I can't sleep its still early but nervous anticipation keeps me awake, when I did sleep it was with snatched visions of climbing long hard hills.

My director sportif beside me growls and stirs, muttering and turning over. I get up and look out the window. I can't see the tops of the Lake District peaks, hiding behind low cloud, further down, a damp mist covers everything. 'Wonderful' I think, 'I cant even use the cliché that it’s a beautiful day to die'.

I begin my preparation for battle, sliding into the body armour laid out the night before, - heart monitor strap, base layer, jersey, shorts, arm warmers, knee warmers, Gore-Tex gillet and of course 'Bonnie Sockland' socks.

At this time of day, there's no appetite and the butterflies don’t help but I force down lumps of porridge nonetheless. My director sportif finally rises to join me, she insists on being there at the start. She can feel my nerves and is wise enough not to say much as we load up the car and start the brief 15-minute drive to the start at Conniston.

Driving up Hawkshead hill we come up behind some Thames Velo riders heading to the start, we pull in behind and follow, observing them as they stretch and limber on the climb. Down the other side into Conniston and we pass groups of riders already setting off. I intend to start with the 8 o'clockers but riders could set off at anytime after 6.30am. Watching the early birds climb up Hawkshead hill, my director and I suddenly snap out of our nervous silence. We see 'chubsters' hauling themselves up the hill with grins, riders already grimacing, pushing themselves up the first climb. Why should I be nervous? I know I can cover this, these guys are inspiring, older, with less time to train, less experience, they have a long day ahead and yet their doing it, I realise it will be a beautiful day and no one will die.

The organisation at the start is first class, I quickly sign on at one table, get my electronic tag at another and an organiser 'dibs' me for the 8' clock start. Another helpfully directs me to the pen where the other 8 o'clockers are waiting.

The route is 112 miles long, it covers all the major Lakeland passes, Kirkstone, Honnistor, Newlands, Whinlatter, Ennerdale and only ends after climbing the Hardknot and the Wynrose passes, helpfully pointed out by a national magazine as the hardest climbs in the UK. The fastest will cover it in about 6 hours 10 minutes, the slowest will take twice as long. Not formally a race, each rider gets a time, under 7 hours you're elite, under 8, your first class, over 8 hours 2nd class and you are still a hero. My goal, get around and not walk any of the climbs. If I'm honest and listened to the vanity inside my head, yes, I wanted an elite certificate, that’s why I'm joining the 8 o' clockers, expected to be the largest group and an hour ahead of the elite riders at 9am, these people were chasing a time and were going to haul it. Good company to be in I think.

Waiting at the start, I overhear the same stories that can be heard at the start of any sporting event in Blightly. Everyone denies doing any training, they play themselves down, illness, injury, not the best bike. Training's a dirty word, people seem embarrassed or ashamed. Looking at the muscled tanned legs, the gleaming bikes, there are some very secretive people here. I'm pleased to meet up with John, suitably attired in his Classic Walls kit, he instantly impresses me by saying that he had left Dumfries at 5 am that morning for the start. He fills me in on another local cyclist, from north of the border, 'Mossy', Dumfries's finest, it appears that he has bike trouble and already ridden up the first climb twice this morning.

With a 'good luck lads', the air is filled with the sound of 200 cleats clicking into 100 pairs of pedals. With so many riders I'm happy to sit at the back as the bunch strings out into single file, 100 riders snaking through the lanes towards the first rendezvous, Hawkshead Hill. I soon realise this was a mistake, not all the riders are climbers and as we begin the first of many climbs for the day, I spend a lot of time dodging and slipping past slower riders. Sometimes there is nowhere to go and I'm literally forced to stop and balance on the pedals. I feel some eyes on my back as I jump across groups of riders further up the climb, I'm not keen, I'm not showing off, its just what I do. An overweight rider on a butcher's bike could outsprint me, I'm a coward on descents and I'm an average time trialist. Put me on a hill and I grow wings. Too late however, by the time I've weaved through 50 plus riders, the front bunch is long gone and I know I'll never see them again today.

