Andy Richardson blog: Back in the saddle again but this time I've modest ambitions

Though in my house, the only medals being handed out are ones for sitting on the couch while eating Ben & Jerry's . . . Cookie Dough, since you ask. Dontcha just love those unbaked bits of sugar, fat, flour and chocolate?

It was 2010 when the bike last saw the light of day. I thought it would be a good idea to go for a ride. And, like Forrest Gump, I didn't know when to stop. The route was 1,000 miles, from John O'Groats to Land's End. We did it in nine days. Ride, Forrest, Ride.

Previously, I'd run a bunch of marathons in my green-and-white-hooped Tipton Harriers vest, which made me look like a minty fresh Pacer sweet from the 1980s.

But 13 times around the 26.2-mile course had grown tiresome. And much as I'd enjoyed running in Singapore, Malta, Wolverhampton, Snowdon, London and along a beach in Laos, it was time for a change.

So I bought a bike off eBay (*Other internet auction houses are available) and decided to ride the classic British distance.

We flew to Aberdeen and caught a coach to the far north, where gales blew and the words 'bleak' and 'inhospitable' assumed new meaning. A man in a kilt was probably piping something traditional as trepidatiously we set off.

By day two, several hundred riders had succumbed to a vicious virus and been confined to their tents.

The conditions were perfect for vicious viruses, unfortunately.

We camped close to one another in colossal fields, eating from a shared buffet and queuing each evening to use showers. Bugs passed from tent to tent like mucky pictures at a barracks. There was no escape.

Sometime around midnight, the camp site would wake to the sound of people running to the toilets – and the next day the victims would stagger aboard the unflatteringly-named 'Broom Bus', which would ferry them to the next staging post, spare loo rolls on board.

I battened down the hatches and avoided all contact. While other riders knocked back a cold one in the communal marquees, while watching games from the South African World Cup, I zipped myself into my tent, hermit-like, and prayed to make it through the night.

And it worked. Rather than having to deal with the ugly bug that was doing the rounds, all I had to worry about was the daily 110-mile ride.

We passed some incredible sights. For my money, the lochs of Scotland and hilly coastline of Cornwall were the most beautiful places of all.

I only came unstuck once. The home leg took us through Shropshire and across the Long Mynd. In the weeks leading up to race, I'd trained and trained and trained over the Long Mynd. And when the time came, I couldn't make it and had to walk. It was the only moment of failure. Not that I was alone. The route was so steep that only 40 riders out of a possible 600 made it. Even James Cracknell had to do it on foot, after snapping his chain.

And now the bike's out of the garage again. And I'm ready for my next challenge.

My wife thinks I ought to try one of the classics. You know, something like La Route Verte, in Canada; Ruta Austral, in Chile; Munda Biddi Trail, in Western Australia or maybe even Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City, in Vietnam.

But me? I've got more modest aspirations. I was thinking more along the lines of Sainsbury's, at the top of the road.

It'll be easier than walking, when I need to restock my supplies of Ben & Jerry's.