It feels like I've been cycling since before I even learned to walk. For most of my 36 years I have loved the bicycle with undiminished passion, I've toured great distances, won road races, ridden from dusk til' dawn, shared epic rides with loved ones and found great comfort just pootling around country lanes on my own. However, I loath mountain biking, ugly, graceless machines, bouncing over sharp rocks, wheels slipping away under roots, underwear soiling descents that always see me crashing. Mountain bikes? No thanks, there's no aesthetics in it, I'd rather ride my Colnago on a silky smooth road any day.

However, things happen in life, things that make you take stock, re evaluate what's important, things that you'd not do before, now hold great meaning.

Which is why I found myself lined up with hundreds of other riders at Selkirk to ride the Merida 100km Mountain Bike Marathon. Cyclists the sport over are a chatty bunch and as we wait for the start, I pass the time with two pleasant chaps who point out to me that they are both very fat and very middle aged, I politely confess to not noticing this obvious fact but I am quietly impressed by them. These two stalwarts are riding the 75km route and capture the spirit of the event, set in the beautiful Scottish Borders, it has no formal winners, finishers times are listed alphabetically, the wild countryside providing the simple challenge of riding (or pushing!) around the course before it gets too dark and the route marshals go home.

Despite starting at the back of the field the first 4 miles are on road, even by lightly spinning the cranks I find myself working my way up to the front of the bunch as the sun makes a guest appearance between the clouds. We turn left and begin, en masse a climb up a fire road, two long lines of riders, the central ridge being too awkward and rocky for anything other than passing. I use the centre a lot, as I find my natural climbing pace faster than the others, it's frustrating to literally back-pedal so I continually squeeze past riders, all the time thinking "mountain bike riders, no stamina".

Soon we are on the first climb proper, up steep rocky singletrack, the same riders who previously were "lacking stamina" now gracefully glide past me as I bounce and slip upwards trying to keep traction. Yet, the sun is out, there's a gorgeous smell of heather as the climb reveals spectacular views of the Borders the higher we get and I'm smiling as we make the summit.

The smile soon disappears as I realise I'm descending down what appears to be a narrow muddy stream, my hands welded to the brakes as riders scream past. At a bend I pull over to let the queue of riders that built up behind me go past and I continue my brake screeching slide to the bottom, nil points for style but I stay upright.

A long line of riders is strung out ahead as we work through what in years gone by must have been marshland, with the heavy rain from the past few weeks sodden into the ground, it's recently reclaimed its title of marshland.

Somewhere along these muddy paths I realize the difference between riding the man made trails at Mabie or Dalbeattie and 'real' mountain biking. The difference is mud, and lots of it, making riding in a straight line near impossible, staying upright is maintained by the regular unclipping of feet to prop a leg onto the muddy ground. It's through this same marshland that I also realise I don't have a clue about what I'm doing. Despite averaging 200 miles a week on a road bike, 3 'practice' rides on a mountain bike just aint enough preparation and I mentally calculate how long it takes a man to carry a bike 80km in the mud.

I feel slightly cheated by the organiser who said there were 'chicken runs' for the more technical bits, I can’t for the life of me see the bail out routes, so, not wanting to be a chicken, simply plunge forward and hope for the best, technique be dammed! I surprise myself by staying upright more than I thought possible, once or twice I fall off, but apart from a mouthful of bracken, no harm done. It's the bike that keeps me upright; it's not mine, it's my brothers, he's the mountain biker and he knew his kit. A full suspension Whyte PRST-1, arguably one of the finest engineered bikes to come out of the UK, designed not with marketing or styling in mind but top mechanical function. It allows a competent rider to be lazy and still perform brilliantly, it allows an incompetent rider like me to ride without breaking my neck. It handles faultlessly as it guides me from fireroad to singletrack to mud pool, my overly cautious approach on the descents not really doing it justice.

Scotland as the joke goes, gives you 4 seasons in a day, sadly this is not a joke but a reality as the sun disappears, the world darkens and a monsoon pours down. The woodland trails provide some shelter but its hard to see and that damned mud, churned up by tyres means I 'slip, slap and slop' through the trails, occasionally muttering "whoa" or more likely, "flipping flip" as I fight to stay upright and move forward at the same time. Changing tyres suitable for the conditions would not make one iota of a difference to a rider like me.