Small groups form as we fly towards Ambleside, the group gradually increases in size as we collect more riders in front and the slower climbers with better descending skills join us. John is just behind me and I realise this will be a common theme throughout the day. I'll make huge time on the climbs and then lose it all on the descents as those with more skill pull me back time and time again. The small climbs before Kirkstone make it difficult to climb in a bunch. Sometimes I'm trapped behind slower riders blocking the whole road or having to make a rapid move as they weave sideways towards me. Its important that each rider climbs at their pace, within their own rhythm, some grind their way up, some have 'supplesse' as the French say, others have very, very low gears.

Rising gradually towards Kirkstone we have formed a workable group, natural selection in the Fred ensures that sooner or later, you'll find yourselves with riders of likewise ability.

I prefer the longer climb of Kirkstone, the gradient kicks in and as I settle into my own personal rhythm and style I slip off the front. I begin to pass riders who had set off earlier and at first I offer them words of encouragement. Soon I realise that I can't say this to everyone so I reserve my encouragement for those who appear to be struggling and the handcyclists. I've yet to ride the Kirkstone pass when its not misty, I'm sure the views are lovely but today the summit is covered in mist, some spectators are there clapping as I go through. Riding within myself, I'm alone at the top. I zip up my gillet against the chill, whisper a prayer to my fairy godmother, take my hands off the brakes and drop down into the mist.

Kirsktone is a fast descent and at the base I am gradually joined by others to form a small groupetto. A large powerful rider on a Cannondale sporting a Captain America paint job moves to the front of the line and stays there, pulling us along for mile after mile until we swing left onto the next climb up to Troutbeck. I smile at the discreet route signs, a large FW spray painted onto the road with a direction arrow. Going up the climb I again move to the front and ride alongside Captain America who matches me pedal stroke for pedal stroke. I glance back to see we have dropped the others. More spectators by the side of the road, long suffering wives, girlfriends, husbands and children, patently waiting for their loved one to go past. Some look at us in sympathy, some in awe, most offer encouragement. At the top, Captain America is strong and pulls away on the false flat to join another group up ahead. Wishing to conserve energy at this stage I let him go. I know John will be coming up behind and sure enough he soon appears with two other riders on his wheel. I let them glide pass, then pump the pedals for 5 strokes, latch onto the back and join the train that soon makes contact with the front group. Ya dancer!

Onto the A66 towards Keswick we move at speed in single file along the road. A group of 15 riders or so, working hard. My bike computer has been set to tell me my ETA, glancing down I see it flashing like a morse code, 6 hours, less than halfway but I'm pleased to be on schedule.

We skirl through the streets of Keswick, any gaps that appear in the fast moving train are quickly closed, soon we are out of town and riding along Derwent Water, for me this is where it really starts, Honnistor Pass is looming ahead and I know its steep hairpins are a bitch. The sun has occasionally peeped through the clouds but the road is still wet. John and Captain America detach themselves from the front and move on ahead. I'm content to let them go as I count down the miles to the Honistor Pass, confident in my own climbing that I will see them again.

Passing the houses at the bottom of Honistor, I drop into my small chainring, climb the first hairpin and witness a sight I'll never forget. Up the long steep climb of Honnistor the road is covered with cyclists, many zig zagging across the road in an effort to remain upright. Others are already walking up, shaking their head. Mingled into this anarchy are a number of cars forcing their way through the riders at a snails pace. I can smell hot oil and burning clutches. With my heart hammering in my chest I begin the crawl up the climb, back wheel slipping on the damp, trying to avoid the cyclists weaving around, again sometimes having to perform a balancing act until my road is clear. I come up behind some cars trying in vain to pass struggling cyclists. In an effort not to stop, I see a small gap on the verge and ride along it passing the cars. Halfway up, the climb flatterns out for a brief respite and I catch up with John and Captain America, I make a weak joke to John about finding a new hobby but he just shakes his head and rides on. The gradient rises again and I pass many riders who set out well before me. Despite the climb sucking most of my breath away, I call encouragement to those who are really struggling, I tell barefaced lies and say they are near the top. Eventually we reach the slate mine at the summit and begin the almost vertical drop down off Honnistor. A marshal is waving at us to slow down. Gripping the brakes and slipping to walking pace I pass a war zone, to my right, riders and marshal's are lifting a rider up, his face covered in blood, blank eyes staring ahead, to my left a female cyclist is having her arm bandaged to her side, another rider sits by the roadside shaking. Lights are flashing towards me. My demons attack me and for a few minutes I want to stop, get off and help. Stop this stupid ride which has no bloody point. The marshals move me on however and I continue to roll down the hill. A blur and I am quickly undertaken by a moron who refused to slow down. I'm disgusted and for the next few miles ride on in a state of flux.

