I hate to boast, but this summer I've done quite a bit of cycling. In fact, I've conquered some of the Tour de France's most celebrated and challenging climbs – the 21 hairpins of Alpe d'Huez, the 2,645m high Col du Galibier, and the windswept summit of Mont Ventoux. So when the editor of this website pointed out that the Tour of Britain was coming up, and suggested I might try testing myself against a stage of it, I could scarcely conceal my disdain. To continental cyclists like moi, I explained, Britain's bike race is a bit of a joke – if the Tour de France is cycling's Formula 1, the Tour of Britain ranks somewhere alongside go-karting. I would barely break sweat. I'd be back before lunch.
To be honest, I was a little taken aback when I actually looked at the route. The idea was to ride stage six, from Frome in Somerset to Bideford, Devon, some 184km – and three large hills – later. Perhaps this wasn't going to be so funny after all. And the more I learnt about the race, the less of a joke it seemed.
Just as leisure cycling has enjoyed an unprecedented boom in this country over the past few years – buoyed by British riders' success in the Olympics and the Tour de France, and fuelled by rising motoring costs, environmental awareness and the recession – so our premier race has grown in stature.
The Tour, which starts in Scunthorpe on Saturday [12 Sept] and culminates in London on 19 September, now has eight stages, compared with just five when it began in 2004. Audiences have grown too – last year a million spectators turned out on the roadside to watch – and there's now full TV coverage, with a daily primetime show on ITV4. Plus some of the biggest names in cycling take part. In 2007, Mark Cavendish won two stages and this year the Garmin-Slipstream team will compete, led by Bradley Wiggins, fresh from winning the British Time Trial championship on Sunday, not to mention taking fourth place in this summer's Tour de France.
By the time I was on the train to Frome with my colleague Susan, I was actually quite excited about the whole idea. A bonus is that unlike taking your bike on many French trains, in Britain it's free. On Intercity trains to the West Country, there's a compartment for bikes behind the locomotive – you simply call and book a space in it when you buy your ticket.
By 10am we were off – basking in August sunshine, relishing the Somerset views and trying to ignore the thunder of lorries along the A361. The downside to following a race route, be it in France or Britain, is that they can take in some very busy roads: on the big day the roads will be closed off, so it isn't really something the organisers need to worry about. Thankfully the upsides are many – you get a route to explore a new area, a ready-made challenge to spur you to ride longer than normal, plus when it comes to the race itself, you have the added satisfaction of watching the pros follow in your tyre tracks.
Thankfully busy A-roads soon gave way to B-roads, and beyond Wells we struck out into the countryside and the huge horizons of the Somerset Levels. Through the pancake-flat farmland of Wedmore, Watchfield and Woolalvington we rode, crossing the irrigation ditches and canals, and all the while the wind grew stronger and stonger in our faces, forcing us to stand on the pedals just to keep moving. By the time we rolled into the outskirts of Bridgwater, where the buildings provided the first windbreak for an hour, we were beginning to worry about whether we'd make it to Bideford. 55km done, 129km to go...
From Bridgwater, we left the flatlands behind and climbed in to the Quantock Hills, rewarded with expansive views north to the Bristol Channel. The scenery got better and better. The weather got worse and worse.
At the top of "Devil's Elbow", the second climb of the day, some 89km in, the heavens opened and the wind got up. With no waterproofs (it was a day-trip in August, after all) we had no choice but to press on and try to keep warm. In Dulverton, after 110km, we stopped to refuel. The pros would probably have just sucked down a hi-tech energy gel, but we went for a cream tea – warm homemade scones, slathered in double cream, from the fabulous Farthings farm shop. Saying goodbye to the friendly owner, leaving behind the cakes and soups and sandwiches, stepping back into the rain, throwing our legs over our sodden saddles, to face the prospect of climbing up Winsford Hill and across Exmoor, was not a happy moment.
By now the scenery was stunning – woodland, river valleys, rolling hills – but it got harder and harder to see it. Our pace slowed. It was difficult to tell if we'd reached the top of Winsford Hill because we had ridden right up into the cloud. Soon there was nothing but grey mist in every direction, save the odd gnarled, wind-battered bush, and the occasional Exmoor pony, looming mysteriously out of the gloaming.
We were not going to make Bideford. In fact we were not going to make Barnstaple, from where we'd planned to catch the last train of the day back to London (a stupid plan – you'd be far better to book a hotel for the end of the ride). We were on Exmoor, in the cloud, there was no one around, we had nowhere to stay, no warm clothes, and it was starting to get dark. And then Susan's pedal broke.
Now she could only push properly on one side, but we had no choice but to limp on, unsure what to do. The mobile reception died. And then, out of the murk, we came across the few stone cottages of the village of Challacombe, and a sign for a pub. Right then, the roughest pub in Britain would have been the most welcome sight in the world, but no, this one, the Black Venus, had a blackboard outside announcing it was North Devon Pub of the Year, alongside pretty hanging baskets. We staggered in and dripped on the carpets, while the friendly landlady and locals set about hatching a rescue plan. Incredibly, in an Exmoor hamlet, on a Monday night, with no notice, they managed to rustle up a minibus taxi to race across to Tiverton and deposit us at the station in time for the last train home.
I'd climbed Mont Ventoux, Alpe d'Huez was a breeze, but Exmoor in August was too much. From now on, I'm taking the Tour of Britain seriously.
• Tom Robbins and Susan Greenwood travelled by train with First Great Western (08457 000 125; firstgreatwestern.co.uk), tickets from London to Frome and back from Barnstaple cost from £21.50. For details on the Black Venus, Challacombe see blackvenusinn.co.uk.
