No, seriously, thanks Andy

How is it possible to go from feeling as fit as a fiddle (albeit a somewhat double-bass shaped one) to fit for nothing in just four days?

Thursday's night ride felt great; I set off with bags of energy and felt really strong pretty much all the way round, feeling only slightly fazed by Flaky's new found fitness on one short road stretch.

Sunday's marathon Peak perambulation was the flip side. OK, so I decided to wear knee pads for the first time in ages. I thought as we're off to Les Gets in just two weeks it might be a good idea to get used to riding with them and as Nobby is now auditioning for a role in the next Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie, I wouldn't be the only one to look an arse.

OK, more of an arse.

I think when we're talking about overweight, middle aged men in Lycra there's already quite a high starting point where looking an arse is concerned. Dressing up like a muddy Star Wars extra doesn't exactly exacerbate the problem too much.

Aesthetic considerations aside, I felt absolutely dead from the first climb onwards. They shouldn't make that much difference, surely? Should they?

Now the other teeny weeny little detail point that might have a bearing on all this is my front brake. On Saturday night I spent a good ninety minutes changing the pads. That was 5 minutes removing the old wafer thin pads and binning them, 20 minutes using two screwdrivers, a pair of long nose pliers and an adjustable spanner to try to lever the pistons out, 55 minutes of first aid and ten minutes trying to hammer the wheel in. Given that the wheel would then only "spin" for one revolution even with the heartiest of efforts I then spent a further 20 minutes rummaging through the bin trying to find the old pads "just in case".

Perhaps a new definition of an optimist might be one who forlornly hopes that 30 minutes of climbing uphill with binding disk brakes is going to "free them off". No chance. And nor is riding downhill for 10 minutes followed by a further 20 or more of rolling trail.

By the time the pads were replaced I was absolutely cabbaged and it was fortunate that we only had all of the major climbs of the ride left to do (Mount Famine, Rushup Edge, Jacobs Ladder) and that the conditions were so completely, perfectly, dry, hot and muggy and that I was wearing "protection" for the first time in ages.

Now at this point, I have a confession to make. I had already been cursing Andy, the route leader, for the majority of the ride (it's traditional) so when his rear derailleur hanger broke shortly after he rode past me (walking, naturally) on Jacobs Ladder I was secretly overjoyed on lots of levels, but principally because it meant a bloody great rest whilst everyone dicked around with it and tried to get him mobile. As I staggered, slowly, to the summit of Jacobs Ladder (Edale Cross?) looking like a confused extra from Beau Geste and ignoring the taunts of the flip flop clad morons on foot, I knew that at the top I would be greeted by the impatient elite of our B team and that for once it would not be me that was holding them up.
There's a certain pleasure in that.

The descent back was fast, frightening and incredibly rocky but fortunately incident free.

All that remained was for Shrunken Monkey Head to split the group by impatiently leading off in the wrong direction forcing Nobby and I to escort him back to the car. We could have left him to it and gone back to join the others but we decided to do the decent thing; he's not safe out on his own and it would have been irresponsible to let him come into contact with members of the public unescorted.

Arriving at the cafe in time for Nobby and I to nab the remaining bacon and sausage was the icing on the cake and even though I didn't really fancy it, I knew that it would be worthwhile just to see the expressions on the other's faces when they turned up looking hungry.

Despite knee pads, brake pads and route, it was. Just.

I was even allowed to lie in the hammock in the garden clutching a bottle of sangria and reflecting on how pleased I am not to live in London when I got home. Perfect.