Buttermere Youth Hostel, roughly the halfway mark acts as the first checkpoint and a feed station. I am electronically dibbed and the chaotic scene of crowds of cyclists grabbing food and water snap me out of my poor mindset. I look for the director sportif but don’t see her so I fill my water bottles, shove food into my back pockets and remount for the next climb.

At the base of Newlands Pass, the sun comes out and my mood lifts. I meet up again with John and Captain America and we begin another steep climb. Again, I slip intro my own climbing style and begin to pass riders to leave John and Captain America behind. With the sun out the view is gorgeous and serves to distract me from the struggle up the climb. Towards the top, a photographer points his lens at me and I try to look suitably cool as I crest the summit. Spectators clap and warn us to be careful on the descent, potholes abound. With no need of any warning I begin the twisty descent down. Soon John and Captain America join me. I tell John he must have dropped down the side like a rock to get back so quickly and he proposes we ride a tandem next year, me for the climbs, him for the descents, between us we could set a record.

We collect more riders and begin the Whinlatter Pass. This is very different to the others, its surrounded by woodland and although steep, does not feel as tough as the last two. On the easier gradient, the group stays together, again I match Captain America pedal stroke for pedal stroke and we pull the others towards the top. Large crowds are waiting here and they encourage us all, a small boy waves to me and I wave back, I give a thumbs up to a group ringing cowbells and get a large cheer. Despite the climbs and the sometimes grotty weather, there is a great mood, everyone is still enjoying themselves and my legs still feel fine even after 3 hours.

We begin a series of short leg snapping climbs, coupled with death defying fast descents in which I hang onto the groups coat tails and it is on one of these fast descents that disaster strikes for John. I always keep a gap between the rider in front on descents and with good reason. As we weave into a hairpin I watch from above as the lead rider overcooks the corner and in slow motion begins to skid over the verge, he slam dunks onto the tarmac and John, directly behind him has limited options and cartwheels over. Captain America and I stop to check their ok. John is already standing up and the other rider is offering a hundred apologies. With other riders whizzing by I start to roll down slowly waiting for him to catch up. Captain America comes along side and tells me their just behind and to keep going, and so with a guilty conscience, I continue onwards. For the next few miles I keep glancing back looking for John, ready to drop back and pace him. Soon we begin the climb of Ennerdale ridge and this is where I say goodbye to Captain America.

After spending a lot of time on the front for the past 4 hours he shakes his head and slows down. I've seen it many times before, I've done it many times before, we all have, it just hits you. The legs go and you have no strength left. No warning and it only takes a few minutes for the tank to run dry. I wish him well and continue the climb which carries me onto bland moorland. Towards the top I can see the ugly Sellifield power station and the Irish Sea. I scan the horizon on my right, hoping to see the hills of Galloway across the Solway but the mist is coming back in.

I join 3 other riders and near the summit force myself to eat a power gel, it truly is like eating Vaseline but the snot like gunk contains 250 calories and I need them right now.

The big long climbs are ok, what I really hate are the small sharp climbs that require short bursts of power to cover, there were a few of these going into the next feed at Gosforth and after 85 miles we swing into the feed to be dibbed. The Director Sportif is there waiting and chatting away, as is her wont, to total strangers. She hands me a fresh bottle, asks how I feel, I'm doing ok, riding within myself, she expresses surprise to see me so soon, only about 30 riders have come through, your going to make the elite time babes. I help myself to some fantastic chocolate cake from the feed table, stuff two bananas into my pockets, a kiss for luck and I wheel out of the Gosforth feed for the final leg.

For the first few miles out I go into time trial mode and soon make contact with two riders, one in a London Velo jersey. I hear the London Velo comment to his pal that he wants a sub 7-hour finish this year. I make a snap decision and stick with these riders until the Hardknott pass.

