By Leah Germain, international intern: Sierra Leone

Freetown—I am not a “runner.” I have never been a “runner” and it’s reasonable to assume I never will be a “runner.” Even though I find myself attempting to complete two or three brisk jogs each week, I am by no means a “runner.”

By my definition, a “runner” is somebody who loves running. They let the power of the road take hold and ease themselves into a comfortable pace where they experience that mythical “runner’s high.” These are the people who run marathons, they of sinewy legs and high metabolisms.

I am not one of these people.

I run not for the joy of the exercise but as a means to fulfill my recommended 30-minute cardio session three times a week (as prescribed by Women’s Health Magazine). Each time I go for a run, sweat pours from every inch of my body, I struggle to maintain steady breathing, my heart pounds in my chest and 90% of my thought-process is monopolized by the promise stopping.

Even though I hate it, (and I really do hate it) I still force myself to lace up my Asics, begrudgingly pop in my headphones and go for a run.

After arriving in Sierra Leone, I toyed with the idea of ditching my least favorite past time. “It’s too hot,” “It’s unsafe,” “I can’t go out on my own” — these were my feeble attempts at convincing myself that running was not a required activity during my stay in Freetown. But, none were strong enough excuses to ultimately deter my need for exercise.

So, last week I timidly donned my running shorts and ventured out on my first run in the capital. After waving goodbye to our house’s security guard, Mohammed, I decided that a short run up and down Juba Hill would suffice for my first attempt at exercising in the heat.

Unfortunately, I underestimated Juba Hill.

Located just off Lumley Road, Juba Hill is one of Freetown’s neighborhood communities. The main road stretches up a steep hill, which at times seems almost vertical. High cement walls, topped with barbed wire and broken glass, line the curb, blocking the view of the houses beyond the iron gates. Small shops selling phone credits, renting out movies or offering tailoring, dot the side of the narrow road. Throughout the day, okada’s –a motorcycle alternative to taxis—zip up a down the hill, offering rides from the bottom to the top for a mere Le 1,000 (about 25 cents). Women balancing baskets of pineapples and mangoes on top of their heads, small children wearing starched school uniforms and sauntering old men make up some of the foot traffic of Juba Hill.

On this particular evening, I set off for my run heading upwards to the top of the hill. As the blood rushes to my face and my cheeks blush a crimson red, I pound my feet against the cracking pavement of Juba. I pass other residents on their walk home, each of them flashing me the same confused look, one that seems to ask, “What is this crazy white girl doing?”

I keep running.

I can feel the sudden rush of air as the okada drivers’ speed by me. Even with my iPod blasting, I can hear the familiar shouts from the drivers who are trying to get my attention. “Whit gurrl, whit gurrl” they call.

I keep running.

As the hill becomes steeper and my motivation begins to falter, I start to wonder if this attempt at trying to run is a fruitless venture. Ahead of me, the road forks and the path to the left seems to be a slightly less aggressive incline.

Twenty feet later I am confronted with a panoramic view of the entire city. This time it’s not the running that has taken my breath away.