Where I live, flats lasting more than a hundred yards or so are very rare; it's all rolling hills and some grueling climbs, so I guess if I hated hills I wouldn't be riding at all. Hills hurt, but I consider them a challenge - it's where the real physical conditioning happens. I live on top of a hill - no matter which direction I ride off in, I've got to climb to get back home. What that means is that, no matter what average speed I've managed to make during my ride, that last hill before home will chew a big hunk out of it before I get to the driveway. So I get mad at the hill. It's trying to steal my average speed, something I worked hard for! I snarl at it like a bear. I make fearsome faces at it. "I'm going to rip the a** out of this hill!" I tell myself (yes, hills have an a**, it's the part you're staring right into all the way up). I watch my hard-won average speed go down, down, down, as I climb, and the more it goes down, the madder I get, and the deeper I dig for some little bit of power stashed somewhere. By the time I get to the top I'm breathing like a locomotive and snorting like a buffalo; shooting snot-rockets everywhere. But, you know, the pain goes away within a few seconds of the top; it's a very temporary thing. I feel great when it's over. I pull into the driveway, walk into the living room dripping sweat but pumped up on an endorphin high. "Strong like moose!" I roar.
"Quiet, I'm watching TV!" my wife says, completely unimpressed and recoiling from my approaching sweaty body. Yes, I love hills!