I have a love-hate relationship with cycling up hills.

I hate it because it hurts. Your legs are on fire because every pedal is a single legged squat. As well as the physical strain, you are moving at a snail’s pace and the disconnect between effort and result is discouraging.

I love it because of the top. You reach the top and you think, Finally, the pain is over, and my body can relax, and when gravity takes over and you begin flying down the hill the freedom makes the suffering all worth it.

Today I rode up the west gate bridge in Melbourne as part of a 50km bike race. I was not prepared for how steep it was. When I saw it from a distance, cyclists looked like ants climbing a wall of concrete and many were walking their bikes along the side. The first 100m was already tough and as I hit the steepest section, my legs were already burning. My gears shifted to the lowest setting and I pedalled as fast as I could but barely moved faster than walking speed. It was painful and disheartening.

But after what felt like an eternity, I reached the top. And oh god, when I reached the top I felt like crying. My legs were spent, my arms were shaking and my lungs were on the verge of collapse. But as I tipped past the summit and let gravity carry me down, it felt like heaven.

Would I have finished the race faster if there was no bridge to cross? Probably. But that race would also have been boring. The hills, the annoying traffic lights, the weird bumps in the road, these are what make races interesting. Suffering up the bridge and its thrilling descent was the highlight of the whole 50km.

Sometimes the funnest parts of life aren’t the easiest or the happiest or the most successful, but the ones that involved declaring a challenge, a challenge that secretly scared you and gave you doubts about your competency, and finding a way to emerge past it, even if it killed parts of you in the process.

The hills are what make the race.