It is the time of year again for tea and cakes in Freuchie.

So what's to report? I set out again, as I did a year ago, with my friend Don, leaving from his house just outside Edinburgh at a relatively civilised eight A.M. to zip remarkably rapidly through the seemingly still sleeping city. At what hour do Edinburghers arise of a Saturday?

However, on arrival at Inverlieth Park for the start, the reason for the emptiness of rest of the city was revealed. Tout le monde et sa femme et leurs velos etaient la. We joined, sneakily, in one of the first, fast groups. Not because we particularly expected to stay with it, but because that way we could hope to be aided through the day by little groupettos pulsing through.

But the advantage of starting with the fast boys was that the rollout through the streets of Edinburgh was much faster than it had been last time when we'd been back with the hoi polloi. Spurred on perhaps by the riders around us the run out to Queensferry was swift, and very soon we were onto the ludicrously steep path arranged for cyclists to ride up to the bridge, made even more delightful by half barriers staggered across the path at key points of maximum gradient.

But as I was not wearing shoes adapted for the pedestrian mode of locomotion I rode it anyway. And stopped at the top to await Don, who, as he had a fixie, could not possibly have ridden... oh, wait, no, there he was. Kudos.

Don had (slightly) dropped the gearing on his fixie for this year, in order, so he said, that he could ride up more of the hills. Yes, I said, unkindly, and walk down more of them... If the ramp up to the bridge on the Lothian side was steep, the ramp down on the Fife side was suicidal, with the added joy of a steel barrier at the bottom. I eased down it very carefully, grateful for good tyres and good brakes. Don, very wisely, walked.

And thus off across Fife. Fife is, very properly, considered part of lowland Scotland. Nothing in it is very high. The route has only one high point, Cleish Hill, where a canny ice cream van parks on the day of the Freuchie Bun Fight in order to attract the midges^Wcyclists. Being warned in a dream we did not stop, but hurtled over the edge of the escarpment.

Nothing in Fife is very high, as I have said. But its hills, like so many little things, make up for lack of stature with a superabundance of aggression. When you attack them, they bite back with venom. But when you come to the top and roll over the edge... it's a blast. I didn't take it quite flat out - last year there had been gravel on some of the bends, and I was a little cautious. But only a little.

Behind me, Don did the only thing a fixie rider can practicably do on a descent like that (short of walking - and that would not be a short walk). He unclipped and took his feet off the pedals, as riders of ordinaries were wont to do.

And so to Kinross, and dejeuner sur l'herbe. The good burghers of Kinross lay on an epic spread, but I ate sparingly, for I knew what was to come next. We stayed long enough to consume some pasta and some salad, and then to the road once more.

And my legs really didn't want to work. We started from Kinross holding a good speed for two or three miles - and I doing my share of that - and then suddenly a little rise and I didn't have anything. I have no idea what the cause was - we'd just eaten (but not much); I was drinking enough. But my legs really didn't want to play. So, of necessity, we slowed down for a bit, and I was grateful to Don for slowing with me.

The scenery here was glorious. To the south of us was a lowering escarpment with curious conical pinnacles; to the north, agricultural lowlands with rich crops of salad vegetables and polythene sheet; and all around the brown stone houses of Fife with their characteristic pantiled roofs (although I saw sadly few corbie steppit gables). We were routed onto more and more minor roads round the north flank of the Lomond Hills and, by the time we descended into Falkland, my legs had recovered a bit and the pace again picked up.

What could it be but the magnetic attraction of Freuchie pulling me on? For, indeed, it is no more than fourteen and a quarter furlongs, scarce more, in fact, than half a league, from the Palace of Falkland to the church hall of Freuchie. In times past, I'm sure, kings and their courtiers rode here to taste the baked goods of the goodwives of Freuchie. Those days are past, now, and in the past they must remain; but we shall rise, now, and ride our cycles again...

Oh, those cakes of Freuchie. How do I love thee, let me count the ways...

St Andrews? Oh, yes, we went there, too.

So, the good things and the bad:

First good thing, the organisation. Exemplary. OK, so, when you've been running an event for thirty years you get good at it. But this was very good. Good signposting, excellent support from the police, wonderful food in sufficient quantity for a swarm of locusts^W^W^Whorde of cyclists, not to mention the cakes of Freuchie. Top marks.

Secondly, my new Nexus, which not only logged the whole trip without needing a change of batteries, but also took excellent photographs, uploaded them to the web, and recorded their locations.

Thirdly, Zero Sport electrolyte tablets. Always before I've used electrolyte powders, which are fine for your first bidons of the day but mean you need messy sachets for refills. The tablets are unbelievably compact, and yet make a pleasant tasting drink. And I've had not even a twinge of cramp, which is unusual for me.

Fourthly the weather, which was bright without being hot.

Fifthly the company - of Don, and of our many companions of the road.

So, these were the good things. What were the bad?

In two words, chamois cream, or an insufficiency thereof. Or, if you prefer, the wrong shorts. I'd worn my club shorts partly out of loyalty to the club and partly to make me more recognisable, but the pad is slightly too wide for me and it chafes. So the last ten miles were... well, let us say the edge was taken off my enjoyment of them.

But the cakes of Freuchie were worth it.