“FIENDISHLY SIMPLE, YET BRUTALLY HARD. EVERESTING IS THE MOST DIFFICULT CLIMBING CHALLENGE IN THE WORLD.”
The concept of Everesting is fiendishly simple: Pick any hill, anywhere in the world and ride repeats of it in a single activity until you climb 8,848m – the equivalent height of Mt Everest.

Our Everest challenge meant riding 60 reps of Toys Hill in Kent, which has an average gradient of 5% over three km, covering a total distance of nearly 380km’s and we planned on taking around 17-20 hours. Robb Cobb had mentioned his desire to do this over 6 months ago but planned on doing it solo believing no one in their right mind would possibly consider joining him. Wise thinking, but he hadn't taken into account the collective insanity of other riders in our training group. Jay Baskerville, thinking of putting in some solid hill training before taking on multiple ascents of Mt Ventoux, then brought up the idea of Everesting on 11th August, just two weeks before. I instantly agreed to it and Andrew Gleeson's initial reaction was 'no way, that's just mad'. Just a couple of days later and he was coerced into it and some fast-tracked planning was set in motion. Four lunatics from the Bigfoot Cycle Club would Everest but we would all be doing it for a number of worthy causes. I would be fundraising for CALM (Campaign Against Living Miserably), a charity aimed to help reduce the number of suicides in the UK to people far too young.

After almost perfect weather leading up to the event, severe thunderstorms hit the day before and 'Toys Hill' was suddenly deluged in torrents of water. Robb, happened to be visiting the 'Fox and Hounds', the pub at the top of the hill where we would have our support crew and he reported that in two spots there were rivers crossing from one side of the road to the other, streams running down on both sides, various large pools of water and a fair bit of debris. Fortunately, the rain abated in the evening but we now knew that the descents would be far more treacherous and the chance of mechanicals and punctures had substantially increased.

Jay, Andy and myself arrived bleary eyed at the Fox and Hounds pub at 1.30 am, only to find Robb, doing his own thing as usual, had already completed two laps of the hill. Confirming our worst fears, he told us the tarmac was badly potholed at the top, there was still a lot of stones and small rocks on the road and so extreme caution would have to be taken, particularly on descents. Despite the warning, on the very first descent I hit a large pothole and lost my water bottle; clearly not learning my lesson I hit it on the second descent and, with a loud crack, my rear wheel rim was shattered, forcing me to trudge despondently back up the hill, wondering if this event was meant to be. Close to the top, Jay and Andy overtook me and quickly fetched my heavy back up wheel from the support vehicle. I was up and running again but the wheel was clunky and the rear braking almost non-existent. Incredibly, I hit the same pothole on my third descent and on retrieving my water bottle, I found another (which I found out later to be Robb's), safe in the knowledge that I wasn't the only one to have hit this hole. Indeed, on hitting this, Robb had flatted his rear wheel and broken his light mount, leaving him to descend at over 60 km/h, holding the light in one hand and the rear brake with the other. With this precarious set-up, Robb flatted twice more in the night.

The daylight broke through after 5 am, and it was a relief to be able to see more clearly, particularly while descending. Surely, this would be so much easier now and the worst of the mechanicals would be behind us. The warmth of the day was starting to break through as we rode towards 9 am, when suddenly my front tubeless tyre exploded, possibly catching the edge of a drain or a sharp rock. I fitted a tube but half way up the climb the tube squeezed through the split tyre wall and blew, leaving me to walk to the top again. I had done 20 laps (a third of the required distance) and after assessing my options, Jay kindly gifted me use of his Planet X EC-130, Cycling Weekly's Aero Road Bike Of 2017 Award  Winner. Luckily, Jay and I are both vertically challenged and so very little needed to be done to fit me to the bike apart from a quick pedal swap and an inch off the saddle height. Meanwhile, Andy had punctured three times and Robb is heard muttering that he is about to throw in the towel. Andy reminds him that his brother, Mark Gleeson, is out emptying a local bike shop of inner tubes and CO2 cannisters, that we were all struggling through some adversity, and the show must go on. Robb gets back to Everesting.

This day would have been so much harder and not nearly as bearable without the support of riders from Bigfoot, several friends and our marvellous pit crew. During the morning, a tsunami of blue and white swamped Toys Hill and helped us up several ascents. It was heart-warming to pass multitudes of riders shouting our name and offering encouragement. So many people came out to support us and I thank you all. In particular, I must thank Chris Bell, who rode six laps with me and took me to 30 laps and half way, and almost immediately he was replaced by Richard Collier, who rode ten laps and took me two thirds of the way through. Graham Cheeseman, Myles Davidson and, as night approached again, Rus Kesley, all put in big shifts. Mike and Mark (Andy's dad and brother) were absolute legends and provided bottles and food every lap, charged lights and batteries, as well as so much more - just seeing a supportive face every ascent filled us with the desire to continue and we wouldn't have been able to complete this challenge as quickly and successfully without them.

With the sun sinking behind the trees, we are finally left to our own thoughts, the camaraderie of the past few hours an almost distant memory. The road falls quiet except for the occasional car returning from an afternoon excursion or shopping run. This time was mentally the most difficult, even if it wasn't as challenging technically as the night descending. Interestingly, nutrition strategies clearly differed between us. Andy and Jay are lapping faster and staying together but are taking longer stops and eating proper food; Robb is also stopping for a short break and sandwich after every five laps, while I stay on the road eating primarily gels and consuming protein and carbohydrate drinks. Although I am lapping more slowly, I manage to close the gap on the others while they enjoy time off the bike. In truth, I feared that any time off the bike may have dissuaded me from getting back on, so I just kept turning the pedals, just like I would have done if I was competing in a 24 hour solo race. Ironically, the only occasion I did stop to eat food, a slice of Robb's wife, Annie's delicious Millionaire Shortbread, my top front tooth broke off, leaving a gaping hole in my almost non-existent smile.

