And so it began...

... like so many things in my life - in a pub. Somehow it all seemed like such a good idea at the time; we jump on our bikes and have a bit of an international jaunt, sinking plenty of booze, effortlessly charming the local barmaids, raising stacks of cash for charity and getting supremely fit all at once. Piece of piss.

Fast forward to a freezing Saturday morning in January, wheezing as I drag my fat arse up an embarrassingly gentle slope, not really worthy of the name "hill", hands and feet bitterly cold and my groin feeling like it is undergoing a particularly reckless sandpapering.

"How long have we been going for?" I gasp at a reasonably fresh looking Gary. "Only about an hour" he says, before adding "I'm so cold can't feel my feet".

I realise that this whole enterprise is going to take a much more serious approach than I was hoping.