It's one thing to stand there and watch a bunch of cyclists bomb around the streets of London in the final stage of the Tour of Britain, camera at the ready, in a vain attempt to capture them before they dash past in a blur of multi-coloured spandex. It's another thing entirely to understand how they feel.
Having witnessed that final stage in London on Saturday, plotted up outside Embankment station on a balmy September afternoon, I had a good idea of the kind of effort required to complete the eight stages of the Tour across some of the more difficult terrain the UK has to offer. At least I thought I did until I completed my own equivalent of a Tour of Britain stage the following day.
The Essex 100, a 103.4 mile jaunt through the rolling hills of the Essex countryside, does not in itself match in length an average 130 mile tour stage, but in the absence of a direct train route to the Chelmsford start I decided to bike there. The 18 mile trip, along with a two mile search for the Essex County Cricket Ground took my total ride up to 121.4 miles in one day, which would qualify.
It nearly killed me. No exageration. The journey to the start by cycle had been a foolish move, with more hefty hills than I have ever remembered travelling by car, and a nasty headwind to sap my strength. The headwind seemed to blast in to me on every turn of the first 70 miles or so of the ride proper; I felt the pain of every mile and on the last, cruel climb before I stopped for lunch I'm sure I felt muscles popping in my thighs.
If the lunch stop hadn't arrived when it did, my ride could have been brought to an abrupt and premature end. That little village hall was like an oasis in the desert, with its foldaway tables straining under the weight of cheese sarnies, peanuts and fairy cakes. In the kitchen they were ladling out tomato soup.
This worked wonders for the remainder of the ride. Well, that and having the wind in my favour, tagging on to the back of a team, an energy gel I'd been saving and a glut of descents. I was a rocket. Mark Cavendish would have had a job catching me.
All the same, with 10-miles to go my arse cheeks had gone numb and my neck felt like it had a red hot poker stuck in it. Turning that corner into the cricket ground and catching sight of Lizzie waiting for me at the finish line almost had me in tears.
How those Tour of Britain riders keep it together after eight days of it is beyond me, not to mention the Tour de France riders after three weeks on the bike. I'd be blubbing like a baby.
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