We had hoped to have finished before darkness enveloped us again, but the early mechanicals had long scuppered that hope. Furthermore, Robb had suffered even more trouble, when his rear derailleur had somehow become twisted with his chain, initially thought his ride was over, but patiently disentangled the drivetrain. At around 8 pm, we were all riding with lights again, and so speeds on descents, which had ranged between 60 and 85 km/h in the daytime, were now much less impressive, the spectre of the unseen potholes looming again. But we had learnt the layout of the road and surely they wouldn't trouble us again. Amazingly, we all appeared to be on the same lap, and so we completed the last few laps together at a more serene pace. Then Robb disappeared from our group, a victim of yet another puncture. We completed the 60th ascent without him, waited for him at the top and with fuzzy brains and poor maths we agreed to do one more lap, just to be sure we had covered the necessary 8848 metres of climbing. Once again, Robb failed to follow the script, perhaps not willing to risk another descent in the dark, and did it 'his way', riding just half the hill again while Jay, Andy and I completed the 'glory ascent' together. 390 km, over 9000 metres of climbing and 21 hours total elapsed time and it was finally over...

Although this is definitely a tough challenge, one that only 2200 people worldwide have completed, the discomfort is only temporary and it is our own choice to participate. My heart goes out to those who suffer pain and suffering every day, so much so that they often consider taking their own life. My niece was one of these and we must do more to listen and help as much as we can. By undertaking this challenge, I hope that this endeavour can help raise awareness and financial support to those poor young people that are suffering daily. I have set up a 'Just Giving' page to raise money for CALM, while other charities we were supporting were the Hearing Conservation Council, the National Association for People Abused in Childhood, Bromley Mencap and Freddie Farmer. Please give generously to help others considerably less fortunate than ourselves.

27,000 lucky riders took part in the 6th edition of the Prudential RideLondon-Surrey 100 (more than 80,000 applied), an event conceived after the 2012 Olympics and which has raised more than £53 million for charity since 2013. The 100 mile Sportive is ridden on the same closed roads as the professionals, winding its way past several historical London landmarks and incorporating the stunning Surrey Hills Area of Outstanding Beauty.

Bigfoot Cycle Club in Bromley, South London was well represented. Among their number was Jay Baskerville in the very first wave, I was in the third and Lance Welch was over half an hour further back. A three am alarm call had roused me from my short sojourn into that night's land of slumber and I was lined up at 5.40 am in pleasant early morning temperatures in basic race kit. A house move had left me a bit disorganised and I had neglected to wear my base layer; the forecast was for heavy rain but not until 10 am and I would surely be almost finished by then, a time of 4 hours 30 a distinct possibility. I would need to average just under 37 km/h but with a fairly flat course and fast moving trains of riders this would be fine - so long as the weather followed the script.

At the starting gate, Jay had taken a photo of us and tagged it on Facebook with the line 'ready to roll'. But his story was more 'rock' than 'roll'. He got off to a flying start at 5.44 am to the sound of the loudspeaker playing 'Highway to Hell'. AC/DC's Lead Singer, Bon Scott must have known more about today's events than Jay could ever have imagined. I left eight minutes later to the booming bass of indoor training classic 'Sandstorm', while I gather the loquacious Lance left to the loud crack of a thunderstorm.

The first 20 km were covered in an average speed of 40 km/h as I was lucky enough to jump aboard the 'bullet train'. We were soon passing riders from the first two waves who would have been better suited to the last two waves and merely formed slow moving road furniture. It seemed weird to be hurtling through red lights in the heart of London and to have the whole road to ourselves - at this time, we only needed a small streak of tarmac of 2 bike widths although I'm sure the hordes of riders following would be devouring every inch later on. Jay was ahead doing much the same, although he was still being held behind the lead car and would be for the first 60 km. Lance was freelancing a number of groups endeavouring to find the magic key that would unlock the door to the train that matched his personal pace.

We flew through Richmond Park at speeds often topping 45 km/h and I noticed the third of twelve water stops flash by. We shot through Kingston, barriers to hold the spectators at bay but, at this time, very few souls were around. When we passed Hampton Court, the weather was turning colder and rain was now falling harder. Pools of water would wash more and more debris into the road, particularly after seven weeks of continuous hot, dry weather. Stranded riders fixing punctures were becoming more commonplace . I was running tubeless and felt smug in the knowledge that this set up was much more reliable in these conditions. Jay less so. Sixty kilometres and he had punctured and was off the front - was it some sort of karma. Shortly before, he had been engaged in a heated argument with another rider whose saddle bag contents were emptying dangerously onto the road; giving rise to Jay dispatching some uncharacteristically colourful expletives. The puncture quickly fixed, he fell back into the second wave only to puncture again. The CO2 cannister used to inflate this tube caused it to explode and he now needed to flag down another rider for a spare - the tube he received had been previously patched and with little confidence he was back on the road, jumping from group to group to make up for lost time.

Entering the Surrey Hills, Newlands Corner brought the first climb of any note, the average speed dropped and groups began to disintegrate. Lance is initially dropped and then struggles in the rain and gusts of wind blowing up to 55 mph as cornering on descents becomes dangerous, almost terrifying. Fortunately, he recovers quickly as his endurance starts to kick in and he is back literally surfing through faster and faster waves of riders. Jay uses Newlands Hub to buy a spare tube and inflate his tyre back to racing pressure. I pass through the stunningly picturesque village of Abinger Hammer before ascending the day's biggest climb, Leith Hill. The rain is now relentless as the town of Dorking 65 mile in, comes and goes. As I approach Box Hill, Jay comes past  bemoaning his luck, but soon he has gone leaving me to soldier up Box, a hill the men rode no less than nine times during the 2012 Olympic Road Race. The precipitation worsens but as the route flattens, trains reform and the speed returns to around 37-40 km/h.

Meanwhile, I was working with a small group but as we went through Kingston for the second time, the small crowd that had braved the incessant rain suddenly witnessed a bike come crashing down heavily on a sodden corner. I was following closely but just managed to avoid riding over the top of the stricken rider. I later found out that there had been a number of considerably more serious crashes further back, causing diversions around both Leith and Box Hill.

