How did we get here again?

So, to recap: a careless remark to my neighbour after the relatively gentle 56 miles between London and Brighton and it was all decided.

Less than 18 months after a life-threatening illness which had left me unable to walk more than a few steps, I was going to ride one of the world’s hardest bike events. On a training regime that, until now, consisted entirely of commuting through London traffic and a weekly, half-hearted spin round Richmond Park.

While it was hardly Lance Armstrong rising from his cancer ward to conquer the Tour de France, some training was clearly in order. And the only worthwhile training is specific training –something which would prepare me for a long, flat endurance event in the company of thousands of other riders over cobbled roads.

So I entered the Catford Hill Climb.

The Catford Hill Climb likes to bill itself as the world’s oldest bike race which, with some qualifications, is true. Strictly, it’s the competitive cycling event which has been run uninterrupted for the most years – but that wouldn’t look quite as snappy on the posters.

It’s organised by the Catford CC, one of England’s oldest cycling clubs and is held each year on the North Downs of Kent. “The Catford” as they are known, were formed in 1886 and, a year later, came up with the bright idea of staging a hill climbing competition near Westerham. Given the weight of Victorian bikes (at least 35lbs) and the rudimentary gearing, it was a miracle anyone got to the top at all. As it was, barely half of the 24 starters survived the course; but the event was clearly judged a success because it’s been an annual fixture ever since, on a variety of increasingly unpleasant inclines.

Since 1939, the Catford have settled on Yorks Hill, near Sevenoaks, which starts off innocuously enough before rearing up to a vicious 1-in-4 before the finish line. The course is around 700 yards long and the record stands at a shade over 1-minute 47seconds.

I still don’t understand the thought process which led me to think that this would in any way contribute to my being able to ride from Paris to Roubaix, but it was the only event I could contemplate entering at that stage. Yes, I was a couple of stone overweight; yes, I was a rubbish climber, but at least the agony would be over in a few minutes.

How wrong I was.