The heat radiated off the road as I slowly pedaled up a steep hill under the blazing Iowa sun. My whole body felt like scrambled eggs stuck to a cast-iron skillet. I was dizzy. I had all I could do to keep enough momentum so I wouldn’t tip over before I reached the top. I was about 60 miles into a 75-mile day — the fourth day of heat, headwinds and hills, sooo many hills — in the 51st edition of  RAGBRAI, an annual bike ride that crosses the entire state of Iowa.

RAGBRAI stands for the Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa. The largest bike touring event in the world, it was started by two journalists from The Des Moines Register back in 1973. They had a plan to ride across the state and cheekily invited readers to join them. Three hundred cyclists showed up.

Since then, the tour has transformed into a veritable city on wheels as it moves from overnight town to overnight town, connecting the dots of charming rural hamlets, scenic farmland and more cornfields than a warehouse full of Corn Flakes. The route changes every year, but RAGBRAI always rolls eastward from the Missouri to the Mississippi River, with a ceremonial tire dip in each to start and end the ride.

There are two common misperceptions about Iowa. One, that it’s flat. And two, that the prevailing winds blow west to east. I am here to tell you that both are fake news. This year’s RAGBRAI route took nearly 20,000 riders across about 450 miles with stiff headwinds most of the way. The southern route featured close to 20,000 feet of climb over the weeklong tour. It wound its way through some of Iowa’s smallest towns—some with populations of fewer than 1,000.

I’d done RAGBRAI twice before — once in 2000 and again in 2009. Both times I felt an enormous sense of pride in my country and in my ability to ride a great distance while consuming virtually unlimited amounts of beer, pie and pork chops.

Then, this past February, a college pal called to say she was doing it. Would I come with? I agreed, but I was immediately anxious, and not just because it was to be the hilliest route in the history of the ride. I was nervous because the United States right now feels anything but united. This was to be my summer vacation. I knew it wouldn’t exactly be relaxing, but the last thing I wanted to feel was contentious.

I wondered, what would Iowa be like in 2024? While some call it a purple state, small towns in rural Iowa tend to lean heavily red these days. Instead of ice-cold IPAs and cherry popsicles being shoved in my face, would there be Trump flags and MAGA hats? Would the heartland be as I remembered it, full of heart? Or would it feel more like the surreal Divided States of America that we live in now?

But I wasn’t thinking about all that when I was pedaling up that steep hill on Day 4 of the ride. All I was thinking about was getting to that cool grove of trees at the top that appeared like a mirage in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. All I had to do was get to the shade and maybe eat a bar and drink some electrolytes and lie down for a few minutes and I’d be fine. I finally reached the top, dropped my bike and collapsed onto the grass. I closed my eyes and lay there under the trees for a minute or so catching my breath.

“You OK?” I heard a man ask. “You want a hot dog or a hamburger? I just put some on the grill.”

I opened my eyes to see an older guy with a gray beard and kind smile standing over me. Next to him was a little girl, maybe 6 or 7, also smiling at me.

“Do you want to camp at our house?” she asked. “My mom said I could invite as many people as I want. Just not 100.”

The man went to get me a hot dog, and the girl stayed behind to keep me company. For the first time, I noticed the large, modest farmhouse and the lush green meadow beyond it where some cows were grazing. I thought this must be an idyllic place to be a kid.

The little girl said her name was Audrey and the hot-dog man was her grandfather. She gave me some jelly beans and about five hugs. The man brought me the hot dog. It was all exactly what I needed in that moment. Like Popeye with a can of spinach, I was ready to tear up some asphalt, at least for a few more miles. My belly and my heart were full.

There on the road, it was just me and 20,000 of my newest friends, all sharing a route toward a common destination. It can be easy to spew hate when you feel anonymous. But in that moment, it didn’t matter if we were red or blue or purple or beige. Just that we were together. Our points of connection were as simple and clear as sliding into the slipstream of a perfect stranger. A chance encounter punctuated by a sideways glance and a simple, “Hey,” amidst a few gasps for air.

I was surrounded by every kind of bike. Road bikes, race bikes, recumbent bikes, bikes that looked like luges, elliptical bikes, hand bikes, tandem bikes, e-bikes, mountain bikes, beater bikes. It was a goddam democracy of bikes. With power of the people, by the people and for the people.

There were serious cyclists and weekend warriors, middle-aged men in Lycra and bachelorette pelotons in tutus. The very old and the very young, the very large and the very small. Teams dressed like cows and lizards and bees and angels. There was even a guy dressed in a cosplay anatomical muscle suit rolling up the hill on endurance rollerblades. Another guy rode the whole route backwards.

All of us suffering together in the 90-degree humidity, a literal melting pot. All of us sharing the ups and downs of the same challenge, and maybe the last lukewarm Mich Ultra in a cooler someone left too long in the hot sun.

At least for one week in July, we were one nation on our bikes, with liberty and endorphins for all. It’s a long shot, but I’m hoping we can all move forward with that feeling into the coming months. Because that is one hill that will definitely be worth the climb.