After a small climb through Wimbledon, we are soon riding beside the Thames. I was feeling extremely cold and began shivering; clearly that base layer and even a gilet had been a necessity. I hadn't eaten or drunk anywhere near enough and I was struggling to stay with the same riders I had ridden with for the final 20 miles. I finished in a bit of a daze and immediately after finishing on The Mall, in front of the majestic Buckingham Palace, I started to shake uncontrollably, the cold biting deep into my bones. Elsewhere, Jay had punctured a fourth time at Albert Bridge, on the Embankment. This time he helps another rider who had punctured but was without any tools. As he remounts, Jay gets 500 metres before the tyre flats again. He is at Lambeth Bridge, 2km out and decides this is enough, stops his Garmin and, allegedly, is last seen jumping into the Thames. Lance, who had dropped Martin Johnson when he too had suffered a puncture, was finishing fast. Sitting in third wheel behind a strong rider who was burying himself at the front, he plans and schemes his explosive Cavendish-esque finish. Even at 29 mph he is unable to come round the man who had dragged him for at least 2 miles but Lance proudly manages his pre-race goal of sub five hours.

Undoubtedly, the London Prudential is an incredible event which is certain to promote cycling as a sport and as a recreational activity for all levels and ages for years to come. The closed roads combined with a spectacular route through London and the Surrey Hills makes this a bucket-list event. This year was made much more challenging with the heavy downpours, high winds, treacherous road conditions and numerous punctures but it was a wonderful experience and one I'm sure myself and many others are destined to repeat in the future.

The Dragon Devil is one of the most iconic sportives in the UK (returning for its 15th year in 2018), and offers the perfect representation of the world’s most famous cycle event, the Tour de France. Riders can choose to ride the Gran Fondo (223 km); the Medio (153 km); the Macmillan 100 (100 km) or the Dragon Devil (300 km). There's even a 3 day tour which takes place over 2-3 days, finishing with the rider's choice of distance on the Sunday.

Far and away the hardest road event I have done to date was the Dragon Devil in 2017. The 300 km of riding are punctured with a combination of long and steep climbs, totalling a massive 5000 m of vertical ascent, and with Wales throwing in dreadful weather conditions of strong winds, incessant rain and even hailstones, I really suffered last year. However, as we lined up at 6.30 am to start the event, the sun was shining, the sky was clear and it was already warm. This seemed like a perfect day to 'slay the dragon'.

A group of around 25 riders from the first wave were setting a decent pace at the front as we motored towards the first climb of the day - the Bwlch. There appeared to be a large patch of broken glass on the road and we took evasive action attempting to avoid it. Shortly after, I heard hissing and a rider in front of me pulled over with a suspected flat, while my Bigfoot team mates, Jay and Cassie stopped suddenly to fix punctures. There was confusion in the group as more and more riders pulled to the side of the road. I looked down at my front wheel and it was glistening in the sunlight. I stopped to find ten drawing pins in my front tyre and four in the rear. It soon became apparent, the event had been sabotaged by a mindless minority. I quickly extracted the multiple pins out and replaced the tubes, while Andy patiently waited beside me, both of us being bitten by a plague of midges. We rolled back out to start the climb, riders strewn everywhere fixing punctures.

With only 2 spare tubes, which I had now used, I needed to get to the first feed station 34 km away to replace them. Riders were still puncturing and so it was necessary to keep a watchful eye on the road ahead. Unfortunately, it wasn't long before my front tyre lost air and I was on the side of the road again, preparing to patch the new tube. Ross, a client from my Wattbike classes, saw me and quickly passed me one of his spares. I fixed the third puncture and then climbed and descended the Bwlch and Rhigos without further incident. I was still not at the feed station when my rear tyre lost air and I was stranded again. A group of guys from a club in Beckenham stopped immediately and generously provided a fourth tube and co2 gas cannisters and waited until I set off again. The wheel was bouncing as the tube was bulging to the side and so the same guys helped locate and solve the problem and I was back on my way. When I arrived at the feed station, all the spare tubes had been bought by other riders and so I would have to ride another 37 km, hopefully without further incident, before I could get spares. Furthermore, guys from Bigfoot, who had started an hour behind me, had also reached the first feed station, emphasizing how much time I had lost - perhaps this was going to be another victory for the Dragon. I contemplated another tough, and overly long, day in the saddle.

Whatever goes up must come down. Despite the large amount of climbing, the descending had been absolutely exhilarating - at one point, at the bottom of a long, sweeping downhill a rider turned to me grinning and exclaimed how brilliant the last descent had been and I couldn't agree more. The sun was shining, the temperature warm and I was thoroughly enjoying myself again. As we climbed the Devil's Elbow, Didi the Devil appeared on a 20% switchback, jumping up and down at the side of the road with his pitchfork and red tights and thoughts of suffering legs temporarily vanished. Over the past 25 years Didi has become one of the Tour de France's most recognisable sights but this experience is no longer reserved for the professionals. 

With 96 km gone, I was finally able to buy a couple of spare tubes and I was on my way again. With so much time lost I was just going to enjoy the day but it was becoming harder to find allies to ride with. I would connect to a train but the climbs seemed to eventually shed them and I would then need to forge ahead to the next group. Suddenly, on a long climb I saw one of my teammates, Cassie, at the side of the road. I stopped and, knowing the next feed station was not too far away, I managed to get Cassie to follow my wheel up a series of hills, working hard to hold a fast enough pace for Cassie to follow. The feed station revived spirits and, as we were leaving, we were joined by a couple of members of Team Yorkshire, including Joss, a member of my Wattbike classes. We worked well together but after a couple of short, punchy climbs, Cassie dropped back, content to hold her own pace. Soon after, those doing the Gran Fondo (230 km) route peeled off and our group shrunk further. Four of us descended into a small village and towards the next feed station. However, the other guys were held up by traffic and so I forged on alone. I decided to forgo the feed stop and rode predominantly solo until the next big climb, the Devil's Staircase.

