I went, I rode...

I damn near got my ass handed to me by the biggest hills I've tackled so far.

I drove out to the country for my favorite ride, the one where the urban world falls away in favor of fields and farms, the one where I get to fly around nearly empty, corn-lined roads with nothing for company but the wind and the warm scent of distant cows. The one that's a roller coaster with barely a flat to its name.

To be honest, I wasn't sure where I was going, only that I needed to go. The loop I know well is only about 8 miles, and I wasn't in the mood to ride in circles. I started down the regular route just to get going and was delighted to find that miles and miles of my rural Roubaix, the hand-numbing, teeth-chattering, tire-flatting road I love to hate, had been recently blacktopped, the surface perfectly smooth, the asphalt so fresh it was still sticky in places. I felt like a kid putting tracks into fresh snow.

Four miles in I climbed my nemesis, the moderate hill that's come to be my personal yardstick. Today wasn't the best trip up, but was a far cry from the first time, the worst time. I was content with today's meeting.

When I reached State Line Road at mile 5, I paused. I could turn left, follow the road I knew, finish the loop, then do it again. Boring, predictable. A safe bet when I haven't ridden since my race, haven't broken a sweat in nearly a month. But I wanted to know if I could trust my training.

I turned right. West. Rode the rolling tightrope between Illinois and Wisconsin. Each intersection torturing me with temptation: Left, south, Illinois, downhill.

All other roads lead to Wisconsin.

And so I kept on, talking myself into the next hill, and the next. I soon crossed the invisible jurisdictional line where the fresh blacktop ended and the dangerous pitted patchwork resumed, making each crossroads that much more difficult to push through.

Just before mile 9 I saw the road disappear and had to choose. If I went down that hill I was going to have to turn around and go right back up it. It was the biggest hill I'd ever contemplated on a bike, and many a lesser hill has turned me back at this point in a workout. But not today.

I announced to the cows that I might regret this, picked the cleanest line I could find through the cracked asphalt, crouched low over my bars and let it all go, my cries of joy lost in the wind. I hit a new high of 36 mph.

My momentum wound down right around mile 10 and I turned around to face the hill, only to be greeted my old buddy Mr. Headwind. To be honest, I think he was really Mr. Headwind's little brother, because he was just enough to be a nuisance but not enough to cause me pain, unlike this ride. Or this one. Either way, I wasn't exactly thrilled to see him.

Considering I was at the outer edge of mileage for any ride since last year, I found a lot to throw at that hill. And I made it up - teeth gritted, sweat pouring, breath labored, grinding my granniest granny, HR spiking at 198 (!!). But I made it.

The rest of the ride was tough but uneventful. I was tiring quickly, my quads turning to jello around mile 15. I realized sleeping in and having a light breakfast was a monumentally stupid mistake when I noticed, according to my Polar, I was officially at a calorie deficit for the day. Then I felt even stupider as I tried to take in some more calories and realized I'd headed out for a 20 mile ride with only 20K of fluids on board.

Because I'd forgotten about a scenic little side loop I took on the way out, the ride wasn't quite what I thought and I found my van at 19 miles. I was thirsty, saddle sore and my right knee was starting to talk, so I didn't even entertain the idea of turning back to capture that last mile like I normally would.

Because I was satisfied. See, I thought I'd lost my happy place and I went out today in search of it. But I found it inside the first mile, and the rest was gravy.