, just one of a zillion fun tidbits I would garner during our ninety minutes together.

"They made it easier for the horses to get up the hills, didn't they?" I replied.

"Yes. We'll see them all over town as we run."

Jesus. That meant only one thing - ONE. This wasn't going to be the only hill we ran. Erik hadn't gone directly the high ground so that the rest of the tour could be 'downhill', so to speak. Nope. This hill was the first of many. MANY.

Fortunately, Erik is a phenomenally entertaining tour guide because otherwise it would have been a nasty nine miles. At one point early on, he told me I was the boss and we could walk if I needed to. Sure, my heart was pounding so hard in my chest that I thought I could feel my dog tag (for ID purposes) reverberating in my sports bra but hell no wasn't I going to walk. I'm a runner for f***'s sake. Hills be damned, I kept my legs churning.

About midway through our tour, we stopped at what looked like an entrance to a small park. There was a board with a map and various informational bits, all written in Norwegian. Erik explained the place we were standing was called Stolzekleiven, the start of steep, stone staircase cut into the hillside. Day-to-day it's popular with local hikers but every September for as long as he or his father can remember, they hold a race. People of all ages do it and it's so popular that all the slots fill up within minutes of registration opening. His dad did it as a teen, even before they had a stopwatch to time it (Runners started at a local soccer field and waved when they got to the top and the time keeper noted the time) and now it's an annual event for Erik and his kids. He didn't bring me there to run it; there was more of Bergen to see on the tour. He just wanted to point it out to me. Standing on hill-weary legs, I thought (and probably said), "Oh, that's cool" with zero intention of ever encountering it again as we moved on up the road.

At some point, Erik and I talked about runner's amnesia (Side note: When you take a running tour, you get to spend time with a fellow runner, a kindred spirit. There is always a lot to talk about in addition to the usually tour guide stuff you'd get on a standard non-running city tour). This amnesia is what allows runners to sign up for multiple marathons and other tough races. The idea is that if we remembered - really remembered - the hell of running X event, we would never, ever agree to do another one. Fortunately (?), we runners forget everything once the finishers' medal hangs around our neck and we almost immediately start planning our next running adventure.

Back to Saturday morning, I don't think I'd even taken off my running shoes after the hill-fest with Erik (you really can't fully appreciate Bergen if you stay on low ground) when I decided what I would do the next morning. I hit up Google Maps to be sure the distance was do-able (easily) then made my plan. Rain or shine, I was going to run to Stolzekleiven, 'run' up it and down again, then run back to my hotel. No one was making me; Erik wasn't going to be along telling fun stories. This was all me, albeit sponsored by a nifty case of amnesia.

It's a good thing that I told myself rain or shine because I woke to a very typical Bergen morning - a steady drizzle. Undaunted, I set off. I made good time getting there - my legs were apparently no worse for wear from the day before - and began my climb. The first couple dozen steps were easy, easily runnable that is. Soon though the steps became uneven, craggy, steep, and, in the rain, slippery. I slowed to a jog, then a walk. By the halfway mark, it was a war. And really only half the battle had to do with lung power and leg strength. The rest was all tactics - where to step when and how. The people who race the event (the record is eight minutes and change. I took about twenty) must be tactically sound, in addition to being fit.

It wasn't pretty but I finally made it to the top. The rain and fog hid the panorama of Bergen down below but I took a selfie anyway just to prove I made it (and I never take selfies). I raised a fist in victory. Take that, Stolzekleiven. Challenge accepted, challenge complete.

Sort of. Turns out up was the easy part. Down meant slippery footing - the rain of course picked up at that point - and dizzying views down the mountain. Did I mention my fear of heights? On the way up, I was too busy trying to survive to look down. Well, when you're going down you kinda have to. Especially when the correct placement of each and every step matters.  One slip and there was no telling what would have stopped me from careening down the hillside. Yes, it was pretty and yes, there were waterfalls and some cool photo ops but at that point I only cared about one thing - making it back down without needing the Norwegian version of Life Flight.

However long it took me to go up, it took me just as long or longer to pick my way back down. I breathed a huge sigh when I finally hit flatish, un-craggy, un-stepped land. I immediate picked it up to a trot and ran back to my hotel. I felt fast, my legs light. If there's one benefit to running hills that's it - flats become nothing.

So, running in Bergen turned out ok. My running tour guide was fantastic and I got in two great runs (Shredded quads on Monday aside). I would totally do it all again. Especially Stolzekleiven. By the time I was out of the shower Sunday morning, I was already wishing I was a local so I could do it weekly. Weekly. And race it in September.

I guess I'm glad I didn't know that Bergen was surrounded by seven mountains. If I'd let that knowledge scare me off, I'd have missed out - on Bergen, Erik, and the challenge of that beautiful, malicious hillside. I'm stronger for it mentally. And my legs will be too...once they fully recover.

*** If you're ever in Bergen, Norway, look up Erik and Joggetur Bergen (part of the Go Running running tour family). You won't be disappointed. ***