The Devil's Staircase, deep in the Welsh wilderness, quickly ramps up to 25%, levels slightly then ramps up again. It is some time before you reach the top but one of the highlights of the Devil ride awaits. Last year, at this same point I was hit by hailstones and high winds. This time, however, there were clear skies and stunning views of Llyn Brianne far below. This beautiful reservoir sits at the head of the River Towy, its dam the world's largest clay core dam in the world, built in 1968 and holding 62 million tonnes of water.

I drank in the sensational views and then enjoyed the steep descent towards the valley below. Undulating through several pine forests, the route finally worked it's way down, where I joined a group of strong riders keen to keep pushing a fast pace. The drink stop shown in the road book never materialised but despite a lack of water, the work rate in the group was high and the kilometres ticked off quickly. At 219 km, we pulled in to the penultimate feed station and took on more water. Like many others, my feet were hurting in the heat but I was keen to keep moving and not wait for others. I was joined some kilometres down the road by three members of the last group I had been in and the pace picked up again. Climbing Black Mountain split us up but we re-grouped on the descent and at 256 km, we swept by the last feed station, which would have been an unnecessary break to our rhythm. Our team of four became two as we hammered the last two smaller climbs, passing many groups and riders from the Gran Fondo. We finished strongly, swapping turns and riding on our limit to the very end. We crossed the line together, nothing more to give.

My second experience of the Devil was certainly memorable if not quite the stuff of legends. On the one hand, the worst of people came to the fore at the start of the event with the mindless tack attack. Indeed, the Dragon Devil promises entrants a 'Tour De France' experience. In 2012, defending champion, Cadel Evans and around 30 other riders were victims of a spectator tack attack. I fear this was not the type of experience the Race Organisers had in mind! 

On the other hand, I feel it only appropriate to focus on the generosity and camaraderie of the riders who helped me during my difficult moments with the punctures. Without their willingness to help, offer tubes and co2 cannisters and even wait and ride me back into the event, I would have really suffered. With their assistance, I was still able to finish 27th overall, in a time of 11:44:51 (10:51 moving time), an average speed of 27.6 km/h and barely an hour behind the winner. It's at times like this that it is an honour to be part of the cycling community.

Dragon Devil (247 riders):
Andrew Gleeson 21st Overall 11:36:47
Phil Welch 27th Overall 11:44:51
Cassie Baldi 81st Overall (2nd Female) 12:46:36

Gran Fondo (1207 riders):
Dean Turner 79th Overall 8:24:50
Graham Cheeseman 135th Overall 8:51:30
Edward Wardill 165th Overall 9:00:41

Dragon Devil XL
Jay Baskerville 1st 13:04:21

The Tour of Wessex in the biggest multi stage sportive in the United Kingdom and has been serving up competitive cycling in the quintessential English countryside since 2006. Each stage provides a unique mix of challenging, yet stunningly beautiful terrain, timeless history and ancient monuments. The event attracts riders of all levels and offers the standard 3 day route of 523 km (325 miles), a medium 3 day route of 355 km (221 miles) or the chance to participate in individual days ranging from 102 to 127 km (64 to 79 miles).

Historically Wessex is one of the kingdoms of Anglo-Saxon England, whose ruling dynasty eventually became kings of the whole country and its land approximated that of the modern counties of Hampshire, Dorset, Wiltshire, and Somerset. The region also figures prominently in the legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, and where English novelist and poet Thomas Hardy set much of his work.

Stage 1 would take us from Langport, Somerset through Wiltshire and back to the event HQ. For the first stage, I was joined by my Bigfoot training partner, Robb Cobb, and we lined up in the first group to be released from the start. The weather forecast was for rain and storms but it was still quite warm. Ten minutes before setting off, the clouds burst and it became suddenly very cold and we were left wondering whether a light race gilet was going to afford enough protection. The peloton set off at a ferocious pace as early race nerves seemed to dictate and perhaps there was a desire to ride out of the driving rain. I looked for Robb but he hadn't made the front group. I found out later, that he had been caught behind a guy who was unable to clip in and despite almost closing the gap to the lead group he didn't quite make it. I was enjoying being pulled along at almost 40 km/h but suddenly just before the start of the Cheddar Gorge climb around 35 km in, I slipped off the back having left too large a gap - I worked back on a couple of times before the elastic snapped and the peloton was gone. Left alone with no one behind, I climbed the stunningly beautiful limestone gorge in the Mendip Hills. The gorge is the site of the Cheddar show caves, where Britain's oldest complete human skeleton, Cheddar Man, estimated to be over 9,000 years old, was found in 1903. It is easy to see why this popular climb was voted one of the UK's top 10 cycling roads. It is certainly not the hardest climb, at around 4% for 4 km. Nevertheless, I was glad I didn't have to race up it and started to see some benefit to being dropped.

I was eventually joined at the top of the gorge by a fast moving group of four riders and, soon after, the rain abated. By the time I reached the next big test, King Alfred's Tower, 85 km in and with short ramps of around 30%, the rain had stopped and had been replaced by warm sunshine. Despite this, wheels were still slipping at the top of the climb. But this was the final test of the day, and we motored through the descents and flatter rides towards Glastonbury. I was joined, near the end, by George Lewis, a friend I'd met on the Marmotte in 2017, and we finished the stage together. I crossed the line in 60th overall (30 km average) with Robb just seven minutes behind.

