We've only just started. Four words that have forever blighted mankind's slow and solemn plod from the murky morass of creation.
Uncle Mort's gloomy pronouncement to nephew Carter Brandon on the advent of their hilarious Peter Tinniswood-penned trip down south rings eerily true in these ears as I step off the bike after my first turbo training session of the year.
Only an hour long, I was suffrin', as Stephen Roche would say, after the first relatively gentle half hour. On the evidence of that last half hour, I've got an extremely long way to go.
It's nice to report the trusty steed held up pretty well under the strain. As did the CycleOps Magneto, which sounds a lot like a mythical Greek ice cream dessert but is actually a device you kind of plug your bike into, which allows you to pedal like mad without getting anywhere. Good for the legs and the Zen Buddhism at the same time, then.
And it's going to take some rather monk-like sacrifice to get myself into any kind of shape for the Herculean task ahead. Having just weighed myself post-cycle, I clock in at 78 kilos, or just over 12 stone for the older reader. I'm guessing I need to shed at least eight of those kilos - the weight of an entire bike, to give you some perspective - before July. Needless to say I'll keep you updated on my progress or otherwise.
Nevertheless, I do feel like I've got this ridiculous journey properly under way and that's heartening. What's frightening is that it's only going to get worse from here on in.