And then when they hit slopes that make the Nick o'Pendle look as flat as a bowling green, they do the unthinkable and attack.

In other words, when other lesser mortals might be considering dismounting and pushing their bike to the top, these guys – these iron men – actually accelerate.

Once they have crested the pass, they then pedal hard to descend at incredible speeds, with huge drops just feet away. One came off the other day when descending at speed, but "luckily" only rolled a mere 30ft down a scree slope. He scrambled back up the slope while spectators helped retrieve his bike and finished the race five minutes later.

If it had been me, I would have been 30 or 40 miles behind, and when I had walked up the pass would have descended tentatively at a relative snail's pace.

You see, I am no "iron man". These days I am built more for comfort than speed.

When I am on my bike I resemble a day-glo clad bag of lard. It has been said that when I am all togged up, I push the performance of Lycra clothing to the very limit ... not because of the punishing exercise routine I put it through, but because the strain placed on my gear by my ample proportions tests the fabric to breaking point.

In my defence, when I breathe in and hold my breath, I think I look quite dapper in my brightly printed figure-hugging "racing" bike colours, padded gloves and reflective gold lensed cycling specs.

Wifey takes a different view. Having eventually motivated myself to go on a training run, and to get changed, my self-confidence took a little bit of a knock when she (rather harshly I thought) inquired: "You aren't going out like that are you? You look a right ponce."

Time was short, but I fancied nipping down to Liverpool to see the Tall Ships leaving Liverpool Bay. Driving over to Wheelton, I ditched the car, mounted up and under the gaze of disapproving and disbelieving onlookers set off in the direction of Liverpool.

About five seconds later my pedal flew off and I just spotted the critical bolt bounce into the roadside vegetation never to be seen again. It was a short but humiliating walk back to the car pushing my broken stead and the ruination of my plans.

In the end, and at very short notice, wifey joined me in the drive down to Crosby to see the Tall Ships off. We cut it very fine indeed, and if I had cycled I may have missed the moment, but as it was we scrambled over the Crosby dunes, lined with people that reminded me of that classic film moment from the '60s... See anything?" "Yes sir. Zulus, thousands of 'em!"

There were indeed thousands of people on the dunes and all along the beach watching the ships pass in line through Liverpool Bay. The wonderful relaxed atmosphere of the moment was enhanced as people strolled around Anthony Gormley's amazing Another Place sculptures spread across the beach.

Perhaps better known as the "Iron Men of Crosby", they have a strangely enigmatic quality as they gaze out across the sea towards infinity, some buffeted by the surf, some vanishing beneath the waves.

Always watching, always waiting, for who knows what – perhaps dreaming of another place – it is a simple, controversial, but highly evocative piece of public art. Sillouetted against the western sky with the sea swirling around their feet, the iron men have a strangely hypnotic efect.

If you get a tingle down your spine when see the stark ruins of Top Withins on the Bronte moors or when you see Gormley's other well-known work, the Angel of the North, you will know what I mean and love it.

Anyway Crosby beach is a great place to blow away the cobwebs. We walked a while, but I was starting to feel peckish. This non-starter of an athlete quite fancied a curry. There will be other times to get the bike out for a practice run, but for now I am content to relax a little.

After all, it is supposed to be summertime when the living is easy.
Mind you, I only ever go for the very hottest curries....vindaloos!
Perhaps I am an iron man after all.