Lining up for Stage 2 and we were again given an early drenching by heavier rain than the day before and the prospect of storms all day - several people huddled under marquees until the last moment and apparently around 15 people rode to the end of the carpark before turning round and calling it a day. This time, the start was far more sedate, perhaps those early 'race' nerves had gone and spirits had been tempered by the rain. A small group escaped off the front of our peloton, but the main group stayed together as we rode towards Swanage in Dorset and the Jurassic Coast, England's first natural UNESCO World Heritage Site. There seemed to be a large number of riders puncturing in the wet conditions and the group started to thin down to around 20 riders. We were climbing, when I suddenly noticed sealant spouting from my front tubeless tyre. I watched intently, desperate to see the hole seal as I didn't want to lose the group. Fortunately, the sealant worked its magic and very little air pressure was lost from the front tyre. I was still in the game. We passed the ruins of the 11th Century Corfe Castle, built by William the Conqueror, and one of the earliest castles in England to be built at least partly using stone rather than earth and timber.

Our group was dwindling, and with 8 riders remaining, it was time to stop at the third and final feed station to take on water and other nutrition. With 80 km to go, we now worked even more effectively as a group, with constant rotation, no one sitting out for too long. We stayed together, very similar in ability both climbing and descending. The kilometres ticked passed and it seemed like no time before we crossed the finish line. I finished this stage in 15th overall and averaged 31.2 km/h and, because of the way we had ridden so well together, and the stunning coastline scenery, this was my favourite stage of the 3 days.

The final stage had been billed as the toughest and, in this respect, it was not to disappoint. With 350 km of hard riding already in the legs and with the prospect of the toughest climbs to come, this was never going to be easy. The weather was great, however, and the sun cream was on. The pace was reasonably sedate at the start and I, perhaps foolishly, contributed too many turns at the front of the peloton. I paid the price as the hills of Exmoor took their toll. I was dropped on Quantock Hill, a 7% gradient for 2.5 km and I found myself riding solo, considerably dropping my average speed. We thankfully descended Crowcombe Hill but then Elworthy Hill, at 2 km and 10% average, took more strength from tiring legs. Sweat was pouring from every pore as I descended the viciously steep Porlock Hill with brakes fully on at times. I needed water and I as I entered the feed station, the main peloton was leaving. I was, however, content to suffer the biggest climb, Dunkery Beacon alone.

After I got through the first steep section, a group of knowledgeable bystanders informed me I was only 40% up. My legs were weary as a rider passed me, who also heard that even more pain still lay ahead and he complained vehemently under his breath. We ground up several more steep sections of unrelenting 17% gradient and it was some relief to crest this monster of a climb (by far the most difficult section of road in the whole event) and start the long, more gradual descent. The route cut back on itself and I saw several riders coming the other way. I felt some sympathy that they had some brutal climbs still to come. I seemed to be alone for a long time but was then caught by a fast moving train from Norwood, south London. I jumped on this group, thankful for the company. Cothlestone Hill may only have been 1.2 km but at 10% this late into the event it hurt. Once crested we knew it was mainly downhill and flat and the boys from Norwood put the hammer down. I tried to do my bit at the front but realised I was on my limit and got to the back of a group of around 9 riders and hung on for all my worth. We finished the last 20 mile section in an average of 34.2 km/h and this helped me to finish 25th overall for stage 3. I was more than thankful for their selfless efforts.

The Tour of Wessex is an amazing event, which was extremely well organised and took in some wonderful riding. It is definitely very tough and saves it's hardest day for when you are most tired - but in many respects, the scenery on this last day is the most sublime. I camped for the three nights and the Organisers provided the best portable toilets and shower facilities I have ever known for this type of event. There were even flowers in the loos - real ones! If you are looking to participate in a road stage sportive, this would be an event I would strongly recommend signing up for.

The Tour De Yorkshire was born from the success of the Grand Depart of the Tour De France in 2014. In its inaugural year in 2015, an estimated 2.6 million people lined the route of the professional race. The Sportive offers the chance for amateurs to ride much of the final stage as the pros before they do, including the last 50 km, final 2 climbs, the intermediate sprint and the pro finish line. Distances range from 49 km, 84 km and 129 km and combine the Tour De France delivery with Yorkshire hospitality, amazing crowds and the stunning beauty (and cycling pain) of the Yorkshire Dales. The event copies the format of the Tour De France's 'Etape du Tour' by varying the route every year. In 2015, the route left Leeds, in 2016 it was Scarborough, in 2017 Sheffield and in 2018 it returned to Leeds.

Belgium, Greg van Avermaet was crowned the overall winner of the 4 day stage race after a thrilling sprint finish on the final day, which was memorable for a heroic solo attack from Frenchman, Stephane Rossetto, who held on for the stage 4 win after attacking with 120 km of the brutally tough route still to go. Rossetto later said, "I did it in a race that is growing in stature all the time, has more history now, and an amazing crowd. It's been like riding the Tour de France over the last four days.

Before the above scenario was to play out, it would be the turn of the amateur fraternity to take on a 129 km route which contained five category 4 and two category 3 climbs and over 2000 metres of climbing. Shortly after 6.30 am, the Maserati riders, who were part of the event's headline sponsors, were released from the starting pen and then, my group, representing the first wave of a total of 5,000 riders. The pace was fast from the start and it wasn't long before we had caught most of the riders ahead. A group of about 10 riders formed and we were working well together, perpetually rolling over at the front and sharing the workload. After 30 km we had passed Harrogate and the first two, longer climbs of Rigton Hill and Hartwith Bank had reduced this group to just 4 riders. Following the next kilometres of undulations and fast descents, the group swelled to around 10 riders, many who were now just hanging on.

Most were, not surprisingly, keen to stop at the second feed station at Pateley Bridge, and now there were three of us climbing the Cote de Greenhow Hill, the first of the Pro Course climbs. As one of author, Simon Warren's, 100 Greatest Climbs, Greenhow is no easy ascent. Four sections of climbing of up to 18% deliver the rider to the top of the moor. At this point, I looked round to spy my colleagues but they had been dropped and so I was alone. I rode on for the next 30 km, passing more and more tiring riders, I presume from the Maserati first wave.

