"KEEP pedalling."

Around 15 miles into my 72-mile ride, with the lactic acid already fighting a battle with my legs, that was the advice from 11-year-old Ben Etherington who had barely broken sweat.

At 45, my Tour de France days are over. To be honest, they never really, started, having only taken up cycling three years ago.

But, like many who have caught the two-wheeled bug late in life, I am eager to make up for lost time.

On Saturday, I joined more than 750 others of all ages, sexes and degrees of ability for the Velo29 Sportives - rides ranging from 36 miles to 106 miles out of Stockton and onto the North York Moors.

With the sun shining down, I set off from the riverside and all was well, I even managed to overtake a fellow rider, though he was in his 60s and riding a bike more used to doing the run down to the local shops and back.

I managed to negotiate the roadworks at Ingleby Barwick without issue, though that was not the case for one young woman who took a wrong turn, tried to double back and came crashing to the tarmac, her bike entangled with that of her companion.

As with the Marines, cyclists never leave anyone behind and soon there was a gathering of other competitors all enquiring about her welfare and the condition of her bike.

Falling off is a rite of passage and anyone who says they haven't is either fibbing or has never gone far enough for it to happen. A veteran of broken shoulder, having had an argument with a road sign, I felt her pain.

Leaving the town and heading into the countryside, Hilton offered a gentle introduction of what was to come, the rolling hills beyond visible on the horizon.

Shortly after I passed two more riders, though one was having a wee so that perhaps should not count.

The Northern Echo: Matt at the finish, having completed 72 miles.

I'd taken some soundings from Stockton professional cyclist Josh Teasdale on how to approach the event and having followed his words to the letter I was feeling good. The miles were racking up and those initial butterflies had gone.

However, on leaving Great Ayton, I was in for a shock.

The climb to Captain Cook's Monument was a portent of worse to come. If the first 33 per cent isn't tough enough, it lulls you into thinking it's over, before a further 25 per cent stretch opens up before you.

The Northern Echo: Bike need a rest before Sandhill Bank

At just 15 miles in, it is enough for the seeds of doubt to start taking root.

A nice bit of free-wheeling down into Kildale and the first feed stop enables you to recover some of that lost energy, knowing full well you are going to need every last ounce to get anywhere near close to finishing.

At the stop there is enough food and drink to satisfy a small army - bananas, jelly babies, energy bars and even pork pies are consumed with gusto.

The Northern Echo: Patrick Kilcullenm 12, Ben Etherington, 11, and dad Neil, all from Stockton Wheelers

Patrick Kilcullen 12, Ben Etherington, 11, and dad Neil, all from Stockton Wheelers

Outside I am about to leave and a bloke arrives on a unicycle - for someone who is having a hard enough time on two wheels it seems like he's just taking the unmentionable.

He's Roger Davies and he runs Unicycle.com, based in Billingham. I ask how far he is going. "Just the 36 miler," he says. "I'm taking it easy."

The Northern Echo: Roger Davies on his unicycle

Roger Davies on his unicycle

Commondale Bank takes some of what I have just taken on board - I envisage a computer game where the star's power bar is constantly depleting until there come the words 'Game Over'.

Those who know me know I am a stubborn so-and-so and I plough on.

The number of riders is diminishing as they head off on different courses. At Lealholm I am suddenly all alone. Those doing the Tour De Moor are way ahead and if there's anyone on my route I can't see them.

Then, in the distance I spy a florescent jacket, it's the old guy from earlier. He's overtaken me and is climbing inexorably towards the top of Ralph Cross. I've long since jumped off, even the smallest cog not enough to propel me forward.

For the next 30 miles me and the old guy play a version of tortoise and the hare, I catch up on the descents, he pulls away on the hills, his metronomic style incredibly frustrating.

On top of the Moors, I'm alone again with only the haunting cry of the curlew for company.

My head wants to carry on, but my knees have other ideas. I try to block out the pain and my determination is rewarded just before we begin the return to Kildale. A group of fellow riders are having a break and I hook up with them, their momentum rubbing off on me. There are more climbs, but they don't seem as bad in company.

The old man is just up ahead and I reel him in. We chat warmly up the road, before pride kicks in and I use the rest of my reserves to pull away.

Through Great Broughton and Stokesley, I have a surge of enthusiasm. I can do this, it's an emotional feeling, and I fight hard to prevent an unintended tear.

A bit more country and we are back to Ingleby Barwick, but just as the finish hoves into sight my legs finally give up. I'm pedalling but am barely moving, the bike picking up every rut and deviation in the road. It's heartbreaking. I genuinely feel like giving in.

I stop, have a four-letter word with myself and push on.

The line can't come soon enough. I've been riding for eight hours solid, most of the other competitors have gone and the officials are taking down the tents as I finish.

But I've finished, young Ben's words ringing in my ears. "Keep pedalling". I will, Ben, just as soon as I have recovered.