That's the one I'd get

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.

Not the kind of turbo I had in mind

Well, as excuses for not getting on the bike go, this one's up there with the best.

Honest, guv'nor, I was just about to pull on the lycra and don the cleated shoes when - wallop. Some clown drives into the side of our flat, smashing the bathroom window in the process.

It's icy out there at the moment, but you'd have thought people would bear that in mind when approaching a t-junction. But no. So I'm sitting down at the kitchen table contemplating an hour of intensive spinning on the turbo and the next thing I hear is the thud of a turbocharged Toyota getting on first-name terms with our bathroom. I pull the curtain back to check what's going on and see a middle-aged, dark-haired, worried-looking woman reverse and pull away briskly.

Thing is, I know she saw me looking at her, but she obviously thought it was best to just brazen it out and clear off. She also must have seen me jotting down her registration number, so why she didn't just pull over and face the music I'll never know.

Still, she'll be getting a visit from the Plod soon enough and doubtless will learn a valuable and expensive lesson.

Speaking of which, the entire episode has taught me a lesson too, to wit: doing nothing and contemplating training can be just as bad for you as getting on with it. I will get on that bike tomorrow.

Enter the Dragon

Day four of the intensive training regime sees me no nearer to actually sitting on the bike or pedalling. Although as this shot proves, I've succeeded in getting the trainer tyre on.

I have also taken the bold step of entering the Dragon Ride, a 190-km schlep through the hills and valleys of south Wales. According to the organisers and one or two tour operators who run packages for La Marmotte, this is a good sportive to get under your belt before the big day as the climbs are of a similar gradient (but not length) to those you'll be tackling in the Alps.

For a giggle, I did the 130km route last year, although not as part of the ride itself. The climbs seemed to go on forever. Grind after grind of relentless pedal turning and seemingly getting no nearer the top. On the last ascent - an approach from the west of The Bwlch - I honestly thought I was going to have to get off and walk. That I didn't says more about my misplaced masculine pride than it does about any particular cycling prowess.

But according to my cycling mate, that's just the kind of spirit you need to get yourself over the big continental climbs. That and considerably bigger thighs, I expect.

And it's the latter that's bothering me. I've been too ill to begin any kind of training, haven't touched a bike in well over a month and fear I've lost all the muscle I built up over the summer and autumn. No amount of reading cycling magazines, poring over websites vending expensive and lightweight bikes or entering long rides is going to get me to the finish line in July in one piece. As Robert Millar was once quoted as saying: "You don't get big legs by watching television." As well as having a slight cold, I expect I'm still mentally on my Christmas break.

I'd love to report that my diet, at least, is something approaching on the right track, but it's not. Mince pies are still a staple, as is that huge block of Stilton I bought before Christmas and have barely even made a dent in.

Worryingly, Enter The Dragon is also known as the Deadly Three. It's entirely possible the trio of peaks I've to scale in France may prove as liable to kill unless I start bucking my ideas up pronto.

Trainer tamer

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags...

So began my first day of training at 6.30 this morning. It was an unplanned start too, the remnants of a vicious bout of catarrh putting paid to my slumber. All I intend doing today is fitting a training tyre to the rear wheel of my bike. It'll be a start and not before time.

On 3 July 2010, I hope to be taking my place among seven thousand other hardy souls at the start line of La Marmotte, a 'sportive' renowned the world over as being one of the toughest around. It involves scaling, on a bike, four infamous alpine mountain passes - the Cols du Glandon, Télégraphe and Galibier and, just for good measure, the 21-hairpin Alpe d'Huez. To give you some idea of how hard it is, you need a doctor's note to enter.

For a reasonably fit, regular cyclist, La Marmotte poses a significant challenge. For an irregular commuter by bike who's occasionally ridden the odd 60+ mile charity ride, it's essentially asking for trouble. In fact, it's so alien to my usual cycle - New Cross Gate to Southwark along the flat Old Kent Road - I can barely even comprehend the challenge ahead. The nearest I can get to a mountain is the mercifully brief ascent to Crystal Palace via the Sydenham Hill route.

So why? Why bother with this madness? I suppose there are a number of reasons. Mid-life crisis clearly has a part to play, along with a desire to win what's threatening to become a losing battle with middle-aged spread. But there is more to it than that. Around 15 years ago, my dad died after a relatively short battle with cancer. More recently, this year in fact, my uncle passed away following a marginally longer but equally unsuccessful struggle with the disease. I don't want to go the same way. I figure taking on such a ludicrous race will finally give me the impetus to kick the habit of smoking the odd cigar or cigarette when out drinking. For a start, I'll rarely be able to go out for the next six months as most of my training will have to be done in the early hours of the morning. And if I think I can carry on smoking and cycle up mountains, I'm kidding nobody but myself. So I had my last social smoke last week and now it's time to say no more.

But it's not all about me. For every pound I lose suffering up the local hills, I hope to gain the same and more in sterling for two causes close to my heart. Macmillan Cancer Support looked after my dad and uncle during their illness, so they'll be the main recipient of my fund-raising efforts. I'll also be channelling some cash towards Coral Cay Conservation, a charity into which my uncle put a lot of time and effort. Quite how I'll raise this money is anyone's guess, but I expect Justgiving or somesuch will assist. I'll keep you posted.

My first test is to get this trainer tyre on to the back wheel. Racing bike tyres are notoriously tricky to get on and off, but the Continental Ultra Sport Home Trainer Tyre takes things to a completely different level. I swear it's got a smaller circumference than the wheel. The only few times I've tried to put one on, I've had to practically jemmy it into place, leading to an instant puncture. Funny thing is, I took it to a local bike shop and the guy there did it with his bare hands.

There's a lesson in there somewhere about leaving things to the experts.