In a break from the norm, this 606 will be written in three voices. When I, Andy, am leading the ‘train’, the font will be like this. As Paul takes a turn on the front, the font will be in bold, comme ci. Et enfin, Jon’s occasional sprints past us will appear in italics.

I’d like to start by regaling you with how, after a restful night, the clear, blue skies and bright, early sun heralded a perfect day of riding a stage of the Tour de France. It probably did in Brittany, where the Pro’s were set to do their thing. Overnight in the Pyrenees, however, we were treated to a prolonged thunderstorm and a kitten, that had been dumped in a box in a nearby field, howling outside the caravan and tent.

Said kitten eventually found its way under my tent flap but, after a ruddy great kick, I heard no more until I found it curled up asleep on my shoes the next morning!

Suffice to say, with precious little sleep, 04:30 found us stumbling around in the damp, misty darkness in our brand-new, all-white Team BBC kit, the perfect apparel for cycling in the heat of the French summer.

Despite Jon’s driving skills, we got to the start in one piece and found our section of the starting pens. With numbers 431 to 433, we were amongst the first batch; perhaps the organisers had guessed that we would need some form of head-start.

After 45 minutes of standing in the dawn drizzle, regretting the decision to leave overshoes and waterproofs in the UK, the countdown to six months of preparation finally began: “Cinq, quartre, trois, deux, un… “ We were off!

The rhythm of tyres thrumming on the tarmac by the hundred, hissing road-spray, and the whirring of gears set the soundtrack of the grand départ. Barrelling through early morning Pau in the company of legions of cyclists was such an uplifting experience. Rather unlike the sight of our backsides through our soaked – and now transparent – white bib-shorts.

All was well, nerves were history; all we had to do was catch a ‘train’ to the Tourmalet, coast up Hautacam and look forward to quaffing a celebratory beer or two at the finish.

Then BANG! Down goes the rear tyre not four miles from the start. Not content with the rain ruining our kit, I now had some lovely grease marks on my white ensemble, and we lost what was to be a crucial 20 minutes.

Puncture sorted, we got to it, and encouraged by cries of “Allez les blancs!” and “Go BBC!”, the third-category climbs of Labatmale and Loucrup seemed a breeze. Before we knew it, we were at the foot of the fog-shrouded Tourmalet.

I had no faith in anything the dicky, travel-loosened Garmin was telling me, hence no sense of how far up the mountain I had got. And with visibility down to about 50m, no visual clues to my progress.

Passing the 26km sign to the summit of Tourmalet, I thought: “This is going to be terrible,” and my suspicions were confirmed when one 606er informed me this was the calm before the storm. From then on my bike squeaked its way very slowly to the top while I looked around at all the people with triple chain rings, wishing I had one.

I was heartened, though, on passing the ‘10km au sommet’ sign – I was halfway up and didn’t feel too bad. My calf felt great – Phil and Warwick at the Cyclefit stall in Pau had worked wonders on my shoes and cleats. But that was probably the point when the unrelenting length of this ascent began to take its toll. All of the comments here on 606 absolutely ring true: there is nothing in the UK that can really prepare you for the sheer gruelling, grinding, relentlessness of the Tourmalet.

No short, sharp shocks here. It doesn’t beat you into submission with its unassailable inclines. It doesn’t even send your heart-rate rocketing to dangerous extremes. It simply eats and eats into your legs, and then, for good measure, eats a little more, until every sinew of your body strains to heave the pedals through another revolution. And then another and another… seemingly for ever.

With no stupendous views to take the breath away – not that there was any left to be taken – I was reduced to focussing about two feet ahead of my front wheel, sweat dropping rhythmically onto the crossbar, and willing myself to continue.

I was determined not to give up, and I was damned if I was going to stop and walk, but had the ‘broom wagon’ caught me up, I would have gratefully succumbed to its embrace. I was in my own, very private, hell.

