More than a week after the Three Peaks, and I’m still aching in places. But three days after, I could hardly walk. It felt as though I’d rolled down Pen-Y-Gent, trampled by sheep on the way, rather than rode down it.

There is nothing like the Peaks, everyone tells you beforehand. You can’t really train for it. You just have to do it. You worry about tyre choice and camelbak, bivvy bag and cross-top levers. You go running, you run up steps, you practise your portaging. It makes no difference: you’re still going to hurt like hell.

But it’s a legend, a monument, so what are you going to do but get on with it?

I’m not the best bike-handler in the world, but I usually get round cyclocross courses without too much mishap and fast enough. In the Three Peaks, I fell off in the first field. Then I fell off three more times in the first hour.

The last time was a Peaks classic: a nosedive into a bog. I nearly broke my thumb going over the bars, so I took it a bit easier on the descents after that. Still, it could have been worse: a guy behind me did the same and snapped his frame. I don’t suppose he was too happy by the time he’d walked the two miles off Ingleborough.

Then I found myself riding around with Chris Young, supervet and past winner of the Peaks in his prime, so I stayed glued to him as long as I could. On Whernside, I even opened up a small gap on the climb, only eventually to be overtaken by him running through the grassy hummocks on the way down as I picked my way gingerly through the slabs and rocks of the path. Local knowledge, it helps.

By Pen-Y-Gent, I was running on empty. In my haste to get down off the mountain and hit the final stretch of road for home, I flatted twice. I think I was just so tired that I was sitting heavy in the saddle, instead of riding on the pedals, so impact-punctured. I probably only lost 10 minutes and about 20 places overall. I hardly cared: I’ve never been so glad to see a finish line.

But a cup of tea, a shower and a chocolate digestive or three later, and my only regret was not being able to look up and admire the view from Whernside. Ribblesdale viaduct? I didn’t even see it.

Another time, perhaps. When I stop aching.