It’s been a fair few years since I’ve cried, writes Andy Toft.

But I have been repeatedly on the edge of tears during the the last 24 hours.

The reason? Well I really only have myself to blame.

On Monday I agreed, with a surprising degree of enthusiasm, to ride part of the Tour of Britain cycle race which will follow a course through the West Midlands next month.

It sounded a great chance to blow away the office cobwebs – not to mention the thick layer of dust that has slowly gathered on my road bike since the last time I took it out last year.

The idea was for me to join staff from Tour sponsors e.on in cycling part of the West Midlands stage which will run between Worcester and Wolverhampton on September 12.

I was assured the route would be ridden at a leisurely pace and that my fellow riders were not serious cyclists.

This illusion quickly began to evaporate when I arrived at our Wyre Forest meeting point to see a group of men sporting various shades of lycra and some pretty expensive looking bikes.

Nevertheless our guide, Paul Rowlands, once more insisted that “leisurely,” was the order of the day before we set off on a 30km stretch of the stage between Bewdley and Bridgnorth.

And to be fair the pace was not too demanding – although I wish I could say the same for the course.

A series of gentle downhills on our way from the Wyre Forest visitor centre to meet the stage routed lulled me into a false sense of security.

As anyone who has been a near a bike will testify, there is no such thing as a free downward slope.

Instead the gift is immediately snatched back by the sight of a great fat uphill slog rearing into view.

And it was on the first climb that I came embarrassingly unstuck.

Unprepared for the dramatic shift in the direction of terrain I was in completely the wrong gear to begin my ascent.

With my fellow cyclists quickly disappearing into the distance ahead of me, I remained stranded at the bottom, completely unable to get going.

But as my frustration edged towards despair help mercifully fell back out of the pack in the shape of Paul who managed to get my bike into the correct gear.

I was back in the saddle and have to say thoroughly enjoyed the next two hours as we made our way through some spectacular countryside to our destination.

However, at the same time my appreciation of the view was somewhat tempered by the mental and physical strain my body was fighting along the route.

As the Official Guide to The Tour of Britain states along the West Midlands stage: “There is barely a flat metre of road.”

I can wholeheartedly endorse that analysis after battling the never-ending steep climbs and nerve-shredding downhills that punctuate the route.
Every fresh hill that appears on the radar saps the legs and will just a little more.

Even so, I arrived in Bridgnorth with a sense of exhilaration and achievement following in my slipstream.

A quick lunch was taken before I turned my bike back for the return leg to Bewdley.

And this is where the real hardship began.

With energy levels and mental resources naturally lower than they were at the start of the day, the ride home became more arduous with every turn of the wheel.

Suddenly the taxing but climbable uphills I’d negotiated earlier became insufferable grinds.

Curiously I had plenty of air in my lungs, but increasingly nothing left in my legs.

Hill after hill passed under my wheels as my pace dropped in parallel to my ebbing spirits.

Even more demanding than the physical challenge was the mental battle.

With every fresh climb my mood swang sharply between frustration, despair and sheer anger – as if the ascent before me had been purposely placed there moments earlier by some particularly malicious hand.

I lost count of the times I wanted to fling my bike into the bushes and lie down sobbing.

Having discussed these worrying colours of the mind with our internet editor Tim today I’m glad to say they are not unique to me.

He revealed long cycle rides can become almost intolerably depressing as mind and legs gradually burn out.

My cause was not aided by getting slightly lost on the way back to the visitors’ centre meaning the last two miles of my ride were a constant climb which fried my patience.

The growing soreness around my saddle area was another major irritation.

Eventually though I made it back and entered the office this morning feeling relatively pleased with myself.

However, a constant eyewatering reminder of the ride is still with me – I doubt whether sitting down will ever feel quite the same again.