365 miles in six days: what’s the problem? After all, being a dedicated gym bunny and spending most of my time in Lycra as a lifestyle choice, how difficult can it be? Especially as I shall be cycling across Britain, so there’ll be no hills, right?

Back in the real world, where a walk down to the paper shop leaves me gulping for air and wondering whether VO2 Max is a new shampoo endorsed by Penelope Cruz - because I'm worth it, for sure - I feel that a little more application may be required. Where do I start? Can you get a personal trainer who can help you to develop your 'sit' muscles? When I did Biology at school, people didn't have sit muscles. Quads and glutes? Aren't they part of an orchestra?

So here is my starting point. When I did my first ride for forty years, a little pootle around Bath last summer that had most of the emergency services on red alert and a helicopter tracking my every cadence (note technical term), I thought that was it. I made it to the finishing line, we had ales to rehydrate, I tried unsuccessfully to sell the bike, and then I was off home. Au revoir to the peloton. I tossed the chamois cream in the bin and dreamt of what colour Quattroporte I would buy, once I had traded in the 1998 Ford Escort. And that really was meant to be it.

Except it wasn't. One year on, I am still complaining, I still hate hills, I will not shave my legs and will definitely never wear the same gear as Lance Armstrong - but I'm still on the bike, and still training in the gym. Recently I managed to cycle 70 miles in a day, as part of what is jokingly called a sportive. Apart from a little episode in which breakfast made a brief re-appearance, the onset of hypothermia, the loss of most of the important gears on the bike, the absence of fellow riders (I never appeared to be part of the peloton after the first ‘slight incline’) and an unfortunate incident with my gloves, it was highly successful. And yes, before you ask, I did finish last. By some distance. With a certificate to prove it. Even buying a new bike has not fundamentally altered the basic problem: I am not a cyclist. Proper cyclists are whippets who weigh roughly the same as one of my thighs.

But, undaunted, I am pretending for the next few months that I am a part of that exclusive club. Why? Because I've agreed to cycle across Britain - and back - in aid of a local charity. Worse still, I'm doing it alone. No buddies or broom wagons to help me along. I have to take all my stuff with me, including nappy cream and flapjacks. I think I was somewhat over-refreshed when I came up with the idea.
This, then, is what the Late Mid-Life Crisis looks like, close up. And, of course, it is all in a good cause, so I must carry on without complaint. As if...