Now, over 100 km in, a small group of riders hit the climb of Otley Chevin. Crowds were now making their way up to the top of the hill and offered their support or, perhaps, commiserations. At 1.4 km in length and an average gradient of 10.3%, this is another tough climb but I was rolling well and, once again, I was alone up front during the ascent. But suddenly, as I was about to crest the climb, a rider I recognised from the group I had been in before Pateley Bridge came flying past me. It was Bryan Steel, dressed in the colours of his coaching organisation, a former British Olympian and track team pursuitor from four successive Olympic games. I immediately jumped on his wheel and we powered through the rest of the course, including an evil intermediate sprint zone, located on Black Hill Road at an average gradient of 7.2%. As we entered the finish section, a swelling crowd started to bang voraciously on the barriers and I could not resist sprinting against a younger rider across the finish line.

Although I grew up in Leeds, I was not yet a serious cyclist and I was unaware of the beauty that surrounds the city. Yorkshire is truly 'God's own country' and it was in fine fettle, serving up the hottest May Bank Holiday on record, the heat of the day avoided after clocking up a satisfying 4:30:35 and an average speed of 27.9 km/h. If anyone is searching for an event in the UK which is both tough and stunningly beautiful at the same time and allows you to soak in the atmosphere of a professional race then look no further than the next edition of the Tour De Yorkshire.

Eight thousand riders, 312 km and approaching 5000 metres of climbing, the Mallorca 312 is truly an epic sportive. Originally conceived as a lap around the island, closed roads have made this original route impossible but the organisers have retained the heart and soul of the original event- the stunning Serra de Tramuntana mountains, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The ninth edition attracted riders from 52 countries, 36% from the UK, outnumbering the Spanish (35%) and Germans (11%), while over 20 media operators covered the event in more than 10 languages. According to the University of the Balearic Islands the Mallorca 312 sportive will have an economic impact of over 16 million euros.

Nine riders from the Bigfoot Cycle Club in South East London arrived to take on the Mallorca Gran Fondo. As the first real event of the season, this had been the motivation for our training through the long, cold English winter, with various intrusions by the 'beast from the east' weather system. As a group, we were reasonably well prepared with some longer 200 km group rides and a large chunk of turbo training. With warm up rides taking in Mallorca's finest routes of Sa Calobra and the Formentor Lighthouse, our comfortable base in a spacious nine man villa in Pollensa and the island's exquisite gastronomy being supplemented by our party's own exclusive chef, Lance, all seemed to be going well - but there were concerns from some with mysterious injuries and ailments which had sprung forth and the approach to the event was understandably cautious.

We arrived to find ourselves at the back of the starting gate, with thousands of slower riders to battle through in the opening kilometres. It actually took nine minutes for us to cross the start line but then it was a case of weaving through the riders ahead. It wasn't long before we had formed a group consisting of Jay, Robb, Lance and myself and we formed a train of four that hummed with the sound of speeding wheels. After 25 km and averaging high thirty kilometres per hour we hit the mountain climbs and our group quickly splintered. Jay led the way through the hordes of riders and after 55 km we crested the highest mountain in Mallorca, the Puig Major.

The descent is exhilarating, plunging over 800 metres into the picturesque port of Soller. With the roads closed, it was possible to use the full width of the smooth tarmac to pick the best lines through the corners for what was a 15 minute white-knuckle ride. We were soon climbing again through the historic township of Deia and on to the first food stop at Coll den Claret (93 km). An array of refreshments were available, but I was in no mood for a picnic, so I swiftly refilled my water bottles and continued on the next long descent. I was refuelling solely on energy gels and ensuring I had one every 30 minutes - I noticed no else feeding around me and knew that they would pay the price later in the day.

Towering mountains closed in to our left, as the view to the right opened out to sumptuous vistas across the Mediterranean Sea. These were roads I had ridden on a previous visit to Mallorca and are amongst the most stunning I've ever ridden. Coupled with the almost endless descending this was the most enjoyable part of the ride. Just before Andratx we turned east to face the final major climbs heading towards Galilea and Puigpunyent, before negotiating the numerous switchbacks through a canopy of trees to the Coll des Grau de Superna. The descent was steep and coiled viciously back upon itself and, at one point, my rear wheel skidded from under me but I somehow kept the bike upright. We hit the valley floor and the speed increased noticeably as groups formed to take advantage of riding in a peloton.

At the third feed stop, I was greeted by Jay, who was so shocked to see me arrive before him that he asked whether I was doing the shorter 225 km version. This statement was to prove extremely ironic considering what followed. We left together and Jay powered through the wind while I sat in behind. We were joined by a third rider who subsequently refused to work a turn at the front. Jay was furious and rode away at a pace too fast for me to follow. For the next 30 km, I had this rider glued to my wheel, and when others joined, he remained at the back, happy to suck energy from others. Meanwhile, Jay had forged ahead and somehow managed to miss the turn off for the 312. Instead he followed the 225 route and by the time he realised it was not possible and deemed too dangerous by the organisers to turn back and re-join. He finished his event by adding the Formentor Lighthouse Loop and clocking 312 km in his own unique way!

Mallorca has matured into a veritable utopia for cyclists with its terrain, climate, culture, exquisite gastronomy (it now has 6 Michelin-starred restaurants) and snooker table smooth roads. Money was pumped in to resurfacing the roads around the mountains months before the 312. However, the loop south east towards Manacor was less spectacular and the pot-holed roads more a memory of our training rides in Kent. Having started well behind the quickest riders, there was now no fast groups coming through and as I continued to catch tiring riders, no one was able to work with me and so my speed suffered as a result. After 285 km I re-filled a final bottle at Arta, a town renowned for its pavement cafes and quaint shops. There was a party going on, beer was flowing and it was almost as if the finish line had been transported 25 km south. I briefly soaked in the carnival atmosphere, before continuing to the finish. Our small group of four doubled in size and the pace quickened over the final 15 km as we hurtled into Can Picafort and towards the finish line at Playa de Muro. I crossed the line in an official time of 11.26 (11.10 moving time) in 250th position. Robb followed next, then Andrew, Graham, Dean, Lance and Ed, with Jay and Andy completing the shorter distance events (although Jay insists his version of the 312 should form the blueprint for Mallorca 2019)!

