Yesterday my new housemate Alistair and I entered the CTC Gridiron cycle ride. This mammoth 100Km tour through the treacherous New Forest is not for the faint-hearted.



Having risen at 7am and had a row about rucksacks and deodorant we threw the bikes in the car and were on our way to Boldre to find the start/finish line.

When we arrived I think we were surprised to see 300 middle aged (mostly balding) men in ridiculously tight lycra gear, with bikes alongside. For one moment I thought we had taken a wrong turn and ended up at the annual Boldre gay pride march.

We found the town hall, paid our fivers, got in a bacon and egg roll for 1.50 and tried to make smalltalk to the only other 4 people there that looked under 35. It was all going well apart from my getting runny egg all down my chin and leg. I was already minging and we hadn't even set off yet.

We all set off at 10am and made the first 22 mile checkpoint at 11.20am. That's not bad. Not bad at all. So good in fact, that the checkpoint had not even opened yet and we had to wait outside the hall for it to open. We were pleased.

When we got into the building and had our forms stamped with our time, we took advantage of the free tea and biscuits. Although friendly, the elderly lady behind the counter was rather overly keen to stress 'only two biscuits each, one normal and one special'. Looking down that the plate, I realised that by 'special' she meant 'with chocolate on'. I felt she needed reminding that ration days were now over, and now chocolate digestives were deemed far from 'special'. But I didn't.

We got talking to a friendly and rather elderly looking man who enjoyed telling us of his cycling friend who wasn't there because he nearly died after being hit by a car and ended up in hospital for 4 months. When asked, he stressed that if his friend had been wearing a helmet it 'would not have made a difference'. I politely bit my tongue at this point in an effort to try to make friends with my fellow cyclists.Pressing on, we shot down the 1 in 4 hill (Godshill) and back up the other side, then kept going over the moors with the sun on our backs until reaching a tiny village with the appropriate name 'Nomansland'. Although not an official stop, the village pub the Lamb Inn came highly recommended to me, so we stopped off for a pint of Ringwood Ale and an Orange Squash with some other rebel cyclists.

On our way again, the ride became more and more like an Orienteering trip, with big debates at almost every turn regarding the route! This amused us greatly, although some people were noticeably getting rather frustrated! Our main policy was to follow the majority!

Then it got nasty. Alistair was bolting up hills like no tomorrow but I was slacking. My legs were burning on the inside and I was religiously counting down the miles on my meter until the next official stop in another town hall.

We reached a road where Alistair smugly pointed out that we could miss out a 'pointless' chunk of cycling. He had noticed people were cycling down a hill, round a roundabout and then back up the other side, and 'wouldn't it be a good idea' to just cycle over the grassy central reservation?! I was in no mood to cycle anywhere pointlessly, so I agreed with this sneaky manoeuvre.

Fifteen minutes later I stopped to help a chap fix his puncture. Upon my mentioning how tough this section of the course was, he joyfully told me that I missed the last checkpoint! Oh no, it was where the roundabout was!

Al's genius idea fell flat on it's face, which was exactly what I felt like doing! Oh the trauma, oh the exhaustion. This was our punishment for cheating and cutting the course short. Oh cruel fate. Oh cruel world.

When we reached Beulieu I could no longer go on. Cycling into a headwind going uphill is no fun when you've done something painful to your hip and thigh, and have a massive amount of lactic acid going on in your calves. I wasn't going anywhere.

Alistair disappeared. I was left, a broken man, sitting in some donkey poo on a grass verge, where I fantasised about cakes, steaks, cups of tea and bedtime.

Then a sausage roll arrived....

..accompanied by a bottle of Lucozade, and Alistair. I devoured the sausage roll and drink, ignoring Alistair's painfully optimistic remarks of how 'it will help'. After all, he got us into this mess with his genius ideas of cutting corners. Grrr.

By a complete coincidence, ten minutes later I felt a lot better. Remarkable. We were on our way once more. I could now do more than 3 turns of the pedals without wanting to cry like a girl. Things were improving. I put my foot down, willing the last 15 miles to be 100 times easier than the previous 15.

We got back to Boldre Town Hall at 3.30ish. Although 100km isn't quite as far as the 67 miles when doing the London to Brighton, it was almost as tough. Still, I broke my personal top speed record which now stands at 37mph. (Just outside Nomansland).