THE TREADMILL TANGO: A COLD WAR OF CARDIO 

My plan was simple: a refreshing run outside to soak in the Budapest air. But the moment I stepped out, the biting 4- degree chill hit me like a slap of reality. Clad in my trusty dry-fit t-shirt and shorts, I quickly realized I was dressed more for a summer jog than a winter challenge. Unless I had secretly transformed into a polar bear overnight (spoiler: I hadn’t), this outfit wasn’t going to cut it.

Reluctantly, I retreated indoors, seeking refuge in the gym. There I was, ready for a quick 5K in the cozy confines of Courtyard Budapest’s gym. The plan was simple: stretch, run, cool down, and get back to packing. But life—being the unpredictable comedy it is—had other plans for me.

It all began in the elevator. She stood there: a middle-aged woman exuding boss-level energy. With her Nike running shoes, coordinated headband, wristbands, and AirPods, she looked like she was ready for either a photoshoot or afitness competition. I thought nothing of it. A fellow gym-

goer, I presumed.

The gym, however, had other ideas. Its stretching area was so cramped, I’d have to pick between warming up or starting a yoga class with her. Not wanting to battle over mat space, I opted to hit the treadmill instead. That’s when It began. As I started my intervals, I couldn’t shake the feeling of

someone watching me. A glance to the side confirmed it: there she was, casting a glance at my speed display with a smirk that said, Is that all you’ve got? It was the kind of look you exchange with a driver at a red light when they rev their engine next to your car. A look that challenges your

very essence. She cranked up her speed. I heard the treadmill beep. Oh, she’s serious? I thought.

Not one to back down, I did what any reasonable person would do in the face of a cardio duel: I sped up. Her treadmill beeped again. I sped up again. Thus began what can only be described as a treadmill Cold War.

We were two strangers locked in a battle of pride, sweat, and sheer stubbornness. Every time I pushed myself into an interval, she’d dig deep and follow suit. I started toadmire her determination; or maybe it was sheer madness. Either way, the gym was now a battleground. But as the minutes ticked on, it became clear: this wasn’t a fair fight. Interval running wasn’t her thing, and I knew it. I

could feel her struggling to keep up, her determination to not give up. That’s when my inner savage took over. If she wants a race, she’s getting a race. I cranked up the speed. My heart pounded. My legs burned. I was no longer running for fitness. I was running for honor. She tried, bless her soul, but at one point, I heard her treadmill beep slower. A small, almost imperceptible tap out. Victory was mine or so I thought. Then reality hit: my flight back to Doha wasn’t going to wait for my ego. Reluctantly, I slowed down, ending the standoff. As I stepped off the treadmill, our eyes met again.

She gave me a look of respect—or was it relief? Either way, the war was over.

As I left the gym and headed for the airport, I couldn’t help but laugh. What started as a simple run turned into a full- blown cardio comedy. Life’s like that sometimes: you show up for a workout and leave with a story. And maybe, just maybe, a little more respect for middle-aged women in

matching Nike gear.