Tourmalet was unrelenting. I just ground out what rhythm I could, thanking the gods for the late fitting of the compact chainset. All the while my lower back was screaming for me to get off! Andy wasn’t alone in his hell, as it almost seemed like total silence from the straggling grupetto during the ascent.

I could swear that there was some sadistic planning pervert out on the road moving the signs around, because there cannot be a longer 4km on earth than the final climb from the feed station at god-forsaken La Mongie to the top of the Col du Tourmalet.

But, suddenly, as if the Pearly Gates had opened, there was the summit, crowded with shivering, wild-eyed cyclists, amongst them, Paul and Jon, about two minutes ahead of me.

As word of the approaching broom wagon spread, we hauled ourselves stiffly back aboard for the descent. Oddly, riding down that mountain will perhaps live longer in the memory than the climb. Fog-misted glasses, frozen fingers, soaking kit, steep descents and treacherous hairpins would make excellent ingredients for a console game. Gone were worries about heart failure; now it was all about holding your nerve, wits and brakes. As at least two unfortunates being loaded into an ambulance will attest.

When the hairpins thankfully gave way to long, straight descents, we swept down the valley towards Hautacam, making good time at the head of the stragglers, and passed the timing car outside Préchac, thinking that marked the final elimination point – with 12 minutes left. A quick comfort break by way of reward, and Paul led the way to the final climb.

The rear sensor of my Garmin, however, had other ideas, gave up its increasingly loose mount on the rear stays and jammed itself into the spokes of the back wheel, sending me tumbling onto the tarmac. Jon turned back to help, but after a few well-chosen expletives and a deft kick, the problem was rectified and we pressed on.

Paul had disappeared up the road, but no matter; we were inside the elimination zone. Right?

Wrong.

As I approached I realised we’d made a terrible mistake. A line of French officialdom blocked the road, stopping cyclists and asking for their timing chips. “You’re not having mine Frenchy!” I thought. A quick shimmy and not a backward glance I was through. Onwards to the Hautacam… but where were the others?

Cresting a short rise in Ayros Arbouix revealed a confused bunch of cyclists, some in tears, held up by a line of civilian officials. Why were we being stopped? As Jon and I worked our way to the front, the reason for the confusion – and tears – filtered through our tired minds.

We were being told to go straight to the finish village to hand in our timing chips; 14km from the end, we would not be allowed to finish the Etape.

A quick push past, feigning a lack of comprehension, though, and we’d be through… the language barrier could be our saviour… “F*$# this,” I thought. Unfortunately, a line of telepathic gendarmes materialised out of the crowd, smiled knowingly and directed us towards the arrival village; a town called failure.

We could only assume Paul had got through as we trudged disconsolately through the crowds and found a place to entertain our own, private misery.

After the first bend I waited for my team. They must of got through? But as each passing cyclist passed I realised the worst and decided to push on for God, Queen, country and Team BBC!

As the enormity of the task ahead became apparent I began to question who had got the lucky break – me or Andy and Jon, who had avoided this brute. The local Pyrenean council had kindly added information signs every kilometre indicating distance to the summit and gradient – they lied! Where the Tourmalet was long and arduous, this little hill, the lowest of the local ski stations, was just brutal. Eight, nine, 10 percent… the signs rolled by as I kept grinding out my slow tortuous rhythm. At three clicks to go my legs gave out, and I climbed from the bike to rest and walk for the one and only time.

Inside the final two kilometres, the road flattened slightly but by this time, and with 100 miles in my legs, it did little to ease my pain and I continued my slow progress. Then out of the mist came the finish, and with one last effort, I was out of the saddle to push the pedals to the finish. I’d done it... just as, 10 minutes later, the final two came over the line to be greeted with cheers and flowers.

For those that are still interested:

You can watch the film of the adventure here on the BBC Sport website or on YouTube.

A selection of high quality images on Flickr...

...and if that's not enough some rather poor stats from Paul