(Picture: MW Photography)

The Etape was a baptism of fire for me. My last race of any kind was Sports Day 1998 when, aged 16, I made up the numbers in a (losing) relay team. Things were very different at seven o'clock on Sunday morning. Shivering on Pitlochry's quaint high street, where I waited with 1,700 other riders to tackle the 81-mile course, I sported a race number on my back, a timing chip on my bike and a small family of butterflies in my stomach.

It was probably nerves that lead me, just yards across the start line, to make a stupid mistake. Reaching down to fiddle with my malfunctioning computer sensor (I know, I know), my fingers got caught in my spokes, which are more like blades on modern wheels. Blood dripped on to my my white bar tape and ricocheted off my right shoe (picture) but it stopped after 20 minutes or so, and I could turn my attention to the road.

And what a road! Taking the racing line round bends and speeding through junctions without the risk of being flattened was a rare thrill. It was also a treat to join so many other riders. We were a mix of the serious (shaved legs, club strips), the enthusiastic (mismatched Lycra, half-decent bike) and the optimistic (I saw one guy on a rusty Raleigh I wouldn't trust to get me to the shops and back).

I fitted in the middle, toiling behind the blur of carbon at the front. Apart from the shaved legs, what distinguished the pros was the way they rode in groups like you see at the Tour de France. They don't do it to be sociable - by drafting in the the slipstreams of other riders and rotating the lead (a practicse called "through and off") a swarm of cyclists can move significantly faster than any member could alone. Of course when the finish line comes into view, its everyone for themselves.

I've still to learn the etiquette and dynamic of group riding ("wheel suckers" who don't do the hard work at the front are frowned upon, for example) but what surprised me on Sunday was how the competitive atmosphere overtook me. Anxious not to die in the uncharted territory beyond mile 50, I set out at a reasonable pace. But when the mile markers kept dropping and I still felt strong, I put my head down and went flat out until about mile 75. With just enough energy to take on the cruel hills on the last stretch, I sprinted over the line.

A look at my watch showed I'd got round, without stopping, in four hours, 20 minutes and 16 seconds, with an average speed (18.7mph) much higher than I've clocked on rides half as long. The sense of elation was so great - and the whole experience so thrilling - that I'm already looking for my next Etape. Don't worry, though, little leg hairs - you're safe for now.

How was it for you? Do tell us your own stories as comments below. And look out for Simon O'Hagan's Etape special in tomorrow's cycling column in Extra.

Pic courtesty of Sportcam, MW photography who have photos of all riders for sale.