I can never fully describe the Hardknot pass, ever fully describe the sheer steepness of the hill, the harsh switchbacks and the rough potholed road. At the base the land is pan flat, roll over a cattle grid and you hit steep gradients, its like running into a wall, its not a slope, it’s a wall. I move to front and begin the climb, my two companions call out they will see me in Conniston as I leave them behind. The climb switches back and forth, in parts 1 in 4, in others steeper. I am crawling along now, my chin almost rubbing the front wheel, my arms ache from pulling on the bars and my mouth is fish like, sucking in air. I glance up and see a grey potholed road go up the side of the mountain. As I hit the next hairpin, I have a genuine fear that I will stop. My mind screams at me, 'No, on, on'. Its not aerobic strength that's needed, when I checked later my maximum heart rate was only 92%, it just takes sheer physical strength. I lift and push the pedals, maybe about 20 revs a minute, pressing as hard as I physically can, I continue to move upwards. At times I am forced to zig zag, its too steep to climb directly. Halfway up, a pleasant looking lady watches me. She looks very respectful and our eyes meet. "Go on" she shouts, "beat the bastard" Madam, you are correct, it is a bastard and I will beat it. I finally feel brave enough to look up and can see the cars parked at the summit, windscreens glinting in the sun. I'm alone now as I cross the top to applause and begin the steep drop into the valley. My fingers are now blistered and sore from braking and I bounce down the side into the long valley before the Wrynose pass. 102 miles have now passed. Into the valley and the weather changes, it gets dark and rain starts to fall, a strong wind blows in my face. 'Yea, though I walk through the valley in the shadow of darkness I will fear no evil.' I mutter to no one in particular. My legs start to ache and the back of knees hurt, but still I start to feel that I have cracked it and begin the Wrynose climb. Although its shorter, it feels so much harder, again, I am forced to zig zag, my laboured breathing thundering in my ears, looking ahead, I can only see grey wet tarmac. Somehow I make the summit, and to applause I begin the drop down. This is extremely difficult because its raining, I cant see where I'm going, my wheels keeping slipping on the 1 in 4 hairpins and my hands and arms have painful cramps from braking. Once again I utter a prayer to my fairy godmother and she hears me, because somehow, and I still don’t know how, I make it to the bottom.

I was convinced that after Wynose it was an easy 6 mile run to Conniston and after climbing the toughest hills in my life, I want to cry when I see a sign ahead warning of a 1 in 10 road. I catch a rider in front and he sees the sign at the same time and swears. I agree, I can't face another bloody climb but yet again, 'once more and with feeling', I drop my chain into the small ring and begin the climb. I drop my rider and spin up the slope to the T-junction at the top and I follow the downhill road to Conniston. I then unrationally start to panic, scared that I went the wrong way and would have turn back up the hill. A sign saying Conniston 2 miles reassures me and then knowing that its done, I regress, all of a sudden I'm 14 again and I'm leading the Tour de France, its silly and juvenile and I really don’t care. Into Conniston, there's a crowd giving applause I wave to them, a marshal directs me to the finish and there it is, another marshal waves at me to slow down and I roll across the line, get dibbed for a finish time and the clock finally stops. My director sportif runs up to me laughing and, despite my soaking and muddy body, she smoothers me with hugs and kisses. Into the sports centre for hot tea, cake, certificates of completion and banter with many happy cyclists. Later as we drive back I look at my Director sportif and say, "I will grow up one day and stop doing these things…. Just not yet"

A few facts and figures After 112 miles I finished in 6 hours 29 minutes, it got me the much wanted elite certificate and 17th place, about 16 minutes behind the winner. John came in just over 7 hours to get a first class certificate. Had he not crashed I have no doubt he would have finished with me. My weapon of choice was Ernesto Colnago, a CT2 with Chorus groupset to be exact, he behaved impeccably. I fitted a compact FSA chainset that gave me gears of 50/34 up front and a 12-25 on the business end. Powerbars, Glucose drink, bananas and one vaseline flavoured powergell kept the legs turning and my heart rate monitor told me that I had burnt 4600 calories. The most excellent 'Conniston Old Man Ale' addressed the calorie deficit later that day. My thoughts remain with the crash victims on the Honistor pass and I hope they recover to make a grand return.