This link-up with such a well-attended race allowed us journos to join the third and final day of competition and race on the same closed roads (an 80-kilometre route that took in 1,100m of climbing) as the main race. This also meant we competed in the company of around 800 seriously strong European amateur racers, who were set off for the third and final day of their race in waves about five minutes behind the relatively small peloton of 60 journalists.

Needless to say, although the journos gave it a fair crack, we were pretty quickly caught by the fastest riders in the Riderman race, making it suddenly very difficult to identify which of the people in the peloton you were actually competing against. The only obvious way to identify a journo vs a regular racer (there were fewer paunches than I’d hoped) was by the yellow bib numbers the former were wearing (vs the blue ones given to normal entries).

And then disaster struck.

By the time we were caught, we’d been going at a fair clip for about 30 minutes, covering 20km already. I was experiencing some weird feelings whenever I stood on the pedals to kick back up to speed after coming out of the corners. It was almost like my frame was going squidgy under the strain of all my raw watts and the rear brake were coming into contact with my wheel. In fact, what had actually happened was in my inimitable inexpert and inattentive style, I hadn’t quite tightened the QR skewer enough on my back wheel when reassembling my bike in Bad Durrheim. Eventually, something had to give, with the wheel slipping free just enough to pivot and end up rubbing directly against the frame.

After a bit of faff, I got the wheel on and rejoined the fray. I had lost more time and was certain I’d seen a few flashes of yellow go past as I waited helplessly. Now I was on a real mission, to empty the tank completely in the final hour to see if I could bring back any of the other journos.

I joined a group who were riding well as a team, smashing along in the wheels and taking a token turn on the front every few minutes. As I filtered back down the paceline, I noticed a yellow bib number. With not enough racing left to catch up to anyone in a group ahead, beating this fella was my new sole objective. His bib number said his name was ‘Greg’.

Greg became my nemesis.

On the penultimate hill of the race, I came through onto the front and began pushing what I felt was a ‘respectable’ pace. I noticed quickly that there were fewer and fewer riders behind me – I was cracking the big lads. This was my opportunity. If I could get over the crest and down the other side solo, I’d have more road to play with and my shambolic descending tekkers would penalise me less.

I stood out of the saddle and kicked, clearing the crest of the climb with a few metres of gap. I pushed on, but could sense I had been caught by at least one guy. Glancing behind me I saw a couple of riders just off my wheel, but the group were further back still.

Over my shoulder, someone said something in German.

“Ich sprache Deutsch nicht,” I wheezed. Pretty much the only German I know.

“Ah. Ok. We should wait for this other guy closing the gap. He is strong.” in perfect English this time.

Looking behind me I saw that I had one rider on my wheel, and the second pursuer was not far behind. After easing up temporarily to let him catch on, he got within a few metres then lost the wheel.

He shouted something in German.

“He says he cannot go harder, we should go on. It’s just you and me.”

Digging deep in my suitcase of courage [LINK], I tucked into the drops and pushed on, with my new breakaway buddy sitting in the wheel.

“I’m sorry, I think you are much stronger than me,” came the voice behind when I looked back – the universal invitation to take a pull. “I just need a few more minutes to recover.”

Grinding into the final incline of the day, a kilometre steady at 2-3%, I began to feel the strength going out of my legs.

“Pull through to the top of the hill and then we’re clear,” I said, pulling over to the left in an exaggerated style. Insisting this time that he pull. “It’s all downhill from that house up there.”

I’m sure you can figure out what happened next. We passed the house and my breakaway pal, with whom (I thought) I had forged a sacred bond by towing him up most of the last lung-shattering hill, promptly crested the ridge and ditched me. As he plummeted down the far side in a full Sagan-style aero tuck, the gap between us opened. I was going to have to get into the finish solo, and just hope that the pursuing pack (complete with my yellow-numbered nemesis) couldn’t close the gap.

It must have looked pretty funny for the crowds at the finish line seeing one guy in approximately 250th place on the whole race tearing himself to bits to finish ahead of some other dudes in 251–260th. But then, that’s bike racing; sado-masochistic silliness no matter what level you compete at.

In the end I came 21st in the journalist category. It was a fantastic way to end a first season on the road. Greg was 22nd, 34 seconds back. Sorry, Greg.