Hitting tarmac allows me to recover some of my senses and I'm able to refuel at the first feed station. Despite the need to be constantly focussed I'm enjoying it in a masochist kind of way, finishing seems doable and I'm reversing my view of mountain bike riders. Each time I fall, the nearest riders ask if I'm okay, they thank me when I pull out the way and some offer me encouragement. In return, my jaw drops continuously when I see them ride a part of the route I previously thought only an insane trapeze artist would attempt.

After filling up on bananas at the feed stop it’s onwards and upwards' the next bit is a tarmac climb and the sun is out again, resulting in steam rising off the road and its looking good as I approach the next forest trail. Here the trail narrows into muddy singletrack and starts to climb steeply up. Stick it in the bottom gear, keep your weight distributed and spin up. A few riders get up out of the saddle and instantly lose grip and spin to a stop as I wobble gamely past them. The yellow gorse is high on either side providing shelter against the wind and with the sun bearing down, it's getting hot, sweat trickling down into the eyes and mashing up with the mud already welded in my eyeballs. But I'm pleased to say, thanks to some low gears and a determination to stay in the saddle, I eventually see my way to the summit as it tops out at about 400meters. The sky darkens and I'm cooled by yet another torrential downpour which makes visibility on the descent almost none existent.

Working through muddy and rooty woodland trails I slide down the muddiest descent I have ever encountered but somehow I get down. Ahead is another sharp descent with an "EXTREME CAUTION" sign predominantly placed. Rolling towards it I peer down what seems a muddy wall, normally I would leap off and walk but for some reason I just keep going and plunge down. The woodland is a blur, the front wheel twists, I’ve lost control and I’m terrified "oh sh*t" I’m crashing and it's going to be nasty. My guardian angel hovers above me and I make it safely. There's a crowd at the bottom ready to pick up crashes and as I ride past them, I'm so stunned that I made it in one piece I call out "Nearly" to the watching group who are also stunned that I did it, they nod in agreement, "aye, you were lucky son".

I stop and look back and think with a burst of adrenaline, "Holy cow did I just clear that? Now I get it".

For a short while I find myself riding along with another rider, he looks at me and asks why I have '4 Dave' written on the side of my helmet, I briefly tell him about the bike's owner and he smiles and gives me a thumbs up.

For the next few miles I slip into a contented groove. The riders are strung out which means I no longer have to worry about holding up a queue of skilled bikers so for the next few miles it's a soulful experience of nailing the drop offs, floating the trails, running through muddy sections where I just can't ride, stick my foot down when I'm slipping, and hammer along the rare tarmac sections, "Hey I’m a mountain bike marathonist!"

The trouble with clearing the big scary drops is you mistake pure luck for ability and become less wary. A few klicks on I’m riding down a farm track, other than the deep ruts caused by the tractors its nothing special, albeit muddy, a beginner could cope with this as long as they follow the ruts...

If you ride you can easily picture the scene from the riders view, it happens in microseconds but you clearly see yourself falling forward, your arms naturally spreading out in front to protect you and break the fall. Contact with the ground helpfully stops my forward propulsion and instinct takes over. You're aware riders are coming down behind you and you don't want to be hit so you leap up, collect your bike, clear the route and then check yourself over.

"Oh buggeration, my leg should not look like that". I compare my left shin with the right one just to be sure and yes, its now twice the size of its partner and bleeding. It does not actually hurt so I momentarily toy with the idea of continuing but rationalize it by asking myself what would my brother do? Given the scarcity of wine bars in the Scottish Borders I know that his first choice is a non starter, but carrying on over the hills in deteriorating weather he would tell me, is just plain irresponsible and so with a feeling of disappointment I freewheel down the hill, report to a marshal, and get directions on the quickest way back to Selkirk. Within half an hour I'm being checked over in the first aid tent where it's confirmed nothing seems broken but the large golf balls swelling under my shin are sure to hurt when I pass them. Once I get home, I'm eventually told to stop hobbling and it's off to A&E where, after an X Ray, I'm again reassured nothings broken but I’d better lay off the mountain biking for a while.

As I said at the start, I’m cyclist, have been for most of my life but until recently I wouldn’t go near a mountain bike. Now, I’m a complete cyclist, when I wander into the garage and decide 'which bike will be it today?', there’s a chance I may pick up the Whyte, roll out onto the trails and see how many downhill’s I can do before the next mouthful of bracken.

In loving memory of David Crooks, 7th August 1960 - 23rd October 2007