Sportives, in the UK at least, tend to be about massive amounts of climbing, preferably with as little flat stuff to leaven the relentless ascending as possible.

There are a select few that offer a slightly less extreme take on the subject, one of them being the Southern Sportive. Now well-established on the UK calendar, this event takes in the beautiful scenery of the South Downs from its base in the pleasant town of Petersfield.

On the face of it, the Southern Sportive is not one of the harder events in Britain. Around 2000m of climbing in a gnat’s under 100 miles is middling climbing territory and much of the route is spent either on the flat roads between the southern edge of the Downs and the coast or the only slightly undulating roads to their north.
Don’t be fooled. The very mildness of the route profile is such that an average speed of 30kph – just over five hours – is entirely within reach for the faster rider and, if it is within reach, why not go for it?

Thus is born a world of suffering for anyone not quite fit enough for 30kph. Having spend two weeks on a motorcycle just prior to the event, the writer should have known better, but there’s nothing quite like that first climb on a sportive to set off the urge to tread hard on the pedals.

In this case it comes just outside Petersfield as the route heads out of the pretty village of Buriton, nestling beneath the downs. This is cycle touring country, filled with quiet, narrow lanes barely wide enough for a car and cycle, with gravel-covered bends lying in wait and, in places, great stretches of deep sand right across the road.

Back on the main road, the route climbs gently past Uppark, a country house restored by the National Trust after it burned to the ground in 1989, then drops down into South Harting for a gentle meander before hitting the first of several surprisingly challenging ascents back up to the top of Harting Hill.

The next of any note comes an hour later as the road rears up out of Duncton; by this time few legs still feel fresh on a good day, and the 2009 Southern was not one of those unless strong headwinds are a cyclist’s blessing. Still, beyond Duncton Hill lie many miles of gentle descent, flat roads and gentle climbs before the low point of the ride at Rowlands Castle.

Long before this, however, it had become apparent to me that 30kph was out of the question this year. Indeed, by the third feed at Butser Hill, even a finish was looking in question as legs deprived of their usual mileage quota began to seize up.

Fortunately, the Butser feed was well-stocked. 10 minutes spent cramming down as much flapjack, banana, orange slice and SIS drink as possible were well spent and, although the next half an hour was covered at under 20kph, I began to feel a lot better as the nourishment kicked in.

I even began to overtake riders who had passed me without difficulty just minutes previously. Riding out of West Meon at the start of the Meon valley, surely one of the prettiest in southern England, I passed a group led by what can only be described as the sort of mid-20’s rider who dresses as for a Cycling Weekly cover shoot, in yellow Assos top over Assos shorts and riding the inevitable Specialized Tarmac SL. A couple of miles up the valley I could hear a tuneless, breathless whistling, the source of which proved to be said person, who led the group as it came back past me.

The whistling soon stopped as he turned on the gas entering East Meon and succeeded in dropping his companions. I had just enough legs to stay on his wheel to the top of the short drag that was the last significant rise on the ride and then cruise past as he slowed. From here to the finish is as lovely a stretch of riding as will be found anywhere, through Ramsdean, where I once saw a hornet basking in the middle of the road and on, under the shadow of the mighty Butser Hill.

The last few kilometres are, sadly, little better than an urban crawl, but what better way to finish than to be rudely dumped back into everyday 21st century British life after enjoying more than five hours of escape?