Welcome to the internal dialogue of an Ohio runner meeting a hill in Pennsylvania. It sucks. And it happens every year.
I spend the summer training at home in Western PA. Then I go to school in Ohio, where hills are about as hard to find as political extremists. The geography doesn't make running much easier, since we're busy doing a bunch of hard training sessions and racing every weekend (on courses as flat as airstrips). No matter the surface, running hard is hard. I don't quite notice the lack of elevation change.
Then the season ends, and I go back home for the winter. Then Pennsylvania punches me in the face.
To illustrate, here's an elevation profile of a typical 8 mile run in Wooster, Ohio. It starts from my dorm:
A gentle little uphill, and then a steep downhill that goes on for a while before creeping back up again. Only 100 feet of elevation change either way. A nice little jog.
Here's what I did today, starting from my house:
8 miles, out and back. Up and down the whole way, with about three miles of uphill at the beginning. Not cool. Absolutely not cool.
And the other day I ran with my über-fit boyfriend. He directed me up a steep hill then turned around and smirked while I staggered up behind him. I was wheezing and gasping like a pug with asthma, hating myself for getting so Midwestern and soft.
"Oh, shut up Ohio," he said.
You shut up. I hate you. You're awful, said my brain to my boyfriend and myself.