Touted as the hardest one day road Sportive in Europe, the Alpes Marmotte certainly has a fearsome reputation among the amateur cycling fraternity. With over 7,500 entrants, the Granfondo takes in four legendary mountains which regularly feature in the Tour De France, the Glandon, Télégraphe, Galibier and Alpe d'Huez, and covers 174 km with around 5,000 metres of climbing. Stories abound of participants bursting into tears of joy and relief at the finish, while others talk of the carnage of broken riders at the side of the road during the final climb of Alpe D'Huez.

The weather in the high mountains is unpredictable and the days leading up to the 35th edition of the Marmotte were not encouraging, with cool temperatures and rain forecast. Arriving in Geneva, three days before the start, merely seemed to confirm the predictions with storms unleashing heavy precipitation on the Swiss city. With one day before the event, the weather took a positive turn and the black clouds were pushed aside by less threatening skies. But still atop the 2645 m climb of the Galibier the temperature was -2 degrees and snow had fallen.

To begin the event, it was necessary to descend from our base in Alpe D’Huez to the start at Bourg D’Oisans. Extra layers of clothing were shed at the start but despite the coolness hanging in the air it was dry and, incredibly, no rain was predicted. Despite the organisers sending the second start wave round the town and early confusion and frustration ensuing, we were eventually on our way, immediately forming trains of equally paced riders and tapping out a fairly quick tempo to the foot of the first climb, the Glandon.

It is sensible to heed the advice of others and not to let the adrenaline, built in the early fast kilometres, to flow uncontrollably to the head. The overall gradient of the Glandon is relatively steady, averaging 5%, but the climb has some downward pitches which lower the average and is extremely long, continuing for 28 km. It was here that the field began to spread out, making it necessary to move past others on the left, a pattern to be repeated throughout the race. Even quicker riders seemed to pass effortlessly on my left, which seemed to confirm the high standard of competitor in this event. The road dropped steeply for short sections, which tended to break the early rhythm rather than offer relief, before pointing up once again to the clouds and mist above. On a drive the previous day, I had seen a succession of spectacular waterfalls but now these could only be heard momentarily as they were passed in the gloom. Nearing the top, the mist had wrapped itself all over the peak, only to unveil a rather chaotic feed station. Despite this section being time-neutralised, due to the danger posed by the descent's steeepness, I lingered a little too long. I was sweating from the climb and the chill in the air immediately dropped my body temperature.

I began the descent with an additional windproof gilet but I was cold and longed for the warmth of the valley. I decided to descend with care, knowing I wouldn’t lose any time. Just as I had stopped the shaking, my lower back began to ache and unfortunately I was unable to enjoy the flowing corners lower down the mountain. I saw a couple of my riding buddies before the timing mat, which would signal the end of the neutralised zone. On dismounting my bike my left quadricep cramped painfully and didn’t release for 30 seconds. Not the best sign so early on into the event – now I would have to manage the cramp for the next 140 km.

We rode through the valley, larger groups formed and the pace increased. I ignored the water stop at the foot of the Telegraph climb, keen not to break my rhythm. The one hour climb up the Telegraphe was exhilarating, with incredible mountain views all around. The gradient averaged 7% but the climbing was constant and the legs were now accustomed to tapping out a steady beat. A brief descent took riders to the beginning of the Col Du Galibier. Again, I ignored the feed station, content in the knowledge that I was feeding and hydrating successfully on the bike, a skill I'd acquired from nine solo 24 hour mountain bike events, and keen to avoid the scrums of hungry and fatigued cyclists.

It was at this point, I began to notice I was travelling far more comfortably than the riders around me and I was moving quickly through the moving mass of cyclists ahead of me. I would sporadically jump out of the saddle to offer relief to my legs as the 18 km began to whittle away. The views were awe-inspiring, particularly the formidable and imposing Meije Mountain peak to the south, the last major alpine summit to be conquered by climbers. The last section of the climb, the steepest, seemed to present itself as a wall of switchbacks ahead. However, I was surprised at the flow that I felt as I made my way up the final section. Making use of a private feed station 1 km from the summit, I grabbed more water and a handful of gels, before cresting the climb. At 2642 m, this is the highest point in the Marmotte, as it has been in previous editions of the Tour De France. I was keen to avoid my mistake on the Glandon, and therefore immediately rolled over the peak and onto the descent.

At around 50 km, this descent is the longest and without doubt the most exhilarating I've ever experienced. It took a while to drop enough altitude to stop the shivering, but on reaching a certain height, it was almost as if the gods had kindly thrown an electric blanket around my torso. The cold was replaced by sore and numb hands and, at times, I had to readjust my grip to confirm I was actually pulling the brake levers. Then I would plunge at spine-tingling speed into the first of several tunnels, more than happy to re-appear on the other side still in one piece. On the lower slopes, we would pass small villages, the gradient would level and offer some relief as I sat more upright and out of the drops, before plunging once again into the valley below.

Finally, I reached the valley floor, and riders regrouped into fast moving pelotons, driving towards the last climb of Alpe d'Huez. To reach the finish in the village at the top of the Alpe d‘Huez it is necessary to navigate the 21 world famous hairpin bends, enduring 14 km of road averaging around 9% gradient. Once again, I ignored the feed station and kept my momentum for the last big climb. The first few bends are the steepest and I wondered how my legs would feel. To my surprise, I was still climbing well and, further to my amazement, I saw my much stronger training partner stretching out cramp at the side of the road. He joined me on the climb, and we chatted as if we were out on a training ride and not finishing a fiendishly difficult bike event. The switchbacks seemed to quickly come and go and then the church on Dutch corner appeared, so-named since Dutchmen won eight of the first 14 finishes in the Tour De France and is where the Dutch now congregate on race day. We stopped briefly at a private water station, primarily to remove clothes added at the top of the Galibier, two hours previously. The temperature was now well into the twenties, quite the change from the freezing temperatures of the Glandon and Galibier.

With 7 switchbacks to go, I continued the final kilometres, my friend hovering just ahead, serving as a guiding light to the top of the col. More and more people appeared on the side of the road offering further encouragement as the finishing line approached. Once through the village, I picked up the tempo, finding energy reserves I had no idea I possessed. With 200 metres to go, I majestically rose from the saddle and began my sprint for glory. Within seconds my gilet fell from my back pocket and wrapped itself around my rear wheel and drive chain bringing me to an unceremonious halt. As I fought to release my gilet, I had a momentary vision of picking my bike up and, emulating Chris Froome's feat on Mont Ventoux in 2016, running with my bike to cross the finish line. These fanciful thoughts were interrupted by one kind spectator who picked up my bike allowing me to finally free my gilet. I remounted to a massive cheer, only for my chain to spin off. A third time, another cheer but I failed to clip in, my foot slipping embarrassingly off the pedal. One final roar, and I appeared to be swept down to the finish, crossing the line in a time of 8:06:59.

Without doubt, the Alpes Marmotte is the most breathtaking ride I've ever experienced on a road bike and I would fervently recommend it to any rider who is looking for a momentous challenge in a spectacular environment. It's incredible to think that the professionals actually race up these mountains, rather than merely survive the day but anyone able to complete this event deserves the utmost respect.

The first of our challengers for the toughest Sportive in the UK comes from the rugged hills of Cumbria and with the Fred weighing in at 180 km and with nearly 4,000 metres of climbing she's certainly not a lightweight. Supporters of the Fred were prepared to dish out plenty of pre-ride trash talk: boasting several 30% big hitting gradients with many riders ranking it alongside European heavyweights such as the colossus Alpes Marmotte in terms of difficulty.

The Fred caught me unawares and the steepness of the climb, combined with the heat of the sun and poor choice of jacket, meant I was sweating profusely. A friend, Chris Bell, passed me at this point and his well-intended push did little to boost my morale. I was on the ropes and close to being given a standing count. I hung on for the crest of the climb and the descent breathed new resolve. I had survived the Fred Whitton's biggest assault so far. Newlands Pass was negotiated comfortably and at Whinlatter Pass, the sight and support of two friends, Jason and Geoff, further restored my inner vigour. The Fred seemed to ease back on the assault, the early knockout no longer an option. Time for it to wait, bide its time and then come out guns ablazing.

Hardknott Pass, is the undisputed King of Climbs and arguably the hardest stretch of road in the UK. An act of cruelty on the part of the organisers, this 2nd century Roman road is ascended 158 km into the event when the legs are weakest. The climb starts steeply - two sets of switchbacks through 25% corners, then a levelling off, but looking ahead only reveals the enormity of the task ahead and 30% switchbacks. Through the first, I was once again in trouble and hanging on before the Fred finally sent me to the tarmac. Within 20 metres I was round the bend and back up determined not to be hit by the knockout blow. With renewed vigour, I made it up the final part of the climb and then with enormous pride, I conquered Wrynose Pass and it's 20-25% bends. The Fred had thrown its best shots but, despite a couple of uncomfortable moments, I had survived its brutality and finished the rest of the ride in 7 hours 10 minutes with energy to spare.

The Dragon Devil, part of the global L'Etape series, weighs in at a colossus 300 km and a hefty 5,000 metres of climbing making it a worthy rival to the Fred. Hailing from the Brecon Beacons of South Wales, the Devil does offer three softer options of 100, 153 and 223 km but none can be considered easy.

At 125 km, several Devil riders appeared to have decided they had suffered enough punishment and took the turnoff for the shorter Gran Fondo route. The weather was worsening and rain was inevitable. The hardy (or more appropriately, the foolhardy) remained on the Devil course. My small group was split as we tried to negotiate passing traffic on very narrow roads. Several sections were now being ridden alone. When I finally connected with other riders, we were sent up a ridiculously steep lane that was not on the official route. This was the start of the weakening process. I was now cold and shivering but, pig-headedly, I rode on with my rain jacket still in my back pocket, hoping I would warm up after my stop as we worked out directions to the proper route. But I was weakening and I was still cold.

The Devil's Staircase, 190 km in, proved the biggest assault to date. Not quite as steep as the climbs in the Fred but, with gradients over 25% and averaging 12% in 1.3 km, it is similar to Hardknott in that it comes when the body and legs are already tired. But in this case, the storm that hit at the top was the knockout blow. Heavy rain turned to large hailstones. The spray jacket was now on but it was too late. I was shivering once again and, worse still, I was unable to eat and drink. I was out on my feet. The descent was treacherous but did transport me to drier and warmer conditions. I was able to stop and regather myself at a feed station and ate vigorously, whereupon I felt patched up and propelled myself back into the contest.

I was much weaker now and in survival mode, starting to count the kilometres as they slowly ticked down. Black Mountain didn't appear too bad considering the punishment I had already taken but now the senses were weak. The climb out of Neath was not the biggest but the power had gone and it proved a bigger challenge than it should have done. At the finish, just over 12 hours later, I was broken. The Devil had won this particular fight, if not by knockout then certainly on points.

In the final analysis, both the Fred and the Devil are worthy contenders for the title of 'the UK's toughest sportive' but it is the Devil that takes the belt. The Fred is brutal, a big puncher that hits hard and fast but it's the Devil, with its extra 120 km, which keeps throwing hill after hill at you, each climb feeling like another jab to the body, each hairpin another right cross hitting its mark, incessantly drawing the power and resolve from within. After the Fred, I felt tired but I was upbeat, whereas after the Devil I was broken and desperately looking to reunite with my 'Adrian' in the comfort of my home. It was as if I had ridden one of those solo 24 hour mountain bike events, of which I have done nine - every sinew of my body was convinced this had been ten. The Dragon Devil, you will take some beating but how you compare with the mainland's finest - the undisputed champion of Sportives - the Alpes Marmotte, I will discover on the 2nd July.